Margot was starved after her performance, having, in fact, eaten little all day but some poppyseed cake at tea this afternoon. She let his lordship banter with the many callers, accepting their well wishes and the usual nuptial innuendoes, while she did justice to her meal. Then she began to notice that all of their callers were men, except for one widow in a dampened skirt and one young miss on her brother’s arm. He’d get a bear-garden jaw from his mother in the morning, Margot had no doubt. His lordship was about to discover what a misalliance he had made. He might think he was falling in love, although Margot was wise enough to recognize his declaration as gratitude and glibness. Galen must tell all his brides that he loved them, and all his ladybirds, too. His lordship’s infatuation would wither away when he realized his new viscountess was damned as a
demi-mondaine
,
no matter her ancestors or her innocence. The meringue tasted like mud.
Margot was beginning to look deuced uncomfortable, in fact, and Galen was tempted to land a facer on the next nodcock who poured the butter boat over her. When he noticed that she’d stopped eating and stopped smiling at the men who called at their table, he signaled to the waiters to leave the room and see they were undisturbed. “They’ll behave more
respectfully when their wives are around,” he told her. That must have been the wrong thing to say, for she choked on something and had to swallow a hurried sip of wine. She grew paler, too, leaving those faint freckles more visible across her just-scrubbed cheeks.
“They won’t come,” was all she said, pleating the napkin in her lap.
“Who won’t come where?”
“The women, your friends’ wives. What, did you think they were all at home with the headache this evening, sending their husbands out to dine alone? They are all tittering over their tenderloins, just outside this dining parlor. Did you not notice how the ladies turned away when we were escorted past their tables? They will not be calling, I assure you.”
“Gammon. They were all staring, I swear. Once they hear of your connections, they’ll be eager to leave their cards. I’ll prove it to you. What do you say we hold a reception at the end of your theater engagement? Two weeks ought to be enough to do it up right. No grand ball, just a dinner and some dancing or cards. No one who is in Town will refuse, I promise.” Galen would call in every marker he’d ever been owed if that’s what it took. Hell, he’d call on Princess Esterhazy and Lady Drummond-Burrell and Sally Jersey if he had to. He’d danced with enough platter-faced chits at Almack’s for them; they could come dance at his wife’s party. Once they conversed with Margot and saw she was more of a lady than half the members of the
beau monde,
they would welcome her to their ranks. If they did not, well, the viscount could not see any great loss. Who needed stale bread and orgeat and unfledged chicks every Wednesday night?
Margot was still worrying her napkin. “And what of your father? Will he come stand on the receiving line with his son’s new wife?”
“He will if his gout is not bothering him. I’ll likely have to fight him over the first dance with you. Stop fretting, my dear.”
Margot couldn’t. He refused to see the truth. She stared at her plate, knowing that the sooner Galen saw reality, the less disappointed he’d be. And the sooner he stopped building air castles, the sooner she’d stop wanting to move into them—with him. “What of your sister?”
Now there was someone who did need those Wednesday night ordeals. Harriet was due to make her come-out next fall, and Lud knew the hoyden would have a hard enough time attracting an eligible
parti
on her own. The thought of
having Harriet on his hands for the rest of her days was enough to make Galen reach for his wineglass.
Margot stopped his hand. “You see? You know her chances will he hurt by association with me.”
“I cannot lie to you, Harriet is liable to be labeled fast with or without your company. The chit’s been without a mother too long, and my father cannot say nay to her. Why, it would be just like her to waltz at our party without being approved. Zeus, she’s never even been presented. And I fear there are those who would blame you, so no, she will not be invited to our party. I was thinking of asking Aunt Matty to leave Bath to chaperone the brat after the summer.”
“I…I see.”
“Do you? I was hoping you’d agree to stay in the country with me, avoiding the whole mare’s nest of Harriet’s Season. Not because I don’t think you could be a sterling example to her, or that you’d hinder her chances of making a decent match, but she would run you ragged, and I prefer to have you to myself. Besides, I want to spend more time with my horses and the estate. My father is not as young as he thinks, and I would relieve him of some of his duties, as well as cataloguing the family’s art collection. Then there is the land and cottage I inherited from an uncle, which I seldom get to visit. I thought you might enjoy helping me redecorate it.”
