Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)

“Whenever you like. But I thought you might want to enjoy the season first.”

She rested one hand on his shoulder. “I do, but I’m also looking forward to starting our real life.”

“I am, too, but we can spend a few weeks being frivolous. It’s time you had some fun, Jane. Let me—” He stopped abruptly and shifted closer, taking them both deeper into the shadows.

“Here you are, George. I’ve been searching all over for you.” The woman’s voice was warm with tolerant affection.

“Just sneaked out for a cigar, my love,” the man said. “I’ll be inside to dance with you any moment.” The couple were out of sight around the corner, although within earshot of where Hugh and Jane stood.

“Well, you’d better hurry. The supper dance is nearly over.”

Jane caught the faint tang of tobacco on the air. She hoped to heaven the man had just arrived. The thought of anyone eavesdropping on her conversation with Hugh made her cringe.

“You’ve danced with me a thousand times since we married. Surely the thrill is gone.”

“Never,” the woman said with a touch of irony.

Jane buried her face in the front of Hugh’s crisp white shirt, as his hold tightened in reassurance. She didn’t fancy the idea of being caught kissing in the shadows like a naughty maidservant. Although at least the man she kissed was her husband.

“It’s Lord and Lady Frame,” Hugh whispered.

The man’s voice had sounded familiar and Jane realized she’d promised him a quadrille later in the evening. He was a bluff, middle-aged man, and she’d rather liked him when they were introduced. Right now, she wished him to Hades. And his wife, too.

“Perhaps they’ll move on,” Hugh murmured. “It’s too cold to hang about.”

No such luck. “It’s so hot in the ballroom, I almost appreciate this brisk air,” Lady Frame said.

Lord Frame gave a grunt of amusement. “Brisk? It’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

“Then why the devil are you out here?”

“My darling, we’ve been married twenty years. You must know that when a chap needs a puff, he’ll brave any weather.” He paused. “Can I interest you?”

“George, think of the scandal if anyone sees me.”

“There’s nobody around, Delia.”

A silence fell, presumably while Lady Frame shared her husband’s cigar. How Jane wished they’d be convivial somewhere else. Hugh’s nearness kept the worst of the chill at bay, but her feet threatened to freeze to the paving.

“What do you think of the bride?” Lord Frame asked after a few moments. “Before tonight, everybody was saying she must be the greatest fright in Christendom. Garson seemed determined to hide her away from society, which only fueled the rumors. But it turns out she’s a comely wee thing.”

Jane felt Hugh go rigid against her. She placed a placatory hand on his cheek and shook her head. She didn’t want him to rush out to defend her honor and draw attention to their rendezvous.

The woman laughed. “Not so wee. She just looks that way because Garson’s such a big brute.”

“Not to mention a lucky dog.”

“That he is,” her husband breathed in Jane’s ear, making her skin tingle with awareness.

“A fitting rival to the beauteous Morwenna,” George went on. “And the bride’s clearly done him good. He doesn’t look nearly as hagridden as he did a month ago. He’s been like a parson at an orgy, ever since the spectacular Mrs. Nash threw him over in favor of her husband.”

Like the fall of an ax, Jane felt the exact moment Hugh’s arms dropped from around her. He was as taut as a violin string. The sound of Morwenna’s name had shattered the atmosphere of delicious conspiracy between them.

It also shattered the shell of deluded happiness that had lasted all night. All week. She’d been acting like a giddy girl, madly in love with her new husband. She’d been acting like she was Hugh’s first choice and not a glorified broodmare, here to provide him with an heir.

An heir that might already be growing in her womb. After all, nobody could accuse Hugh of shirking his duty, when it came to begetting the next generation of Rutherfords.

Feeling suddenly awkward, she lifted her hands from his shoulders and placed them over her stomach. Not to shelter the place where a baby might lie, but because her insides curdled with nausea.