Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

They spoke of business for a while; then Delaney pulled out his vest watch. “I’m having dinner with my future wife. Keep my news under your hat for the time being, though I doubt Bunker Stevenson will show such restraint, particularly if he has informed his wife.”

“Have you set a date yet?”

Delaney shook his head. “No. Chauncey was exhausted from our carriage ride to the ocean. I left her sleeping soundly. I’ll talk to her about it this evening.”

* * *

Delaney carried his future wife downstairs to the dining room for supper. When he eased her into a chair, he whispered in a wicked voice, “Tell me you’ve got that funny feeling in your stomach again.”

She smiled up at him, clearly puzzled. “I am hungry,” she said.

He couldn’t wait to show her the source of her hunger, and the thought of caressing and fondling her made his body t

ense with desire. He wanted to whisper to her that she would learn all about funny sensations on their wedding night. But he said nothing. She was so bloody innocent about sex, and he drew the line at embarrassing her in that way, at least until they were married.

When he was seated and Lin had served their dinner, Delaney raised his wineglass to her. “To us, Chauncey.”

She hesitated almost imperceptibly, then raised her own glass. “Yes, to us.”

“While you were having pleasant dreams this afternoon, I was with Dan. He sends his congratulations.”

“That is kind of him. Umm. Lin makes the most delicious pork. And all these crunchy fresh vegetables.”

“She uses a Chinese ingredient called soy sauce. And ginger. Did I mention that you look utterly delicious yourself this evening?”

“Yes”—she grinned at him—“you did. And you, sir, do not exactly look like a chimney sweep yourself. Very dazzling, I should say, in that black frock coat. It makes your eyes look like dark honey. You do have very expressive eyes, you know, Delaney, but I imagine that many women have told you that before.”

“Certainly,” he said blandly. He felt inordinately pleased to hear it from her, the woman who would be his wife.

“Conceited man,” she teased him.

“At least now I have justification for it. The most beautiful woman in San Francisco is going to marry me.”

For an instant she felt choked with misery. And something else. Guilt. Stop it, Chauncey! You must do it, you have to! He deserves it!

“I do not wish to be simply a . . . decoration, Del,” she said, her falsely light voice not fooling him for an instant. “A wife who exists only through her husband.”

“Have I asked that of you?”

“No. But I know what Englishmen are like. I realized after I broke my engagement to Sir Guy that he thought me a brainless, silly female, good only to run his household in the ever-present shadow of his dear mother.”

“I am not English, my dear, and there are no shadows in this house.”

She fiddled with her fork a moment, making designs in the small pile of vegetables left on her plate. “I . . . I do not want to lose control of my money.” She raised her eyes to his face and saw that he was regarding her intently, his eyes puzzled. “What I mean to say is that after I came into my inheritance, I spent two months with a man of business in London learning how to . . . well, how to handle money. He told me that in America, just as in England, when a woman marries, she loses control of her money. She becomes an appendage, completely dependent upon her husband. I don’t want that.”

“Your money is yours, Chauncey,” he said with quiet deliberation. “I want nothing to do with it. Did you think I would demand that you turn your funds over to me? A dowry of sorts?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking at him straightly. “I am not much used to men and their ways.”

“I think you are somewhat used to men, but the variety you’ve known were not particularly sterling specimens. Your uncle, Sir Guy the prig, and Owen the toad. Perhaps, if you wish, I can point you to some wise investments.” He shrugged, and her eyes were drawn, despite herself, to his shoulders, firm and muscular. She swallowed convulsively and reached blindly for her wineglass.

“I told you, Chauncey,” he continued after a moment, not understanding her sudden abstraction, “that I would never harm you. Nor will I ever try to make you into something you are not. All I will ever ask of you”—his lips twisted into a crooked smile—“is that you will be happy as my wife.”

“Yes,” she said firmly, “that is what I want too.” But I will harm you! I must!

“Tell me, my dear, does reality taste as sweet as the dream?”

“I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”