Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)

“So am I. I know how much you want a child.”

He shrugged, even as he struggled to overcome his disappointment. “I’m not worried. We’re having such fun trying.”

Her smile was perfunctory. “You’re very kind.”

Kind again? He came to loathe that small word. “No, I’m not. But we’ve only been married a few weeks. I’d be surprised if you conceived so quickly.” Despite him doing his damnedest to plant a child inside her.

Jane began to pleat the tablecloth. “Will you mind very much if I sleep alone the next couple of nights?”

Denial slammed through him, and something that felt very like hurt. “Alone?”

She avoided his eyes and stared down at the crumpled linen. “We won’t be able to…”

Perhaps not. But exile to a cold, lonely bed awoke unwelcome memories of his early days in Salisbury. Even if his comfortable room here bore no resemblance to that airless cupboard at the Red Lion.

He realized with another shock that as long as Jane was beside him, he didn’t care where he slept. If she wasn’t there, the softest bed in Christendom felt like the cold, hard ground.

“I could still hold you in my arms.” He hoped he didn’t sound as needy as he felt.

She shook her head again. “That would be nice, but when this happens, I’m a restless sleeper. You really would be happier in your own bed.”

He damn well wouldn’t. But he could see she’d rather he left her to herself. “If you’re sure.”

She managed another shaky smile, and he had a sick feeling that she wasn’t far off crying. The lack of a baby had really rattled her. He’d had no idea she was this eager to be a mother. For himself, he was so wrapped up in forging the bond between them, he could wait. Hell, for a couple of years if he had to.

“Thank you. It’s only a few days.”

He had a bleak premonition that those few days would feel like an eternity.

*

“You look like you wagered the family fortune on a three-legged horse.” Silas stood in the doorway of Anthony Townsend’s library and surveyed Garson with disapproval. “What the devil are you doing, skulking in here?”

Garson paused in pouring a brandy to shoot his old friend a glare of cordial dislike. “Go to hell, Silas.”

Instead of getting the message that Garson wanted to be alone, Silas stepped in and closed the door, muffling the sound of music and laughter from the ballroom. Lord and Lady Kenwick were hosting their annual ball, and the extravagant house was infested with every blue-blooded blockhead and hussy in London. The same crowd of nitwits Garson had seen each night for the last six weeks. S

ince the Oldhams’ ball, his wife had thrown herself into the London season with an élan that beggared Garson’s enthusiasm for company. He looked back on those days when they’d stayed holed up in Rutherford House with a nostalgia so powerful, it verged on painful.

He wouldn’t mind as much, if he wasn’t convinced that Jane’s eagerness to dazzle society was firmly grounded in her wish to avoid time alone with her husband. Heaven forbid they should have a chance for a serious conversation where she might actually tell him why she’d changed toward him.

“You should be out there, fending off all the rakes and roués vying to capture Jane’s attention,” Silas said.

Garson stiffened all over like a hunting dog scenting a fox. “She doesn’t take any of that seriously.”

“Harslett is pursuing her with great purpose.”

Harslett was handsome, rich, and bloody charming. The bastard. “There’s nothing in it.”

“How do you know?” Silas tilted one tawny eyebrow in his direction. “By the way, can I have one of those?”

Reluctantly Garson poured Silas a brandy and passed it across. At least on this God-awful night, there was the small consolation that Anthony Townsend’s liquor was top notch. “Only if you drink it quickly and slouch back to where you came from.”

Ignoring the command, Silas walked round to flop into one of the leather chairs in front of the fire. “By God, you really are blue-deviled, old man. Tell Uncle Silas what troubles your noble heart.”

As he slumped into the chair opposite, Garson scowled at the tall man with the mass of untidy, light brown hair. “Shut up and go away, Silas.”

“It wouldn’t be British to leave you on your own, hunkered down like a bear in a cave.”