Page 69 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Shall we plan it for the week thatMuch Ado About Heavenopens?” she suggested. “It could be a celebration of sorts.” As she spoke, her mind was racing, an additional possibility in mind. Did she dare voice it to Julian?—no, not yet, she decided.
“If you wish,” he said, not sounding as though he particularly cared, which she supposed, on the whole, was better than outright disapproval. He reached his hand up to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear; she had not bothered to curl it today, knowing she would only be seeing her friends, having no one to impress. No one to satisfy, other than herself.
And Julian, of course, who did not appear to give a fig about whether she took the time to crimp her hair into ringlets that framed her face as her mother had always insisted, despite Emily’s suspicions that it made her look insipid.
“My hair doesn’t curl very well, you know,” she blurted, the words out of her mouth before she even realized what she was saying. Her cheeks heated—he didn’t care. Why would she tell him such a thing?
“Your hair is perfect,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to her cheek in the spot that the unruly lock of hair had been brushing against a moment earlier.
“My mother always insisted that I curl it,” she continued, her mouth apparently having decided that, now that she’d started this idiotic line of conversation, she might as well see it through to its conclusion. “But I don’t like it curled—I hate the way it flaps around my face.”
Julian drew back a bit to look down at her, frowning slightly. “Then don’t curl it.”
She opened her mouth—and then shut it again.
Then don’t curl it.
It sounded so ridiculously simple when he put it that way, when of course it was anything but.
Of course she couldn’t simply stop curling her hair—not when it was the style, and when being the perfectly proper, stylish wife that Julian desired was so terribly important.
But she couldn’t say that to him, of course—couldn’t let him see the way this agreement, one she had made so willingly, had come to feel like a weight on her shoulders, so similar to the weight she had carried there for so many years before this.
She smiled up at him, but something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because a faint line appeared between his brows. “Emily, I don’t give a damn what you do with your hair—I personally rather like being able to kiss you without having to risk getting my eye poked, but it doesn’t really matter what I like. What matters is whatyoulike.”
Emily felt rooted to the spot, unable to formulate any sort of intelligent response.What matters is what you like. She didn’t think anyone had ever uttered those words to her before—they had been more than she had ever dared hope to hear, in fact. All that had ever mattered had been what other people liked, what other people wanted.
Never her.
And now, this man—herhusband, a man she had pledged her love and fealty to for the rest of her life, no matter their motivations for the match—this beautiful man was standing here, telling her that what she wanted was what mattered.
So she kissed him.
It was, from the moment her lips first touched his, a heated, impolite sort of kiss. Emily didn’t think that she’d ever considered kissing in terms of politeness until this moment, but this one was unquestionably impolite. This was her mouth opening under his, her tongue tangling with his, his hand at her waist and sliding lower, a moan catching in her throat.
It was a moment—or perhaps an hour—later when Emily dimly registered the sound of the door opening behind them.
“Diana,” came Violet’s exasperated voice, and Emily broke away from Julian with a startled gasp, turning as she did so.
“I knew it,” Diana said smugly, standing in the doorway with the air of a governess who’d just caught her charges attempting to abscond with an apple tart. “I knew you weren’t to be trusted alone in a room together!”
“Diana,” Emily protested, her cheeks warming. “We’remarried.”
“You’re as bad as Violet and Audley!” Diana said, pressing a dramatic hand to her heart. “Everywhere I turn, lewd behavior is afoot.”
“How very right you are, Lady Templeton,” Julian said with a bowso correct that it was impossible not to view it with some suspicion. “Now, if you will excuse me, I should very much like to kiss my wife in the privacy of my carriage.” He turned to Emily and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
And Emily, as she blushingly took the proffered arm, could not help but relish with some satisfaction the incredulous laugh Diana let out as they departed.
Twenty
It was opening night, andJulian wasn’t nervous.
It was odd, he thought, as he stood in his box, Emily on his arm, surrounded by their friends. He was not a nervous man by nature, but there was usually a pang of adrenaline each time a new show opened. Tonight, however, he felt strangely calm—now that Miss Simmons had returned, relieving Miss Congreave of her duties as leading lady, rehearsals had gone considerably more smoothly, and he found himself anticipating the evening’s show with an odd sense of contentment that he could not help wondering about. Was it Emily’s presence on his arm that led to this feeling? Was he now a husband who found the weight of a wife’s hand tucked into the crook of his elbow the very peak of happiness?
How… domestic.
Emily, of course, looked radiant—she was wearing an evening gown of gold silk a shade or two darker than her hair, which was smoothed back from her face and piled high atop her head. He was reminded of the night he’d first met her, in this very box—she had been so lovely that night, wrapped in a demure gown, her hair carefully curled, her manners impeccable, her posture impossibly straight.