“A home in the country? That sounds heavenly.”
“We’d come to Town for Harriet’s come-out ball, of course, and to refurbish our wardrobes, see the latest plays, and such. But I am tired of the City and its empty entertainments. Besides, the country is much more healthy for children.”
“Children? But I thought—”
“Your brother.”
“Of course.”
Then Skippy came to their table. Closed doors meant little to him, in his altitudes. He’d been celebrating the wedding and his winnings since Margot’s announcement, and
now he was literally overflowing with good spirits. Neither Galen nor Margot objected, since so many awkward subjects lay between them like so many untouched dishes.
Skippy pulled up a chair at their table and proceeded to finish the asparagus Margot hadn’t cared for, the poached salmon, and the rest of the rolls. “Skipped dinner, don’t you know.”
When his hunger was slaked—that is, when the table was empty—Skippy raised a glass, Galen’s, for yet another toast. “To connubial bliss, to betting on a sure thing, and to setting the
ton
on its collective ear, my dears. You’ve done a bang-up job, I say. No one is speaking of anything else but the love match of the decade. Your performance at the theater was inspired, madam. Your singing too, of course. And you, Woodbridge, had the females all berating their lovers for not being half so romantical. I knew you two were perfect together. Told everyone, I did.” He raised Galen’s glass again. “To love and marriage, which so seldom go hand in hand.”
In his usual skitter-witted fashion, Skippy must have forgotten that Galen and Margot had met and married on the same day. But if the Polite World wanted to put a polite face on their wedding, Galen would not contradict him.
“Do they seem disapproving?” Margot wanted to know, vaguely waving her hand to indicate the throngs outside.
“Not by half! Some of the hostesses are upset that everyone will be leaving for the country or Brighton before they get a chance to toss a ball or two in your honor. Others of ’em are talking about inviting you to their summer house parties. Think what a coup it would be—the latest tittle-tattle and some decent music for once, instead of some caterwauling, calf-eyed miss. And the gentlemen, well, they are talking about starting a new page in the betting book, to do with your first son and all that.”
Skippy was being diplomatic, for once. The worthless wastrels at White’s were likely wagering on when the child would be born, with odds in favor of a very premature birth. Galen pounded his fist on the table. “Dash it, I will not have
them gambling on the arrival date of my heir. You may tell them that if I see my wife’s name in the betting book, I shall tear the page out and shove it down the throat of whomever’s name appears there.”
The reverend nodded. “I’ll tell ’em, but that won’t stop the wagering, don’t you know. They’ll just use initials. It’s too good a bet, and your getting as prickly as a hedgehog over it will just keep ’em speculating.”
“He’s right, Galen, and such foolishness can do us no harm if anyone wishes to waste his money that way.”
“Just what I said.” Skippy swallowed a forkful of apple tart. “Had to remind ’em wagering was a sin, too. After all, the bishop was there, soothing his throat after the funeral.”
“Did you bet, Skippy?” Margot asked, which brought a blush to the cleric’s thin cheeks. He looked around for one of the waiters to save him, or another caller, or an act of God. This was a hell of a time to get religion, though, he conceded. “I, ah, may have indulged. Weakness of the flesh, don’t you know.”
“Weakness of the mind, more like,” Galen said with a growl. “Tell me, before I toss you sorry excuse for an ecclesiastic out of here, how did you place your bet? And if it was less than nine months from now, you better start running.”
“What, show such disrespect for your lady wife? I never would! In fact, I figured you’d make sure no one could cast aspersions. I mean, stands to reason a chap don’t mind talk about him winning the hand of a beautiful woman, but he don’t want his son being taunted with it all his life. I took the twelve-month spot.”
“Thank you, Skippy. I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Margot pushed the bowl of fruit closer to him. “Perhaps we’ll even name the baby after you. Unless of course he’s a girl. Uh, what is your name anyway?”
