Page 46

Three hours later

Through half-closed eyes, Kingston observed his wife as, amidst much laughter and light-hearted jesting, she played whist with Madeline, Gareth, and Rebecca. Dorena occupied herself with her rambunctious kittens, and Paxton lay upon the floor before the hearth, reading Gulliver’s Travels.

The boy had his nose in one book or another since moving to Helmstead Gate and availing himself of the substantial library. Remus and Romulus, the fat Dalmatian puppies with their needle-like teeth, finally slept on either side of him.

Kingston’s boots sported several scratches and teeth marks where the little beasts had gleefully chewed upon his footwear when he’d sat down this evening—precisely why he hadn’t worn the new pair of Hessians delivered last week. Hessians he had no knowledge of until they’d been presented by his wife, two bright patches of color on her porcelain cheeks.

He suspected she was of the opinion it was better to ask forgiveness for overstepping rather than permission. A grin pulled the edges of his mouth upward. And by Jove, he couldn’t bring himself to be perturbed by her audacity.

The daring little minx.

Vanessa reported that in the past fortnight, no less than two and forty items, from shoes to rugs to plants—even a feather duster and three baskets—had met gruesome fates due to the spotted terrors presently curled into fat, slumbering little balls.

Kingston couldn’t recall ever feeling so content himself.

No, not content, per se.

In point of fact, his unappeased sexual desires didn’t lend for any degree of peacefulness or serenity. He was randy as a stag in the rut. He shifted slightly, grateful his crossed legs hid the hard bulge of his arousal.

A small groan escaped him, and Madeline speared him a keen, inquisitive look.

As if he’d choked on his brandy, he pretended to cough behind his hand.

The corners of her eyes flexed.

She wasn’t having any of it.

Bollocks.

He lifted his tumbler in a mocking salute before taking a healthy swig of the spirit. It was good stuff—a superior French cognac. He was fairly certain Vanessa purchased it, as well as the other quality spirits, for his enjoyment.

Another piece of his heart fell at her dainty feet.

She’d been slowly chipping away at the hardened organ since offering to become his bride at Fortuna. It wouldn’t be long until she owned the entire thing lock, stock, and barrel. If she didn’t already.

He studied the amber liquid, marveling at her consideration. No one else in the household partook of strong spirits, and to his knowledge, Helmstead Gate had not been overrun with gentleman callers.

She’d done it for him.

His attention traveled to his two oldest sisters. They were of marriageable age, and the thought of them entering into an arranged marriage or a marriage of convenience soured his stomach. He’d do everything within his power to ensure they married for love as their parents had.

As Vanessa should have done.

More on point, Kingston had benefited from their union far more than she had, and yet not one word of complaint had passed her lips. Lips that were almost always arranged in a pleasant half-smile as if she were truly happy and content with her situation.

When Madeline had confronted him about his marriage to Vanessa, he’d told her the truth. His sister was too intelligent to believe a happily married couple, especially newlyweds, would not share a bedchamber.

“Oh, Kingston. I fear you will both come to regret what you’ve done,” was all she’d said.

However, at this very moment, her winged blonde eyebrows were arched high in an, I’m on to you look.

He’d been too obvious in ogling his delectable wife.

Madeline covertly slid Vanessa a considering glance, but she seemed unaware of Kingston’s gawping.

Her lower lip caught between her teeth, his wife tapped the fingertips of one hand upon the table.

She was a horrid player.