He rose from his seat and approached her. She waited, hoping he would enfold her in his arms, but he merely raised her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I must change for the theatre.” He bowed his head and left her.
Nellie bit her lip as she hurried to her bedchamber to change. Had irrevocable damage been done to their marriage? Would he ever allow her to get close to him? To love him?
*
The following Tuesday, Mrs. Perlew, a stiffly upright woman with a strong chin, dressed severely in brown, came to see Nellie. Her face gentled when she spoke of the children and her orphanage. She and Mr. Perlew had not been blessed, but there was a son from her husband’s previous marriage.
Nellie was quickly caught up in the lady’s plans, for her enthusiasm was infectious. And the cause a heartwarming one. “I shall visit tomorrow,” Nellie told her. She was seized with the desire to make a difference. To help the poor and make Charles proud of her. She had always wanted to have this opportunity and seemed to have lost sight of those dreams of late.
The next afternoon, Nellie came home from visiting the orphanage sobered by the experience. The waifs were so vulnerable. She would do what she could to ensure that they received good food and warm clothing and began to consider what else she might do to assist Mrs. Perlew in her endeavors.
She told Charles about it that night at dinner. It certainly made a change from their dry discussions of the daily news.
He nodded, and the usually cool expression in his eyes faded. “Well done, Nellie. That is a good cause, indeed.”
“So many poor children without a parent to care for them. Some are fatherless, and the mothers cannot keep them and must give them up.” Sipping her wine, the blue-eyed boy she’d seen on Bond Street came to mind. She wanted to talk to Charles about him but feared his reaction. She sighed and remained silent.
Nothing more was said, and the evening continued with the usual civility at the Montford’s soiree. Nellie felt terribly tired when they reached home.
Charles said goodnight and retired to his bedchamber.
She settled into her cold bed and curled up in a tight ball. Charles didn’t seem to want her anymore. She could have handled things better. Listened to her mother’s advice and remained silent, but that wasn’t her. She had to be true to herself.
Nellie received dozens of letters requesting attendance at her salon. It was more successful than she’d dreamed and proved a wonderful distraction. Three salons had been held in the music room and were always well attended. The affair had become fashionable and was talked about at dinners and parties. Nellie was questioned at balls as to who would grace her salon next.
Another week passed as she sat at her desk, opening her mail with Peter lying at her feet. Somehow the salons had not thrilled her quite as much as she’d anticipated. With Marian enceinte again and gone to the Belfries estate in Kent, Nellie filled the lonely hours corresponding with poets and writers.
She considered Byron, who consented to read his latest poem, her crowning achievement. Nellie was as eager to hear him as the rest.
A knock at the door drew her to her feet, in hope that it might be Charles. He would never knock on her sitting room door. He would stride right in with that air of authority she grudgingly admired.
The footman bowed. “His Grace requests your presence in his study, Your Grace.”
“I have a few matters to deal with first, James. Tell him I shall come in a moment.”
James cleared his throat. “The duke said he wishes you to come immediately, Your Grace.”
Nellie felt a stab of anxiety. She put down her quill, “Very well. Thank you, James.” She’d been replying to the Countess of Avonley, a woman involved in the arts, who wrote that she had heard excellent things about her literary salon and wished to attend.
Descending the stairs, Nellie wondered why Charles should wish to speak to her so urgently.
When she entered his study, he glanced up at her. “Nellie.”
Picking up a journal from his desk, he pushed back his chair and stood.
Recognizing the publication, her heart sank.
“A friend of mine at Whites has given me this fascinating article to read. A diatribe against foxhunting, written by someone called Clarence Downs.”
Her mind raced. “Oh? Did you find it interesting?”
“Don’t toy with me, Nellie.”
“I’m not I…” She desperately sought the right words to explain. There had never been a good time to raise it with him.
He crossed his arms. “You wrote it. Are you going to deny it?”
“No.” She wondered how he knew it was she. “Charles, I intended to tell you…”
“When the time was right?” His brows snapped together. “And when might that have been? It would have been prudent, one might think, to do so before several of my associates and friends at my club registered my surprise and found my ignorance amusing.”
“They can’t have known I wrote it, Charles. Not under a male pseudonym.”
His angry blue eyes searched hers. “Alexander Pendle happens to be a friend of your favorite poet, Kealan Walsh. At Brook’s club, the Irishman was in his cups and bragged that you and he wrote it together.”
“Oh! The wretch!” Nellie cried, outraged at Walsh’s treachery. “Yes, it’s true,” she said miserably. “We did write it, Charles.”
He nodded. “I forbid you to see him again. You might be tempted to write another. I can just see you two putting your heads together.”
“I have no intention of seeing him again.” She hated that she had embarrassed Charles. Naturally, she would cut off her association with Walsh. But Charles’s emphatic order infuriated her. “Can you not trust me to make my own decisions? I dislike being told what I can and cannot do as if
