B005R3LZ90 EBOK (15 page)

Miss Primble frowned. "A pity."

"There's something I should like to tell you," Sally said. "Both the children love to be read to. They especially like
The Life and Perambulation of a Mouse
."

Nodding, the nurse waddled over to the rocker and dropped her considerable weight onto its seat. "Sam!" she shouted.

He spun around.

"Don't stand there, ye little goose. Come sit on Miss P's lap so as I can read to ye." She reached down and picked up the book that they loved their father to read to them.

Sam's eyes rounded as he jumped off the stool and came running to Miss Primble.

She gathered him up and set him on her wide lap. "I'll need ye to turn the pages for me, lad."

He nodded his little head.

Smiling, Sally backed out of the room, knowing at last that her children were in good hands.

* * *

Hazard was not his game, George decided. The devil take it—and the twenty quid he had already taken. George got up from the table at Mrs. Glenwick's gaming establishment and moved to the
vingt-et-un
table where Elvin, the quieter twin, sat. "Any luck?" George asked.

"A bit."

George tossed his coin on the table. "I daresay your brother wishes he could say the same. He's down rather heavily."

"Our pockets would be a great deal heavier if we didn't feel compelled to always be in Bath with our friends."

"As would mine." George peered at the card that faced down. Not good. Another deuced seven! "But it is so deadly dull in the country. No mills. No horse races."

"No Miss Avery's."

"Blanks and I aren't as enamored of Miss Avery's girls as you fellows are."

"I should hope not. The both of you are married men, though I'm at a loss to know when either of you have a chance to bed those lovely wives of yours. You're with us lonely bachelors every night of the week."

George went rigid. His sleeping arrangements with Sally were not Elvin's affair. Of course, he would greatly dislike for anyone to know of his complete abstinence from sexual relations, and he would as lief not have others know why he had married Sally. His lack of interest in her as a woman could humiliate her. Already, she had been humiliated over the devious Betsy Johnson's accusations. "There's a lot to be said about making love in the daylight," George said.

Elvin smiled slyly. "The woman's body is a lovely thing to behold."

Quite oddly and completely unsummoned, George conjured up a vision of Sally lying in their bed, offering her slip of a body to him. Even more surprising was the profound physical effect such a vision elicited below his waist.

Elvin turned over his card. "Vingt-et-un!"

Frowning, George indicated his need for an additional card. It was a queen. He threw in his cards and watched Elvin scoop up his winnings.

When play began again, Elvin said, "I don't understand you or Blanks at all. If I were to be blessed with a lovely wife, I assure you I'd be in her bed early every night."

The fellow had to be talking about George's sister. Glee was a reputed beauty, though she was merely a pesky little sister to George. A pity Sally was not deemed attractive—except by Mr. Higginbottom. Upon reflection, George decided he would never again imbibe Higginbottom ale. Couldn't tolerate a man who would prey on innocent young women like Sally. Even if that prey did include the offer of marriage.

As the dealer turned over her card, George thought of Sally's naked flesh, and he grew more rigid. Sweat beaded on his brow. The lady he had married really was not so unattractive. Though her skin was a bit darker than that acceptable by fashion mavens, he rather liked its tawniness. Her face was free of any type of blemish, and her teeth were straight and white. Her smile was actually quite nice, and he found her large chocolate-colored eyes sultry, even sensuous. A pity her hair was so deuced straight, and a pity she was so very thin. But, then, she was shaped much like Diana, who had also been slender. And Diana's naked body had been a feast for his greedy eyes. And greedy hands.

"Will you come to the races tomorrow?" Elvin asked.

"When have I ever missed?" George said with a smile.

"I suppose Lady Sedgewick is too new a bride to complain over your many absences."

"Lady Sedgewick is not noted for her meekness. She has no problem confronting me with the error of my ways. It's my belief she does not disapprove of my nocturnal activities."

"You're not painting a very flattering picture of your own prowess in the bedchamber."