“Skidmore. Skidmore Skidmore. The parents ran out of names before I came along, so they skipped that part. Makes it easy to remember, don’t you know?”
* * *
By the time they were finished with coffee and more congratulations, the evening was far advanced. Margot was yawning, and she still had a rehearsal in the morning. Ordering the carriage home, Galen pulled her into his lap for the drive, so she would not bump her head when they hit a rut. “Rest, my love. We’ve had a busy day,” he said.
“Can you believe it’s all been less than twenty-four hours? I keep thinking I’m dreaming, that I’ll wake up back in Mrs. McGuirk’s house.”
“No chance, sweetings, I like you right here.” And he did, more than he’d have thought possible for such an innocuous embrace. She simply felt right in his arms.
As for Margot, she had a million questions yet to be resolved, and as many worries, but for this short interlude she was content to listen to the sounds of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, and his lordship’s heart beneath her cheek.
All too soon they were at Grosvenor Square and his lordship was handing Margot down from the coach. The front door opened—Fenning always watched for the master’s return—and Margot’s dog bounded out. Rufus danced around them, barking loudly enough to frighten the horses, getting his muddied pawprints on Galen’s white satin unmentionables, and snarling at the footman who came to lead him off. The footman and his length of rope faded into the shrubbery.
Staring over his lordship’s shoulder, the butler courteously inquired as to their evening.
“Delightful, thank you, Fenning.” Galen handed over his hat and gloves and Margot’s wrap.
“Here, too, milord. The canine attacked your valet whilst Mr. Clegg was polishing your boots. The beast won. Your boots lost. Then he chased the housekeeper’s cat into the orangery.”
“Clegg?”
“No, milord, her ladyship’s animal. I fear we shall not be serving oranges soon. The housekeeper is no longer on our payroll.”
“Well, I never cared much for her sour puss anyway.”
“The cat, milord?”
“No, the housekeeper. But her ladyship is tired. We’ll deal with all of this in the morning, Fenning. Ah, you will be here in the morning, won’t you?”
The butler sniffed at the viscount’s levity and stalked off. He’d been majordomo to the Dukes of Woburton since taking over the position from his father, who’d replaced his father before him. No mongrel was going to force him to desert his post. Why, the family would never manage without a Fenning in charge.
Galen led Margot—and the dog—up the stairs and down the corridor to her bedroom. He opened the door and nudged the dog inside with his knee so that he might properly say good night to his bride. This was not how he’d imagined spending his wedding night, on the other side of his wife’s bedroom door while a scruffy, overgrown sack of bones got to share her bed, if the blasted dog did not
eat
her bed. He’d worry about that in the morning, too. Right now, all he could think of was how good Margot felt in his arms, how sweet her perfume—before the dog licked her face—and how much he wanted to kiss her. But did that count as intimacy, which he’d promised to delay? He hesitated, until Margot stood on tiptoe and shyly placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “Thank you. For everything, my lord.”
Confound it, he did not want to be her benefactor; he wanted to be her lover. Galen wrapped her in his arms and gave her a real kiss, a senses-stealing, toe-tingling, tongue-touching kiss. He might not be the man of her dreams, dash it, but, by George, he’d be the man
in
her dreams tonight.
Chapter Nine
Whoever said, first, let’s kill all the lawyers, should have started with Samuel Hemmerdinger, Esquire. The prosy old pettifogger was provoking Galen into wishing he had a pistol to hand.
Lord Woodbridge had gone to see the family solicitor shortly after breakfast, which consisted of yesterday’s rolls and scorched eggs and tepid coffee, since the second cook, who would have taken over from the departed chef, had not stepped out of the dog’s way fast enough this morning when the coal wagon had arrived. Luckily, they would not be needing another delivery soon, Fenning reported, with the weather so clement. Luckily the second cook’s leg was merely bruised, not broken. Luckily there were a great many employment agencies in London. Fenning would call on one where the family was not known, which circumstance, he sniffed, would doubtless soon change.