Page 36 of Wager for a Wife

“I’m sorry the lady’s company was distressing to you,” he said.

She stared at him, her large blue eyes speaking volumes.

“Ah,” he said. “I was the topic of conversation.”

“The topic, yes, although there wasn’t much to say. Apparently you are an enigma to everyone. Your father, however, is not.”

“You knew that already.”

“I did. The duchess, at least, was discreet when speaking of your father. Lady Putnam, on the other hand . . .” She stooped to brush away a twig that had caught on her skirts.

“Anything you wish to share with me?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t take him up on the offer. He loathed talking about his father—or thinking about him at all, for that matter.

“No,” she said.

William breathed an inward sigh of relief—

“Just the usual sorts of things, you know,” she said, apparently unwilling to talk about it but unable to let it go either.

“Like?” he begrudgingly asked.

She shrugged but averted her eye, her face turning bright pink.

“Ah,” he said. “I can’t say I’m overly surprised, can you?” William hoped his casual reply masked his true thoughts on the matter. “Does this mean you would like to discuss these things after all? I saw my father but once after my mother’s death, so I’m afraid I haven’t all the particulars of his wrongdoings. I take that back; I do know the particulars of his financial wrongdoings.” He needed to step back from this conversation and get his thoughts in order, as he was precariously close to speaking with more excitability than was good for the situation.

“I know you do; it’s why we are betrothed, after all,” Louisa said.

There was clearly nothing he could add to that. The best thing for now was a change of topic. “Come,” he said. “Let us set this distressing conversation aside for a while, shall we?” He offered her his arm, and thankfully, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm this time, and they strolled onward.

* * *

Louisa walked with William across the garden to the maple trees—hardly more than saplings, they were, as the groundskeeper had only added the folly and the trees the previous year. The folly itself was a small marble pavilion with a marble bench within, offering a view back toward the house. It was a pleasant place to sit and usually made Louisa feel as if she were at their country seat of Ashworth Park.

Usually—but not today.

They sat on the bench, and Louisa dropped her arm, choosing instead to clasp both hands on her lap after laying the rose on the bench next to her. The feel of him, the male strength she sensed in his arm, was beguiling, and Louisa didn’t want her nascent attraction to him to interfere with her determination to learn about him. She needed a clear head in order to do that.

William adjusted his position on the bench in order to face her, causing their legs to brush together, and Louisa drew in a breath. “I’m traveling to Buckinghamshire this afternoon,” he said, “and wished to take my leave of you before doing so. It will be a short trip, as I intend to be back tomorrow evening, if all goes to plan.”

“That seems to be a great deal of travel for such a brief visit,” she said.

“Perhaps, but it is for a good reason. I wish to personally review the preparations being made at Farleigh Manor in order to receive a new viscountess.” He paused, the corners of his mouth flickering for the briefest moment in what was almost an actual smile before disappearing. “And then I’ll return to London in time to escort you to Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow evening, if you would be willing to do me the honor.” There was that flicker again.

She ignored it and what it did to her insides and firmed up her resolve. “Naturally, I am willing to go to Vauxhall with you; I am your betrothed, after all, and such things are to be expected. I have heard that Vauxhall Gardens are not to be missed, and I shall look forward to it with anticipation. But—”

“But what?” he asked.

“I have conditions that I wish to have met in return.”

His eyes shuttered. He reached out and took her hand in his. With his free hand, he began lightly stroking each finger, from knuckle to fingertip.

Louisa swallowed. “Conditions,” she repeated.

“Conditions,” he said. “Undoubtedly, you do. You have beautiful hands, Louisa, soft hands with long, delicate fingers. And yet they feel capable and strong too. Such a paradox. If I were an artist, I would paint your hands.”

“You’re speaking foolishness,” she said, her voice a bit shaky, which annoyed her. What did her hands have to do with the current conversation anyway? “You’re not an artist, I daresay, and even if you were, I’m not sure I find it flattering that my hands are the subject you would choose to paint.”

He threaded his fingers through hers, interlocking them, moving his head this way and that as though looking for the best angle to view them before returning his gaze to hers. “Oh, I would wish to paint your face too, rest assured. And your throat—from right here behind your ear down to your collarbone.” With his forefinger, he traced the spot he’d just described without touching her; still, she could swear she felt it all the same. “The line here is exquisite. If only I’d been given a true artist’s talent,” he said in a low voice.

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