Page 4 of Becoming Wanton (Trade Wind 3)

Chapter Two

Four months into his marriage, William Dalfour, Marquess of Candleton, sat in the main chamber in the House of Lords, his mind more on his wife than the words of His Grace and Serene Highness, the Duke of Wellington, who currently held the floor. An hour earlier, William had painstakingly followed the debate about free trade after Lord Brougham had laid a petition on the table for a total repeal of the Corn Laws. The current, less important matter, however, could not hold his attention.

Not on a Tuesday.

With a degree of seriousness that ought to alarm him, he considered introducing legislation that would declare every day Tuesday. Shifting in his seat, he allowed his gaze to fix sightlessly in the direction of the clerk, whose quill scratched out minutes documenting the current debate. All day, until this moment, William had held in check his anticipation of tonight, but as had become inevitable of late, his infatuation with Beatrice gripped him and would not let go.

Since the wedding, she had settled into their Mayfair home with the same grace she brought to her duties as Marchioness. His mother and friends had been right; it had been time for him to know the comforts and benefits of a wife.

Their evening would start, as ever, with his arrival, when Beatrice would leave her piano or embroidery and meet him in the foyer, cheeks pink, her soft brown eyes tracking him until the moment he stepped close. Then her eyelids would flutter closed, her lashes dark against her porcelain skin, and a minute tremble would run through her body as he lowered his lips to her forehead.

What she could not know is that his eyes closed, too, every time he unhurriedly kissed her warm, silken skin. For those precious seconds, the servants around them disappeared from his notice; whatever tensions he carried from his day abated. He had learned to time the kiss with his breath, allowing for a long inhale of the hints of honeysuckle that wafted subtly from her shiny hair.

She is plain, his mother had said approvingly when he had made his suit of Beatrice known. William had not argued, relieved his mother was poised to accept his choice easily. Her opinion could not deter him either way, but it was better she not know of his weakness for his betrothed.

Beatrice’s scent enthralled him as precisely as she did—and it captured her very essence. Honeysuckle blooms were hardly exotic. From a distance, they appeared pleasant and unassuming, but come dusk, their heady fragrance was enchanting, combining honeyed sweetness and floral notes and something a little wild.

Their now-established routine allowed him to sip from her nectar once a day. When he arrived home and pressed his lips against her forehead, he silently imbued the gesture with reverence, trying his best to offer her some form of acceptable affection even as he, surely without her knowledge, took from the interaction more enjoyment and meaning than she could know.

Every day brought this joy, but Tuesdays, of course, were noteworthy. God, how he longed for his parliamentary duties to conclude for the day so he could begin his evening with Beatrice and know the sweet agony that a Tuesday evening and night brought.

Over supper, she would inform him of the household news, and he would listen raptly to her rationale for this embroidery stitch over that on the breakfast napkins she was adorning with their initials. She would patiently follow his explanations regarding sugar duties or updates about the war in China.

It was after the meal that the heated glances—and in her case, blushes—escalated as they played a game ofvingt-et-unor took turns reading to each other, all culminating in them retiring earlier than any other day of the week.

Since the wedding, William’s personal secretary, Mr. Adams, had learned of his employer’s new commitment to being home on time, yet William managed to shock him that day. After the debate, Mr. Adams awaited him outside his office with a grim air and imparted the news that the Foreign Secretary, Lord Palmerston, had called off their long-arranged meeting for that afternoon.

All the sooner that I shall see Beatrice, William thought.

Seeing Mr. Adams’s long face, he shrugged. “After the vote of no confidence for the Prime Minister’s government last week, he’s certain to ask the Queen to dissolve Parliament. Who knows how much longer Lord Palmerston will remain Foreign Secretary?” He shook his head with disgust. “He never wanted to meet with me in the first place—he knows very well my position on China. I was stubborn enough to push for the meeting, but what good could have come from it?”

On the carriage ride home, he reflected on his secretary’s confusion over his reaction to the canceled engagement. Perhaps a year ago, his indignation and principles would have carried him directly to the Foreign Secretary’s office.

Now my energies are engaged elsewhere. Before long, he found himself running his fingers through his blond locks, not wanting to arrive unkempt.

Alas, after stepping across his threshold earlier than expected, he arrived only to be informed that his wife was not yet home. “I see,” he replied to the housekeeper, Mrs. Brown.

The woman straightened, and the set of her sharp jaw and the determination in the way she clasped her hands in front of herself conveyed that she had business to raise. “Might I have a moment of your time, your lordship? I have a…delicate household matter to call to your attention.”

Not today, woman!

As if reading his mind, she raised her chin, and her cool blue eyes fastened on him unblinkingly. “It would be best to speak of ittoday, my lord.”

“Very well, Mrs. Brown. Report to my study in a quarter hour.”

A year earlier, when his last housekeeper had passed away, his mother urged him to bring on her own housekeeper, Mrs. Brown.

A foreboding ran through him; the woman’s request today related to some wrinkle between herself and the Marchioness. While they had avoided involving him outright, he was aware there had been minor skirmishes between the two recently.

When the appointed time came, the woman knocked, and after he called out to her to enter, she sailed to a stop before his desk. In her fifties, she still had nearly black hair, save for the shock of white at her widow’s peak. Something in her expression—downcast eyes, as if out of respect, but a pursed mouth—provoked suspicion within him.

“It gives me no pleasure to say this, my lord, no, not at all, but I’m afraid I must speak with you concerning the Marchioness.”

“Oh?”

“Lady Candleton is guarding a secret from you.”

Suppressing any reaction—surprise at the assertion or disdain for the housekeeper’s obvious pleasure in reporting the secret—he blinked languorously.

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