He felt the small thrill along his spine that he always got when a woman was trying to capture his attention. Could it be? He looked at her again. There was a faint smile on her face, and an even fainter flush on her pale skin.
His wife was flirting with him. Over the proceedings of the House of Lords.
It was an unusual approach, and unlikely to be successful. It would be easy enough to prove that she knew nothing of the subject with a few simple questions. And then, if she truly wished to flatter him, she could return to safer subjects favoured by other women of his female acquaintance: the colour of his eyes, or the cut of his coat and how well it favoured his shoulders. ‘So you agree with my politics, do you?’
‘Most definitely. Your grasp of economy is most erudite.’
‘And you feel that the country is competently governed? For having seen the political process up close, I sometimes have my doubts.’
‘Well, as far as I can tell, Lord Beaverton is a fool,’ she said. ‘He has little understanding of domestic trade, and even less of international issues. And he seems to disagree most vehemently with you on the subject of cotton imports.’
‘Because he has interests in India,’ Adam supplied. ‘He is feathering his own nest.’
‘Well, your interchange with him sounded most spirited. Although, if you could clarify a certain point …’
He had wondered when she would allow him to speak, for she seemed to have no understanding of the conversational gambit that encouraged a woman to listen more than she spoke. Her first question was followed by another, and then another. And some were of a level of complexity that he was required to refer to a gazetteer in his study, and other references as well.
And soon it seemed easier just to move the tea things and conversation to his desk. He ceded her the chair, for he sometimes found it easier to think while on his feet, and she peppered him with questions while he paced the room.
There was a discreet knock at the door, and the butler entered. ‘Your Grace? You have guests.’
A head appeared around the back of the servant. Tim was there, and he could see other friends crowding behind him in the hall. ‘Have you forgotten, Adam? Dinner at the club?’
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. How had it got to be so late? ‘It will be the work of a moment, and I will be ready to go.’ He glanced down at Penny. ‘Of course, if you wish, I will cancel.’
She shook her head. ‘That is all right. I prefer to remain at home.’ He thought he detected a trace of wistfulness in her answer.
‘If you are sure?’
She nodded again, gathering her tea things from his desk. ‘I should be going back to my room, after all. I meant to accomplish more today.’
‘I am sorry if I distracted you. Until tomorrow, then.’ And before he knew what he was doing, he’d bent and kissed her on the cheek.
She turned as pink as the walls of her sitting room, but she did not flinch from him. In fact, the smile he received in reward was quite charming, before she remembered that there were others present, and hurried across the hall and into her study, closing the door.
In retrospect, he’d have been better to have remained at home, for that seemed to be where his mind resided. The strange day only served to accent the commonness of the evening. The boring conversation and stale jokes of his friends were punctuated with exclamations of ‘Adam, why must you be so glum?’
The constant reminder that he was not himself only served to make his mood darker.
When they were at cards, and Minton had presented some outlandish political position, Adam had snapped, ‘Really, John, if I wished to talk politics, I’d have stayed home with my wife. She, at least, has some idea of what she is talking about.’
There was an amused murmur in the crowd around him, as though he had confirmed to the men around him that his sudden marriage had addled his mind. Only Tim looked at him and nodded with approval.
Soon after, a servant arrived, bearing a note on a salver for Tim. His friend unfolded the paper, grew pale, and asked a servant for his hat and gloves. ‘I must make my apologies. I am called home. There is an emergency.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ Adam said.
‘I suspect it is little Sophie. She has been sick again. And I am a little worried.’ Judging by Tim’s agitation, minor worry did not describe his true state of mind.
Adam stood up. ‘I will go with you. We will take my carriage to save time, and I will return home once your mind is at rest.’
But on arrival at the Colton home, they discovered the true nature of the emergency. All the lights were blazing, and from the salon came the sound of voices, laughter, and a soprano warbling along with the pianoforte.
Tim swore softly and with vehemence threw his hat into a corner and stalked into the room with Adam following in his wake.
His wife seized him by the arm, forcing a drink into his hand and announced to the gathering, ‘Here they are! As I told you, they were detained.’
Adam was close enough to hear Tim murmur to his wife, ‘You knew my intentions, and yet you brought me home to play host to a gathering that is none of my making.’
She responded through clenched teeth. ‘And you knew my intentions. I wished for you and your friend to dine at home this evening. Do not cross me again, or you shall live to regret it.’
‘More so than I do our marriage?’ Tim laughed loud enough for the guests to hear, although they could not make out his words. ‘That would be an impressive feat, madam.’
‘You know how creative I can be.’ She turned away from Tim, and reached for Adam, linking her arm in his and pulling him forwards. ‘Come along, Adam. Do not think you can escape so easily. Have a drink with us before you go.’ She was pressing against him in a way that must be obvious to her husband, and smiling up at him too brightly.
He eased free of her grasp, stomach churning, unable to look his friend in the eye. ‘A glass of wine, then. Only one. And then I must be going home.’
Clarissa said, loud enough for all to hear, ‘Ah yes. Hurrying home to your bride, Adam. Just when will she be making an appearance in society? People are beginning to think that the woman is a product of your overheated imagination.’
‘You know full well, Clare, that she wished to remain at home, for you spoke to her this morning.’
‘But, Adam, everyone is dying to meet her. I have told them so much about her. They are aflame with curiosity. Penelope is the daughter of a cit,’ she informed the group gathered around them. ‘And from what I’ve been told, she is very rich. But she will not mix with us, I’m afraid. She is far too busy to be bothered. Adam’s wife is a bluestocking.’ The last was said with enough pity to make the other revelations pale in comparison.
He was expected to say something at this point, but was at a loss as to what. Most of what Clarissa had said was perfectly true, although it sounded far worse coming from her mouth. And she had probably used his absence to embroider what facts she had with as many scurrilous fictions as she could invent. So he seized upon the one thing he could safely refute. ‘Really, Clarissa. You make her sound so exclusionist that she should be a patroness at Almack’s. She is at home tonight, reading The Odyssey in the original Greek. I bought her the book this afternoon as a wedding gift. But she’ll mix with society soon enough.’
And then, he could not help himself—he added a fabrication of his own. ‘We are planning a ball, and I suspect most of you will be invited to it. Then you can meet her and see for yourself.’
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