Page 41 of Impassioned
“Quite the usual. We won’t begin the actual racing season until the end of the month, but we do like to plan our excursions. Our season always begins with the jaunt to the Pickled Goose.”
Sabrina recalled that was a tavern in Richmond. “Are wives ever allowed as guests?”
His fork, with a green bean speared upon it, was halfway to his mouth when his arm arrested. “We’ve never discussed it. Likely because half our members are unwed.” As if that explained why it hadn’t come up.
“I should be intrigued to join you some time, if it were allowed.” Sabrina set her utensils down. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—avoid the subject any longer. She’d made it into something far bigger than it was. “Earlier today, I received an invitation to join the Phoenix Club.”
He set his knife and fork down and reached for his wineglass. “I see.” The words were flat, his gaze fixed on his wine before he took a long drink. “And do you plan to accept it?”
“I do. In fact, I’m going to attend the assembly on Friday with Mrs. Renshaw.” She clasped her hands in her lap, wringing them as her insides cartwheeled with unease. “Are you angry?”
“Why should I be?” His entire demeanor had cooled. They’d been sharing a pleasant meal until now. “I am surprised.”
“Because you haven’t received an invitation?”
Now he looked surprised—and slightly irritated. “You know that?”
“I, er, assumed,” she lied, not wanting him to know she’d discussed his membership, or lack thereof, with Evie. “But maybe you did receive one and declined. That wouldn’t surprise me, since you seem to disdain the club.”
“I haven’t ever been invited, nor do I expect to be. How…nice for you to be a member.” He’d held onto his wineglass throughout this conversation and now finished the contents.
“I would prefer that you were a member too. Perhaps Lucien could see that you are invited.”
“No.” The clipped response landed hard, like a stone. “It’s his club. He would have invited me by now if he wanted to.” He set his empty glass down, and the footman moved to refill it.
Plucking up his utensils, he pushed his food around his plate. She could see he wasn’t eating and hated that she’d caused him distress.
“How was your meeting with the duke?” she asked softly. As much as she wanted to know how it had gone, she was more concerned with filling the uncomfortable air.
Aldington’s lip curled slightly, and she instantly thought the interview had gone poorly. “He is considering our request for you to replace Aunt Christina as Cassandra’s sponsor.”
Our request.Sabrina liked the sound of that, even if she didn’t feel like they were an “our” or an “us.” “That’s better than an outright refusal.”
“To be honest, denial was his initial response, but I told him that you were up to the challenge and would do a much better job than Aunt Christina.”
Sabrina lifted her gaze to his, glad for his advocacy, though an old feeling of dread wriggled between her ribs. “Iamup to the challenge.”
Aldington instructed the footmen to leave them alone. The dismissal surprised Sabrina. He’d never done anything like that. When they were gone, he continued, “The person I saw last night at the rout and somewhat again earlier today—charming, outgoing, flirtatious even. Is that really who you are?”
“It’s who I want to be,” she answered softly, trying to convince herself as much as him.
“But it’s not who youwere. You’ve been different since you arrived. However, I still glimpse the cautious woman underneath. Are you certain you can be the woman you want to be? Are you, in fact, certain that’s what you really want?”
“Yes, it is what I want. Just as I want a child.”
“So I gathered,” he said coolly. “And you shall have your child.”
“Do you plan to visit my chamber again tonight?” She held her breath, wondering if he would, even as tomorrow night’s “lesson” loomed.
He hesitated and, for a scant moment, the anticipation simmering inside her roiled.
“I have a meeting at White’s and will likely be late.” He stood quickly, making the chair wobble. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I purchased some books on horticulture for you and procured the latest issue ofTransactions.”
She blinked at him. “From the Horticultural Society?” The organization was little more than a decade old and produced a wonderful periodical with color plates of all manner of plants. “How exceedingly thoughtful of you.”
Indeed, he’d never done anything of the sort. Not in two years. He’d gifted her something on her birthday and at Christmas—handkerchiefs or jewelry. Books about gardening, about which she was passionate, were far more personal.
“Please excuse me. I’ll instruct the footmen to return so you may finish your dinner.”
