“And why is that?” Parson asked.
Mullworth tutted. “How long do you think it will be before his wife puts an end to these flamboyant parties?”
A look of horror marred the gentlemen’s faces.
“Then we must find him a mistress,” Parson added. “Lucinda Pearce is an exceptional companion and has not taken her eyes off him all evening. He only has to move, and she locks onto him like a hawk.”
An uncomfortable knot formed in Matthew’s gut. He wanted to crack a whip and throw them all out onto the street. And yet, their crude ways had never bothered him before.
“I should warn you there is not a woman here who is as fascinating as my wife.” It was not a lie. There was something about Priscilla that had captured more than his interest.
“Is that why you hide the lady away?” Chigwell joked.
There were numerous reasons why Priscilla kept to her room. What sort of husband would subject her to a crowd of filthy lechers? Embarrassment played a part too. For some unknown reason, he wanted her respect, not her disdain.
“I may share my house, but I’ll not share my wife.”
“Then I hope Mrs Chandler understands what it is to wed a rogue,” Parson said, his attention drifting to a point beyond Matthew’s shoulder. “When Lucinda sets her sights on a man, there’s no getting away. The woman’s claws are sharper—” He stopped abruptly, made an odd puffing sound as though he’d popped a hot piece of pie into his mouth.
“Good Lord.” Chigwell’s eyes bulged. “What have we here?”
Mullworth moistened his lips. “The night has suddenly become much more interesting.”
Matthew swung around, eager to see what commanded their attention.
The lady in red stood confidently on the steps leading to the ballroom. It took a moment for his eyes to communicate with his brain, to acknowledge the identity of the delightful package of contradictions.
While Priscilla’s angelic face radiated purity and innocence, her body was made for sin. In the subdued light, her curvaceous silhouette robbed him of breath. With her hair dressed in a simple coiffure, it was the golden lock dangling over her bare shoulder that suggested mischief.
Heaven help him, his wife was stunning.
“Oh, treat us to one of your insightful explanations, Chandler,” Mullworth said. “What do they say about a lady who wears red?”
Matthew swallowed down the hard lump in his throat but could do nothing about the swelling in his groin. “They say
a woman who wears red craves attention. They say she enjoys teasing men, playing coquette. I say the colour merely reflects an inner passion. It is obvious the lady embodies an inherent feminine appeal and is wearing the dress to give her confidence. I’m in no doubt she has a point to prove.”
“You can tell all that from the colour of her gown?” Chigwell said amazed.
“No. I understand her motives because the lady in red is my wife.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“That lady is your wife?” Parson nudged Matthew’s arm. “Lord above, no wonder you’ve not looked at another woman all evening. And the rumour is you’d married a wallflower. One of those bespectacled sorts who stutters. Damn gossips. One should never believe a word they say.”
Chigwell’s lips curled up into a lecherous grin. “Now we know why you keep the lady locked in her room.”
Matthew stared at the ethereal vision before him. Were he not so bloody annoyed he’d have to fight the urge to gather her up in his arms and take her to bed. Nevertheless, he admired the effort it took for her to appear so self-assured.
Numerous people diverted their gaze to examine the mysterious woman waiting on the stairs. In a matter of seconds, at least one randy lord would prowl through the crowd determined to snare his prey.
“Please forgive me, gentlemen,” Matthew said, dismissing the mild sense of panic. “My wife is in need of my company.”
Before waiting for a reply, Matthew pushed through the throng. Priscilla witnessed his approach. She bit down on her lip as their gazes locked, but drew on her newfound confidence to raise her chin by way of a challenge. He expected her to walk towards him. But she watched and waited patiently, her magnetic pull drawing him up the five steps.
“Priscilla.” He inclined his head, struggled to drag his eyes from the mounds of creamy flesh swelling out of the bodice of her gown. Damn, he’d spent five restless nights picturing their magnificence. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Good evening, Matthew.” His wife offered a demure curtsy. “I grew tired of sitting upstairs alone. I thought I would join you for an hour or two.”