“I suppose Carlisle is in competition with Stanwyck for who has produced the most progeny in the shortest span of time,” Benedict said instead of answering her gentle charge. “To say nothing of Strathmore, who has one daughter already and a wife who is enceinte. Or Arden, with a son, and Winchelsea, with his two daughters.”
“My dear husband,” she said, tapping him again as they strolled down the gravel path overlooking the lake, passing a statue of Icarus. “It seems to me as if you are keeping tally of the offspring of everyone in our set.”
“I am not, of course,” he said stiffly.
She knew him well enough to know what the sudden change in his tone meant. “No need to be embarrassed, my love. If you wish to gossip like a dowager with nothing to entertain her aside from the gossip of others’ lives, I shall not comment upon it.”
She bit her lip to suppress her smile as she cast him a surreptitious glance. His handsome profile was lit by the sun beneath the brim of his hat. She could not help the corresponding tug of desire low in her belly, though she did her best to quell it. There was nothing she could do with such longing for hours.
Or at least until they finished their picnic luncheon.
Perhaps she could arrange for a nap.
Feign a megrim so that her husband would have to accompany her to her chamber?
That scenario certainly held possibilities…
“I do not gossip like a dowager,” he told her, casting a sulky look in her direction.
This, too, was like a dart fired directly into her heart. She swore, her love for this man grew every day. Even when he was surly as a bear, he melted her. “If you say so, my love.”
“See here, Wife,” he grumbled, “I most certainly do not.”
“I agreed with you,” she said lightly, enjoying teasing him.
“With tongue in cheek,” he accused without heat.
“I always defer to your superior judgment, Your Grace.” She batted her lashes at him.
“Ha!” He grinned at her, his gaze traveling to her lips. “Ever the saucy minx. If we were not about to descend upon this bloody picnic luncheon, I would kiss you senseless right now for your boldness.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, grinning right back at him. “And perhaps I would like that far too much, Husband.”
“How do you know?” His sensual lips pursed. “I did not tell you where I would kiss you yet.”
Oh, you wicked, wonderful man.
Of course, he would utter such suggestive words when they were all but upon the gathering. Her cheeks went hot. Between her legs, a steady ache thrummed to life. She was wet. All from his words. With a group of distinguished lords and ladies already settled upon the lawn, watching their arrival.
Her cheeks felt as if they were aflame, and she was certain she turned every shade of crimson in existence.
“You are flushing,” he taunted her quietly, so that only she could hear. “Could it be you are envisioning where, my love?”
Yes, she was. And he knew it.
“My elbow?” she suggested primly.
“You do have the most fetching elbows in Christendom,” he said with a gallant air.
“Or perhaps the tip of my nose?”
“You have the smallest dusting of freckles there I find mesmerizing.” He gave her a wink. “There are four of them. I counted.”
She had never taken note of any spots on her nose. She patted it now. “Do I truly?”
“Yes, but I do not love them nearly as much as I adore the mole on your arse.” He flashed her a rascal’s grin.
She flushed more furiously, for they were approaching earshot of the gathering. “You are rotten,” she whispered without heat.
“To the core, my darling.” His grin widened. “And you love it.”
Yes, she did. And she loved him.
“Do tell me all about your Ladies’ Typewriting School,” the Duchess of Arden was saying to his wife, excitement in her voice. “Investing in the education and employment of our fellow women is so important.”
The duchess was an American and a former Pinkerton agent whose aid in the work of the Special League both in England and abroad had been tremendous. Something of an enigma, she wore divided skirts, spoke her mind, and seemed to have Arden wrapped around her pinky.
Then again, Benedict knew the feeling.
Isabella had rather the same effect upon him.
“For so many ladies, it is the only way for them to gain their independence and freedom,” Isabella agreed. “We have opened three new offices in the last year.”
“We must visit one of your offices,” said Lady Stanwyck. A striking woman with bold copper hair, she had married Lord Stanwyck in the wake of her former husband’s political assassination. “And the Duchess of Arden’s detective school for ladies as well.”
“I would dearly love to see them both,” added the Duchess of Carlisle, the slight lilt in her words marking her as an Irishwoman. “As would my little Lady Rose.”
The hellion who had used his sleeve as her napkin? Benedict suppressed a grin. In truth, though he acted as if he were appalled by the presence of the broods of all the lords and ladies at the house party, being around so many children and babies at once was making him feel…
Restless.
Despite his best efforts to make love to his wife as thoroughly and often as possible, she had yet to conceive a child. He longed to grow his own little brood. Perhaps a girl with Isabella’s golden curls and stubborn chin, one who would also use his sleeve as her napkin.
“What a curious lot we are,” said the Duchess of Strathmore then. “Little wonder we have all found each other in friendship.”
“I am thankful we have,” the Duchess of Winchelsea added. “If I did not have the support of you all, I am certain I never would have been accepted in society.”
A former actress, the duchess was strikingly
