Page 17 of A Deal with the Rebellious Marquess
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘With girls on your mother’s list?’
‘Yes, exactly so.’ Girls he’d never dream of making love to against a garden wall, never dream of seeking obliteration with. That woman was going home with her husband’s ghost.
The wry ghost of a smile played at Fleur’s lips as she set down the morning papers. How ironic. If only she’d stayed a little longer. The Marquess of Meltham had made a late appearance at the Harefield ball and the society pages had jumped all over it. Everyone was sure this would be the year he married and the matchmaking mamas were lining up their daughters. If she’d walked through the ballroom on her way out, she might have met him coming in, assuming she’d recognise him. Perhaps it was best she hadn’t seen him. It would have ruined a perfectly good night.
She reached for her coffee mug and took a hot swallow. Despite the late night, she was back at her desk this morning at theTribune, writing letters and following up on last night’s conversations while they were fresh. She had a busy day, including a meeting with the Duke of Cowden. There was too much to do to lie abed spending time staring at the ceiling and thinking of last night. Of Umberton. Of what had transpired in the garden. And yet, every few minutes, her mind went back there, unable to stay entirely focused on the work at hand.
Perhaps she should write to him this morning, too? What would she say?Thank you for sex against the fence?No, that sounded too much as though he’d done her a favour. Or something more conciliatory?I am not in the habit of such actions.No, that made it sound like an excuse for acting outrageously or, worse, that she now regretted her decision.
Regret would be a lie. She did not regret the fence in the least, although she did wonder if he did. There’d been something in his eyes afterward she’d not been quick enough to decode. Misgiving? Pity? Understanding? She wasn’t comfortable with any of them. She didn’t want him to see too much. She’d just wanted sex, obliteration. She’d not wanted any of the other things that came with it: concern, caring, connection.
She did not want Umberton’s concern or Umberton thinking there was a connection between them that went beyond the business of legislation. If he thought there was more, he’d want more. She could not reciprocate. Her heart, her soul, were off limits. She could not give them again. She’d given them to Adam and now Adam was dead. Dead before she’d had a chance to make amends. Did she even deserve a second chance at love since she’d failed at it so spectacularly the first time?
Was I worth it, Adam? Do you regret marriage to me? Was I too difficult? Too headstrong? Would you have been happier with a biddable wife?
These were the dark questions that had followed her guilt over that last night in Holmfirth. That fight had been one of many. Too many? She could not regret that fight without thinking of other fights. How much time had they wasted arguing? And yet she could not be the sort of woman who agreed to everything just for the sake of peace. Compliance wasn’t peace, it was conformity, and conformity bred all nature of illusions: agreement, accord, co-operation, uniformity where there was none. Newspapers protected against such illusions. It was one of the many things Adam liked about them.
Perhaps that was why she’d chosen Umberton last night. He was no risk to her. He needed to marry a girl who met his mother’s specifications. She met none of them. She’d be a walking scandal for a man such as he and they both knew it. The only risk she posed was to his honour. Bold women didn’t fit comfortably into the code gentlemen were raised by. For them to be gentlemen, women had to be helpless, had to require their protection. Such women didn’t run newspapers or seek justice for murders. Neither did they boldly take lovers.
Umberton had been very good at his job. Much better than her previous lover. It had almost been embarrassing how much better. She’d nearly lost herself with him, in him, shatteringforhim, which was very different than using him to seek obliteration, blankness. She’d been acutely aware of him, of gripping him as if he were an anchor amid a stormy sea, of riding him hard in order to have all of him within her. With each thrust, she’d wanted. She’d panted and writhed for him. A nearly inexplicable reaction on her part and a dangerous one, too.
If this were to happen again—and that in itself was still an if—she’d have to proceed with more detachment before she ended up investing too much of herself and risking real hurt when it ended, because it would end. That was the beauty and the curse of choosing Umberton.
There was the business aspect, too. If an affair between them came to light, their plans for legislation might be compromised as well as her reputation in the eyes of the board of directors. There were plenty of reasons not to engage with him again as they had last night, yet parts of her felt those might not be reasons enough.
