A Gentleman Of Substance. Deborah Hale

green dressing gown. Was he wearing anything beneath that dressing gown? Lucy wondered, her throat constricting.

      They’d politely danced around the subject in their discussions, but she thought she’d made plain her reluctance to share his lordship’s bed. Unwanted affection, indeed. She had loved Jeremy in a way she could never love again. It would be like the worst kind of infidelity to give herself to another man with her beloved barely cold in his grave. But what if her new husband insisted? She hadn’t the strength to resist him physically. To call for help would mean the end of her marriage and the exposure of her secret.

      In the few seconds it took for Lord Silverthorne to close the door behind him, Lucy’s pulse sped to double time. She took a step back. “Why are you here?”

      He swept her a casual glance, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Not to claim my marital rights, if that’s what you presume.” As though to prove his innocent intentions, he sauntered over to the velvet-upholstered chaise before the hearth. “I merely wish to convince our household that I am an attentive husband.” He lowered himself onto the chaise. “If our marriage is to serve its purpose, everyone must believe I sired your child. I took a rather circuitous route to get here. By my count, five of the servants saw me, as well as Lady Phyllipa—an unexpected bonus. With any luck, tales of my ardent regard for you will spread far and wide.”

      “I see.” Lucy’s heartbeat slowed again. Something made her ask, “Was it necessary to arrive in quite this state of undress?”

      She could see a wedge of his tanned chest, lightly matted with dark curly hair. How different Drake Strickland was from his brother. Jeremy had been of an elegant, compact build. With his fair complexion and blond hair, he’d made Lucy think of gold and ivory. Spare and rangy, with a fiercely masculine presence, Jeremy’s brother was a creature of bronze and sable.

      Drake leaned back on the chaise with an air of polite indifference that enraged her. “Merely useful costuming in our charade of a marriage. I did not want anyone mistaking my intentions.” One dark brow cocked expressively. “Why all this virginal prudery, my dear? Surely it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

      The cruelty of his words smote Lucy. Had Lord Silverthorne taken her to wive purely for the pleasure of humiliating her? A passionate rage overcame her. She fairly flew the distance between them, striking his cheek with her hand. “Never speak to me that way again, do you hear?”

      She gasped with pain as Drake clutched her wrist. “Keep your voice down, woman, or the whole house will hear you. If you’re so afraid of seeing something improper, get into bed and draw the hangings.” None too gently, he pushed her toward the bed. “I will see myself out after a suitable interval.”

      Part of Lucy could not believe she’d dared to strike Viscount Silverthorne, a man she had looked on with awe and more than a little fear for most of her life. Would anything cure her of such reckless impulsiveness? Another part was glad she had slapped him, would slap him again if need be. Insufferable creature!

      “I will retire to bed when I am ready, sir. Not when you command.” She sat down on the stool and began pulling the bristles through her golden brown curls. Her hands trembled.

      In the looking glass, she saw Drake shrug his wide shoulders. “I did not command. I merely suggested.”

      Lucy could see the red mark on his cheek where she had slapped him. Coupled with her other contradictory emotions, she felt a sudden pang of shame. More disturbing still, she felt an inexplicable desire to anoint that tiny welt with a kiss.

      “I’m sorry I slapped you.” She tossed the words carelessly over her shoulder.

      He chuckled faintly. “This?” He pointed to his cheek. “I hardly felt it, I assure you.” Then his expression turned gravely earnest. “I apologize for my flippant observation. It was uncalled for.”

      Lucy could not bring herself to utter false assurances of forgiveness. Deliberately, she laid the hairbrush on her dressing table, and rose from the stool. “I believe I will retire now. I have not slept well of late.”

      Drake made no reply, but she could feel his eyes upon her. Suddenly, she was conscious of her swollen, tender breasts, pushing against the light fabric of her nightgown, and a warm tingling sensation below her womb. What other unsettling symptoms had pregnancy in store for her? Lucy scowled to mask her embarrassment.

      Perhaps he marked her expression and thought it was directed at him. “I’m your ally, not your adversary,” he said quietly.

      “I know.” Snuffing her candle, Lucy climbed into bed and drew the covers up to her chin. “It’s just that…” She hesitated, unable to put her feelings into benign, neutral words.

      He appeared to understand. “…you can’t help thinking how different this night would be if you were Jeremy’s bride?” He had his back turned to her, hunched forward on the chaise. “Perhaps you even wish I were lying in the churchyard in his place?”

      Lucy shut her eyes and forced her breath to a slow steady rhythm. If Drake looked to see why she hadn’t answered, he might believe she had fallen asleep. For several long minutes, she heard nothing but the soft crackle of the fire. Then he spoke again, his voice almost too low for her to hear.

      “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But the die is cast now. What we cannot change, we must endure.”

      He sounded so bereft. It suddenly occurred to her that Drake had lost a beloved brother. At the same time, her pride smarted from his implication that their marriage was an ordeal he must endure. She hated these overwrought, contradictory feelings he constantly provoked in her.

      

      Neville Strickland drained the last drop of port from his glass with a sigh of appreciation. When one had to abide a sojourn in the godforsaken wilds of Cumbria, one must needs take advantage of minor consolations. He fancied a drop more, but the decanter sat on a sideboard clear across the room. He could not work up the ambition to go after it. Perhaps a servant would happen by soon, to extinguish the dying fire. With a discreet belch, Neville slouched further in the thickly upholstered armchair and let his heavy eyelids slide shut.

      He heard the door open, and footsteps enter the room. Presuming it must be a servant, he roused himself to order another drink. Then he heard the welcome clink of a heavy stopper being lifted from the mouth of the decanter. Say what you liked about old Drake—the man did have his servants well trained.

      Neville coaxed one eye open in time to see Phyllipa emptying the last drop of port into a tall dipper.

      “Greedy little pig,” he grunted.

      With a muted shriek, she rose several inches off the floor, sending the port stopper crashing onto a silver salver. “Good Lord, Neville, you frightened me near to death! I thought you’d gone to bed.”

      “Tsk, tsk, Phyllipa, do you know nothing of logic? There is port in the decanter—at least there was—ergo, I must be on hand to drink it. Besides, my bedroom is only two doors down from the bridal chamber. How would I get any sleep with the floorboards creaking under my cousin’s strenuous performance of his conjugal duties?”

      Phyllipa shot him a withering look. “How crude you are, Neville. You must be drunk.”

      “You sound exactly like Grandmama.” He pried his other eye open. “You make it sound as though people lie or talk nonsense when they’re drunk. In my experience, it is quite the contrary.”

      “And we all know you have vast experience of being drunk.” Phyllipa took a long draft of her port.

      “Do I detect a hint of malice? Nurture it, by all means. It might save your character from being thoroughly insipid.”

      She responded in the most provocative way possible-by ignoring him. Pretending she hadn’t heard a word he’d said, Phyllipa seated herself opposite him and took another drink, smacking her lips with enjoyment. Such deliberate aggravation was not to be borne.

      “Drowning your sorrows?”