George stiffened. "I assure you Lady Sedgewick is a well- pleasured woman." He disliked lying to his lifelong friend, but he disliked more the idea that Elvin would think George did not find Sally desirable. The poor girl had given up enough to become his wife. The least he could do was allow others to think he found her desirable.

They both lost the next hand, and Elvin tossed in his cards and stood. "I'd better rescue my brother while he still has enough money for Miss Avery's."

George chuckled as he strolled to the faro table, where Blanks was at play. "I believe I'll be on my way home now," George said. "I've been most generous to Mrs. Glenwick thus far tonight."

Blanks turned to his friend. "Wait just a moment and I'll give you a lift in my gig."

Riding was better than walking. A pity George could no longer afford to keep a gig. If his luck didn't turn, he'd have to sell the carriage and the matched bays next. Not a welcome proposal at all.

* * *

Early mornings were Sally's favorite time of the day. That was the only time she was completely alone with her husband. That they were in the intimacy of their own bedchamber made their time together even more welcome. She had grown so completely comfortable with him, she no longer blushed when he beheld her in her skimpy night shift.

During these private mornings they discussed the day that awaited, or they told each other what happened on the previous day. Sally kept him abreast of the children's activities.

It seemed to her during this brief, glorious interlude each day that she was truly married to George. Her eyes would rake over his powerful body and she would fight the urge to stroke the dark hair that formed a V on his mighty chest. She came to think of his body as belonging to her, for he presumably shared it with no one else. His well-muscled body was like her dear papa's last letter to her: something she received succor from but shared with no one else.

This morning he stirred back and forth for a moment, then opened his eyes and offered her a lazy smile.

"Miss Primble came yesterday," Sally said to him as she watched him come awake. She was lying beside him, resting her head on her hands.

He moved to his elbows, fluffed up his pillow, put it in back of him and sat up. "Will she do, do you think?"

Sally's eyes danced. "I believe she will."

"Do the children seem to like her?"

Sally copied him, punching her pillow and fitting her back to the bed's headboard. "It's really too early to say. She was very good about enlisting Georgette's "help" with Sam. You know how Georgette enjoys feeling needed. It seems to me Miss Primble plays to that need in your daughter."

"And Sam?"

"She's the first person—besides me—that Sam has ever willingly gone to. She hadn't been in the nursery five minutes before she had him snuggling in her ample lap."

His green eyes sparkled, and a lazy grin tugged at his mouth. "She's a large woman?"

Sally nodded, then burst out giggling. "You should have seen Sam nestled into her rolling bosom. He looked so utterly content."

George tossed his head back and gave a hearty laugh. "Then my son is not adverse to generously breasted women!"

Sally could not remember George ever before calling Sam his son. It was usually "my children" or "the boy." Never "my son." She glowed. "I shall become extremely jealous of Miss Primble for Sam is sure to prefer her bosom over mine—which is nearly nonexistent."

Color rose to Sally's cheeks when she found George's gaze sliding to the little nubs which barely stuck out beneath her night shift.

"Not all males are enamored of a large-chested woman," he said. "I never particularly fancied buxom women."

He used the past tense. Did that mean he no longer fancied women of any type? That it was Diana or no one? Sally had no right to ask him, but . . . "George?" She gazed at the stubble on his cheeks and felt the heat of his body. She felt so utterly close to him. "Have you . . . " she cleared her throat. "Have you had a woman since Diana?"

His eyes flared, and a look of fury came over his face. "My sexual activities are none of your business!" He lunged from the bed—completely naked—and slipped his breeches over his bare limbs.

Sally's voice cracked when she answered him. "I'm your wife, George."

He glared at her. "You're Lady Sedgewick. You're mother to my children. But you're not my wife." Then he stormed from the room.

 So he had finally put to words what Sally already knew. She would never truly be George's wife.