The little clock on her desk chimed. Time to stop wool-gathering. Time to stop fantasising about Umberton. Time to go meet with Cowden and figure out how to save the syndicate without reducing it.
‘My dear, you seem distracted today. Forgive me for saying so. It’s not like you.’ The Duke of Cowden sat back in his red Moroccan leather chair and laced his hands over the slight paunch of his stomach. Approaching his upper years, Cowden was silver haired and sharp eyed, father of three sons, had four grandsons and was the head of the Prometheus Club, a group of investors who’d generated spectacular wealth for themselves and for England. Nothing got past him, Fleur realised belatedly.
‘It was a late night last night. I attended the Harefield ball. The first one,’ she confessed, ‘since Adam passed.’ Then she smiled brightly. ‘But business must go on and there were people to meet.’
Cowden nodded and she felt encouraged. Best to keep the conversation steered towards business lest Cowden ask anything too personal. He was known to pry lovingly into the lives of those he cared about and he’d cared about Adam and Keir and Garrett. By extension, he now felt a need to watch over their widows. He’d been one of the first to help Antonia when the department store had burned.
‘I am making progress with the dam legislation. I think there will be a law to put before the House perhaps before this session is even out.’
Cowden gave another nod, his eyes keen. ‘I will look forward to supporting it when it’s ready. And the investigation? You’ve hardly mentioned it.’
Guilt twinged. She’d not given it the usual lion’s share of her attention since lunch at Verrey’s with Umberton. It was much more pleasant to think about the baron and the baron did not favour re-opening the investigation. ‘I’ve been busy and I’ve met someone.’ She blushed at the admission. ‘No one I care to share about at present,’ she added rapidly to stave off Cowden’s inevitable inquiry. ‘But it’s definitely still at the top of my agenda.’
Cowden grinned. ‘Well, don’t let him, whoever he is, distract you.’
‘I won’t,’ she assured him but Cowden’s playful teasing stirred a concern. Is that what Umberton was doing? Distracting her? The dam investigation wasn’t at the top of his agenda. Every time she meant to discuss it with him, another topic took its place. Was that a coincidence or something more? A seed of suspicion took root. Had Umberton used their attraction and their agreement upon legislation as a means of distracting her? Refocusing her attentions? Other than his philosophical objections, which he’d voiced eloquently at Verrey’s, what would his motive for that distraction be? What purpose could he have? Or what did he stand to gain? These were worrisome questions she’d be wise not to put off any longer.
‘I hope you’re not too busy to re-join my daughter-in-law’s committee for the literacy ball? And my wife would love your help for her Christmas charity ball as well.’
Fleur rose, understanding this was the end to the interview. ‘I will look forward to returning to their committees. Tell them thank you for me and thank you also for your support of the legislation. It means a great deal.’
She left Cowden house with mixed feelings. On one hand, she was thrilled to have recruited a second ally for the legislation and possibly a third given that if Cowden was on board his son, Lord Brixton, would be, too. On the other hand, she was becoming concerned about the wisdom of Umberton as an ally.
‘Where to, Ma’am?’ her coachman asked as she settled into her seat.
She opened her mouth, intending to give instructions to go to Lord Umberton and then realised she couldn’t. She didn’t know where to find him. She couldn’t go to White’s herself without drawing undo attention, the very last thing she needed. ‘To the office.’ Concern escalated. She’d have to wait for him to come to her on all accounts. She did not like that he held a certain power in being the one who chose to call and that he could keep her waiting. She wasn’t very good at waiting.
Waiting called up fragments of last night’s conversation. ‘Patience,’ he’d whispered when she’d reached for him. Patience was a virtue, she’d replied, something she’d been beyond in the garden and she definitely remained beyond it today.
Chapter Ten
Apparently, Cicero was right. Virtue was its own reward. Umberton was waiting for her at the office. She would have missed him if she’d gone to White’s. He was lounging on the divan and dangling a tumbler from his hand with the casual nonchalance of one who felt at home in his surroundings. He rose when she entered.
