“A lack of thought went into writing this outrageous piece. You would have offended many great families. But fortunately, none would be likely to read this publication.” He tossed down the journal. “Is it an unreasonable request? Or do you and Walsh plan more?” He pushed back from the desk to stand in front of her.
Was he jealous? She had tried to make him so, but to have succeeded and distressed him brought her no joy. “After he has betrayed me? Of course not.” She searched his eyes, finding hurt and anger there. “You should trust me to do what is right.”
“You’ve given me little reason to trust you,” he said slowly, as if the suggestion was absurd.
Her heart constricted. “I don’t believe it is outrageous. I thought Walsh and I made a good argument against the sport. As you can see by the date, it was written before you and I met. I certainly would not have written it afterward.” She sighed. “I hate to think I’ve embarrassed you.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “You and Walsh were often together, then? Just how close were you?”
“You have no reason to be jealous of Walsh.”
“Jealous? The Irishman doesn’t warrant thinking about. I should hope you had better taste.”
He stepped close enough for her to breathe deep of his skin, his soap, and the starch of his cravat. Something sparked in his eyes. Her untrustworthy body responded with heat and a rush of warmth.
“I forbid it, Nellie,” he said, his eyes dark with emotion.
“You forbid it?” Charles’s overbearing manner threatened to strip her of her fragile confidence, and the small amount of independence she could claim for herself in this marriage.
They were both breathing heavily. The charged atmosphere in the quiet room deepened. His gaze roamed her face, settling on her mouth. She should step away, but her knees trembled, and she moistened her lips. She was such a weak fool, one look from him could bring her undone.
“Nellie.” He reached out and brushed his fingers over her cheek, and her lips parted. She finally found her resolve from somewhere deep inside and stepped away from him until her bottom rested against the desk. He intended to seduce her. And heaven help her, she wanted him to.
“Be reasonable,” he said, following her, his voice husky.
“Reasonable?” It was like a dash of cold water. Be sensible, be a good girl, Nellie. Never complain. Never do anything to ruffle anyone’s feathers. She wanted to scream at him. Instead, she firmed her trembling lips.
Charles’s heated gaze drifted over her body.
They both were startled by the knock on the door.
“Come,” Charles called with a muffled curse and turned away from her.
Barlow entered the room and smiled at Nellie. “Good morning, Your Grace.” He turned to Charles. “Mr. Chance is here for his appointment, Your Grace.”
“Ask him to wait,” Charles said through his teeth.
Her heart thudding, Nellie fought to gain control of herself. “No, please don’t let me keep you.” She nodded to Barlow and walked out the door.
Nellie mounted the stairs so fast she was breathless when she reached the landing. Another minute, and Charles would have made love to her right there on his desk. And while she’d longed for him, it would have solved nothing, because it arose from anger and disappointment and betrayal. He was confident he could, and she feared she would have succumbed, which only made her madder. She would have lost too much when he persuaded her to give up any notion of independence.
When she reached her sitting room, Nellie cooled down a little. She had no intention of writing anymore articles on foxhunting. If she wanted some measure of independence, she must choose her subjects wisely. She had vented her spleen and made no impact on the foxhunting world whatsoever. It wasn’t written to spite him or anyone else who took part in the sport. Merely to point out the cruelty of it. But right now, she seethed with anger at Walsh’s treachery. He had taken umbrage when she grew tired of him behaving in an overly familiar manner and had not offered him another invitation to the salon.
Nellie sat down at her desk, selected a piece of bond, and took up her pen. She would couch her letter to Walsh in terms which made him understand he would not be welcome to any further literary discussions in the future and was not to approach her again.
Charles made no further attempt to see her until the evening. They dined out with friends and might have been casual acquaintances when alone in the carriage. He was a proud man, and she had hurt him. That the gulf had widened between them tore at her heart. Feeling helpless, she wished she knew what best to do about it.
The following week, Byron visited her salon, drawing a huge crowd to the music room. Extra chairs had to been brought in to fill every space. In a black suit, his white cravat carelessly tied, his hair tousled, Byron stood by the fireplace, a graceful hand on the mantel, and, as a collective sigh rose from the women guests, he began to recite his recent and already famous poem in his attractive voice.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
It was a moving and beautiful poem. Nellie glanced around. But for the occasional gasp or sigh, one might hear a pin drop.
Much to the ladies’ disappointment, he did not linger long afterward. He greeted each lady in turn, then departed, leaving breathless conversations in his wake.
The poet was handsome in a dark, broodingly sensual fashion, Nellie had to admit. His lyrical poem was written in praise of a lovely woman’s inner beauty. His cousin, Mrs. Wilmot, inspired it, it was said, when she wore a black mourning gown decorated with glittering sequins.
After it
