The Study of Seduction (Sinful Suitors, #2)(72)

Jeremy scowled. “Just like that? Without any dinner? We haven’t even had lunch yet!”

“It’s fine if you wish to stay a bit longer,” Edwin put in, taking pity on his brother-in-law. “We keep country hours, so you’d still have plenty of time to dine and return to the city before it got too late. I think Clarissa already told Cook to expect two more.”

Yvette began putting on her gloves. “And I told Cook we wouldn’t be here. So it’s settled.”

“But . . . but . . .” Jeremy sputtered.

“Cook has already made up a cold collation for us,” she went on matter-of-factly, “including some of her special apple tarts.”

That brought a change to Jeremy’s face. “Freshly baked apple tarts, eh?” He rose. “You should have mentioned that in the beginning.”

“Our cook does make exceptionally fine apple tarts,” Edwin said as he, too, rose, his head spinning at the sudden change in plans.

Jeremy winked at him. “Sorry to leave you in the lurch. But I daresay you won’t mind being sentenced to more time alone with your lovely wife.”

“No,” Edwin said. Though he honestly didn’t know what to do with her. Especially now.

“Go on, darling,” Yvette said to Jeremy. “I’ll be along in a moment. I just need a few words with my brother.”

That didn’t sound good. Edwin braced himself for anything as she came around the desk. When she merely gave him a kiss on the cheek, he let out a relieved breath. “I’m glad you’re back in England,” he admitted.

“So am I. I missed you. And Clarissa.” She seized his hand. “Be careful with her.”

“Of course,” he said tersely. “Why would I be anything else?”

“Because you can be a bull in a china shop sometimes, and despite all her boldness, Clarissa is the finest Wedgwood. So treat her with kid gloves, will you?”

He bristled. “How I handle my wife is none of your concern.” When her eyes narrowed, he regretted speaking so sharply, but blast it, the idea of her and Clarissa talking over his . . . inadequacies made his blood boil. “What nonsense did she tell you about me, anyway?”

Her gaze grew shuttered. “Nothing of any consequence.”

“I am not some monster, you know,” he grumbled.

“Of course you aren’t,” she said soothingly. “And she certainly doesn’t think you are.” Her gaze grew steely. “All the same, if you ruin things with her by being your typical blunt self, I shall never forgive you.”

As usual, Yvette thought everything was his fault. “Didn’t you say something about returning to London?”

Perversely, that made his meddling sister laugh. “I’m going, I’m going.” She headed for the door. “I understand that Lady Margrave is throwing a grand fete to celebrate your wedding, and Jeremy and I are invited. So I’ll see you there in a week.”

The thought of how extravagant an affair Clarissa’s mother was probably planning made him shudder. “I can’t wait,” he said sarcastically.

Yvette paused in the doorway, her eyes gleaming at him. “And here Clarissa was trying to tell me that you could be fun. I should have known better than to believe her.”

By the time her words registered fully, his sister had already waltzed out into the hall.

“Wait!” he called out as he hurried after her. “Clarissa really said I was fun?”

Having reached the entrance door, Yvette paused to blow him a kiss. “See you next week!” Then she was gone.

By the time he got outside, the carriage was already pulling away, with her waving at him out the window.

After watching the equipage disappear onto the road, he walked slowly back into the house. Damn. What else had Clarissa told his sister? Had she spoken of their intimate relations . . . or lack thereof? Had she revealed what he’d blurted out about Mother?

God. There was no telling. Those two were as thick as thieves.

As he stood in the foyer, he glanced at the clock. A couple of hours until dinner. He had half a mind to tell a servant he was unwell, and retreat to his bedchamber to drink himself into oblivion for the rest of the day.

But he was no coward. Surely he could endure an evening of polite chitchat with his wife. He would simply put from his mind the memory of how soft she’d been earlier, how sweetly scented, how silky the skin along her thighs . . .

Damn it to hell. Now he wished Keane and Yvette had chosen to stay.

He returned to his study to deal with some correspondence. Perhaps that would take his mind off her until she came down to join him for a drink before dinner, as they’d begun the habit of doing.

Or would she play the coward and not come to dinner at all? He wasn’t sure which he wanted.

Some time later, he was immersed in writing a letter to the board of the Preston Charity School when a voice sounded from the doorway.

“They’ve gone, I take it?”

Clarissa was here. “Yes, they’ve gone.” He forced a polite smile to his face as he rose. “They were—”

He forgot whatever he was saying, just stood there slack-jawed. Because standing in the doorway was his wife in a pair of his old evening breeches from when he was a lad of twelve.

Over them, she wore his old white shirt without a cravat, unbuttoned almost to the vee in the placket; his old embroidered waistcoat, unbuttoned; and his old tailcoat. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life.