Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(69)

“I hope I can adjust to living in the country,” Priscilla said, making a moue, petulant as ever. “I’ve always lived in the city.”

“There is much to keep you busy on an estate. Lord Pinkhurst, I’m sure, will help you with the duties.”

“I’ve never run servants. My mother always did.”

Must I listen to this? One did not run servants. “Staff know their duties. A good housekeeper can be your best ally.”

She thought about that for a few seconds. Tipping her blonde head, she dismissed the idea with a wrinkle of her nose. “All of that is so boring.”

Why was this woman telling him this? Sympathy was not one of his strong suits. Not for a spoiled girl who complained so readily to a mere acquaintance.

“Is your wife agreeable?”

How forward can this woman be? “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I mean, does she please you?”

His eyes sought the vision in jade-green organza who laughed as she swayed in Pinkhurst’s arms. Does she please me? More than. She was, always had been, effervescent, irresistible.

“I hope she does. She’s beautiful,” Priscilla rattled on. “And you deserve a woman you like. Love. I would have married you, you realize.”

“I do,” he managed to say amid his shock at this girl’s outrageous conversation.

“But you were caught with her.”

“What?” Would she dare to cite a dastardly tidbit? One that few knew. How could she know?

“Caught. In your stables, wasn’t it?”

No. “How did you learn that?” He was tempted to stop, call her out over this. But if he did, he’d make a scene. That was the last thing he needed.

“It’s in the London broadsheets.” Priscilla looked surprised. “Didn’t you know?”

Why would he? He didn’t take them.

“When?” He diminished their progress in the orderly procession of couples round the floor.

She glanced from one set of dancers to another. “We’re not in step, my lord.”

“No, we’re not. And won’t be. Tell me.”

“A few times. I don’t know. The past few weeks. They’ve put in cartoons, too.”

Anger roared through him. His Lily, attacked. Again. “What do they say?”

“Well, I…”

“Priscilla, you initiated this. Don’t stop now.”

“They say that you married her out of obligation. Did you?”

“No.” He led her off the floor.

“You’re hurting my wrist, my lord.”

“I am sorry.” He loosened his grip on her. She was frightened of him. Shame tempered his ire. He was not a brute. “What else?”

“That her father paid you to marry her. That you—um—well—”

“What, for godssakes?”

“Ruined her.”

He set his jaw. A thousand curses on whoever printed this—and millions more on whoever gave the rags these hideous distortions of the truth. “That is not true. I count on you to say that to any and all whom you meet.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, I will.” She rubbed her wrist. “I apologize, my lord.”

“Accepted. Naturally.”

“I think I’d like to adjourn to the ladies retiring room, if you don’t mind.” She looked hopeful and nervous.

“I can escort you.” He offered his arm and led her to the far side of the ballroom. And once there, she gave him a small curtsy and escaped him, scurrying away.

“My, my, what did you say to her, Chelton?”

He pivoted toward the dulcet sounds of Margaret Sheffield. Gazing down into her dark green eyes, he was transported back to his youth and his desire to possess her. No one would argue, the woman was lovely. Polished. More than the American who had just escaped him. More than the young woman who had become his wife. He’d yearned for this one. But that desire had been different from his craving for Lily, hadn’t it? Urgent. Demanding. An animal’s impulse to mate and dominate.

He saw her now through the perspective of experience—and he congratulated himself that so far this weekend, he had side-stepped long conversations with her. “Nothing much.”

“Enough to send her running. You must be kinder to those less hardy than yourself, Chelton.” Her grass-green eyes challenged him.

“She told me tales that disturbed me.”

“Oh?” Margaret snapped open her fan and fluttered it near her abundant and perfectly rounded décolleté. “So you took the stuffing out of her? Shame on you, darling.”

“I was surprised.”

“Not an excuse.”

“No.” He admired his wife as she enjoyed herself on the floor with Pinkie. He wanted her back. When she was near him, he felt whole. “I hope you don’t wish to dance.”

“No, I don’t. But that’s beside the point. You should ask me.”

“It would be polite, I concede. But you did not approach me, Meg, in the hope of waltzing.”

She sighed. “Truth. It is a fine weapon. So tell me a truth, Chelton. Are you avoiding me?”

“We’ve spoken, Meg.”

“Pleasantries. Only. Pleasantries.”