Martin Bothwick was equally surprised. He hadn’t thought the Duke of Hargreave dedicated to intellectual pursuits. But apparently, he’d read a great deal of contemporary English literature as well as that of France and Germany. There was absolutely no doubt he knew the best tailors. Even a man of Bothwick’s background who professed no interest in sartorial matters found his gaze returning to the Duke’s elegant lounging form. He might have such a coat made for himself, he thought, sitting up a it straighter to hide his paunch. Black would be slimming too.
Sometime later, when Simon brought up the subject of Caroline’s manuscript, she immediately blushed. “It’s not in the least ready yet, Simon. Really, Mr. Bothwick, it’s in the very earliest stages.”
“When you’ve finished it, Lady Hargreave, please allow me to have the first look.”
“There’s no need to be polite, sir. I’m the most rank amateur,” she protested, all her dreams of writing paling into insignificance against this man’s accomplishments.
“Nevertheless, I’d be remiss as a businessman if I didn’t take advantage of this meeting with you. You understand, writers from the ton are very rare. And of great interest to the world.”
“There, you see, darling,” Simon interposed. “Mr. Bothwick has a point. And who better than he to know the literary landscape?”
“Thank you very much.” Caroline could scarce catch her breath. “I’m thrilled, of course.”
The manuscript is in Yorkshire at the moment, but we’ll have it brought to London,“ Simon remarked.
“It’s not at all ready, though,” Caroline quickly noted.
“When it is, Lady Hargreave, I’d be delighted to read it”
And for the remainder of their visit, Caroline was floating on air.
The men spoke briefly once again as Simon walked with the publisher to the front door. And whether His Grace could actually read minds or whether Bothwick’s inspection had been too obvious, the duke said, “Let me send my tailor to you. You’ll enjoy him. And it would give my wife pleasure.”
The publisher attempted to refuse, but the duke was ingratiating and winning and Bothwick was ushered from the house, quite charmed.
Hargreave was in love with his wife, Bothwick understood as he paused curbside a moment later, waiting for a footman to open the door of the duke’s carriage that was there to drive him home.
Although he wasn’t sure His Lordship realized it.
Perhaps he’d been the byword for vice too long to recognize the gentler emotions.
Simon’s reputation gave pause to many in the ton as well, when at the end of the week, the duke and duchess were finally at home to visitors. The shock of Simon seated in the drawing room beside his new wife was almost as astonishing as news of his marriage.
Many might understand a man’s eventual need for a wife. Or more pertinently, a man’s need to marry an enceinte lover, but for the Duke of Hargreave to actually make an appearance at tea was definitely in the nature of a miracle. Not that he went so far as to actually drink tea-the brandy at his elbow his preferred choice-but his mere presence spoke volumes.
His choice of Caroline Morrow for his wife caused enormous tittle-tattle and rumor. Was she not already married? Although certainly, the duke had enough money to buy off a husband or two. But five years wasn’t so long and everyone recalled the circumstances of their parting. That scandalous little story had spread through the ton like wildfire.
So, where had he found her?
And where was her other husband?
And more important, why had he married her?
No one ever contemplated he’d married for love. Hargreave’s profligate manner of living rather nullified any such fantasy. And while the duke and Lady Caroline had grown up together, friendship, too, was hardly a reason for marriage.
Which left only the likelihood that Simon had sired a child.
But if Caroline had been married, whose was it?
Not only would everyone be counting on their fingers, but the entire ton would be waiting with bated breath to see the child.
Simon, of course, was aware of all the rumors. Gore and all the servants had their ears to the ground and news traveled faster below stairs than above. But he’d forbidden any of the gossip reach Caroline. It was pointless to worry her.
Now that they’d finally reached a measure of emotional compromise.
It helped that he’d been home with her since their return to London. Although truthfully, he didn’t know how much longer he could continue playing the cicisbeo.
Neither spoke of his altered stance on having a child.
His reasons were too brutally possessive.
And Caroline couldn’t bring herself to voice the extent of her attachment and affection for a man who didn’t understand either emotion. But she quietly wished and hoped and considering the frequency of their lovemaking, judged the possibility of a child as highly likely.
They had made love repeatedly since their marriage, their journey to London, more leisurely than anticipated when they found themselves more interested in sexual amusements than travel. And while they’d been incommunicado at Hargreave House, waiting for Caroline’s wardrobe to be finished, their days and nights had been a carnal feast for the senses. In fact, Caroline found herself in a constant state of raging desire, as though she were perennially in heat. She had but to look at Simon and she melted in longing. He had but to smile her way and she was wet with desire.
It wasn’t as though Simon was unaffected by ravenous lust. He was in an ungovernable state of rut as well. And while he didn’t understand the finer points of love, he understood carnal desire. He quickened at the mere sight of his wife, and when she welcomed him into her body with the wild, tempestuous passion that was so much her nature, he was always reminded how intensely he’d missed her. And during those glorious moments of fierce, fanatical delirium, he would have gladly relinquished all his worldly goods.
That first afternoon at tea, they were forced to ignore their ready passions and close proximity and present the face of composure to their callers. Their guests had all come to ask pointed questions in as oblique a manner as possible and watch their hosts’ every move as though such close scrutiny would uncover the unimaginable reasons behind their marriage. Or at least lend a piquant authenticity to the reports that would come from this afternoon teatime. The whole town would be dining on the details of this mysterious marriage for weeks.
Throughout the afternoon, Simon was dealing with feelings he hadn’t experienced since he was fifteen. Not since then had he been so aroused by lustful cravings. At times he only half-listened to the banal conversation, consumed with desire. All he wanted to do was push Caro down on the settee, toss up her skirts, plunge into her and fuck himself to death. Glancing at the clock, he swore under his breath. Would these people never leave?
Caroline wondered if the heated flush on her cheeks was visible. Simon was much too close. It had been a mistake to sit side by side on the settee. She was wet with desire, the throbbing between her legs increasing in intensity, while she was having more and more trouble concentrating on the conversation. She moved away fractionally, so Simon’s thigh wouldn’t touch hers.
He shifted position, following her and she glanced up at him in panic.
His dark gaze was hot with lust.
She quickly looked away.
But not before everyone in the room had taken note of the shocking display.
Daphne was one of the visitors and her mouth tightened in resentment. “Do you ever see Louvois, Caro?” she asked in a silken tone, eaten with jealousy, wanting to draw blood. “Or shouldn’t I mention your former husband?”
Daphne was very blonde and very beautiful and not showing her pregnancy at all, a fact everyone in the room had observed the moment she had arrived. Another of Daphne’s ruses, everyone had concluded. Or she’d rid herself of the stable boy’s child, Simon more cynically reflected.