Chapter 14

In the morning room Sally found her husband, a cup of coffee in one hand, the morning newspaper in his other. She walked to the table where the pot of coffee had been placed and poured herself a cup. Then she came to sit near him. She wanted to beg his forgiveness for daring to ask him so personal a question, but she was too embarrassed to bring up the subject again. And too humiliated over his brash—though accurate—retort. To dispel the tension between them, she inquired on the news. "I trust you will tell me if a great global upheaval is being reported upon."

He slid a warm glance to her over the top of the paper. Good. He was no longer angry.

She stood up again and went back to the table and fixed herself a plate of breakfast from the offerings there. "Should you like some cod, George?"

"No, thank you."

She had learned that he was never hungry the morning after a night of drinking. Like discarded invitations after a ball, the lingering signs of her husband's overindulging were all too familiar to Sally. "While you're at the race meeting today, I thought I'd tidy your desk some more."

His newspaper dropped enough to reveal a pair of scowling eyes. "What makes you think I'm going to the races?"

She laughed. "I haven't known you half my life without learning a few things about you, George Pembroke, Viscount Sedgewick, and I know that as long as you can put weight to your feet you'll not miss a horse race." She leveled a pensive gaze at him. "Pray, how much do you have riding on today's meet?"

His mouth slid into a grin. "Fifteen quid."

Her lips puckered. "Do you know that fifteen pounds would pay the butler's and housekeeper's wages for two whole quarters? They would find fifteen pounds a veritable fortune."

"Servants' salaries are your business, my dear. I didn't marry the smartest girl from Miss Worth's School for Young Ladies for nothing. I've found you an excellent manager of my household."

"Then you don't object to me tidying your desk?"

He put down the paper. "I've nothing to hide from you, and I my desk could use a good clean-out."

After he left, Sally went to the library and sat behind the large cherry desk that was nearly as masculine as the man she had married. She smiled as her glance wiped over his messy desk. She loved to do little things for him, whether it was fastening the buttons on his shirt or sorting through his heaps of mail and periodicals.

She began with the periodicals. Most of them she pitched, saving only the most recent editions. These she placed in a stack on the far left corner of his desk.

Next, she tackled the burgeoning mound of crumpled posts. Few of these were dated, so she did not know whether it was safe to throw them out. She decided to sort them into subject matter. One section for tradesmen's bills. Another for personal letters and notes. On second thought, she deemed none of the personal correspondences worthy of saving. That they had been opened indicated George had already read them, and she knew her husband was blessed with an outstanding memory. Once he had read something, it was committed to his indelible memory. Before tossing them, though, she glanced at each to see if there was anything of importance. There was a very old note from Felicity written during her last visit to London. Another was from a school chum from York, who wrote to inform George his wife had just delivered him his first son. None of the correspondences seemed worthy of keeping. Save one.

There was a letter written by one Mr. Andrew Willingham, who described himself as George's steward at Hornsby Manor. Her brows lowered as she read it. The letter was to apply to his lordship for the sum of five and seventy pounds for a new piece of farm machinery that would increase crops, thereby increasing profits. The letter was dated some six weeks earlier.

She hastened to remove the accounts ledger from the top drawer of George's desk, and her eyes swept over the columns of figures. There was no expenditure for five and seventy pounds. In fact, no sum on the entire page surpassed four pounds.

She closed the book with disgust. Her husband apparently could not afford to pay debts in excess of four pounds, yet he would likely lose fifteen on the horse races today.

As angry as she was, she knew she had no right to judge him. He was only living in the style in which he had been raised. He spent money exactly as did his friends, none of whom had the social standing of her husband. And he really wasn't extravagant. He no longer kept a gig, and the wagers he made were not half as large as Blanks's.

Though she tried to be understanding, she was angered by her husband's failure to send Mr. Willingham the five and seventy pounds. That was money that would increase next year's income. She got up from the desk and began to pace the room, her worried thoughts trying to find a way to get the five-and-seventy pounds to Mr. Willingham. Obviously, George could not spare so large a sum.

She sputtered to a stop, her face brightening. There was a way! She had almost forgotten the eighty-a-year settlement she received from her grandmother. Sally had barely touched this year's since all her needs had been taken care of by George or his family.