“Thank you. It is so very warm tonight,” she said as she beat a fan before her face. She glanced behind him and smiled. “I wonder if they will open the doors wider to let in more of a breeze soon.”
Had she not heard those women lurking outside speaking of them both? He took comfort in her ignorance, relieved she’d not heard them talking of her. There would always be gossip, but he would not like her to hear it directly and become upset. “I’ll see to it. Wait here.”
He spun around, moved to the doors and threw them wide, startling both Lady Charlton and Lady Poole completely from their intimate conversation. They were both widows with nothing much to recommend them but that they had daughters of marriageable age.
He smiled coldly at them. “Will anyone be kissing you tonight? I doubt it very much.”
He smiled widely just to alarm them a little more with his appearance but turned away before the stretch of his skin became too much for him to bear. The right word in the right ear could ruin their daughter’s prospects, and they knew it. He had that power within reach; their host was a very good friend, though he’d never thought to ever need to use his connections for revenge before.
But he would to protect Matilda.
He returned to his wife’s welcoming smile, and that soothed him, but she frowned when he rubbed over his scar. “What have you done to your face?”
“Nothing more than smile.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Good. You must still be very careful.”
“I am. Don’t worry so.”
Her brow arched high. “Is it not my right as wife to concern myself with your health?”
“Not now, Matilda. Do not fuss at me tonight.”
“Yes, William,” she whispered, and the playful light in her eyes died. He had not meant to provoke that reaction. Damn them. Society didn’t matter. Matilda’s happiness did. “I did not mean to snap.”
“Why did you?”
“Not now.” He wrapped her arm about his firmly, then steered her into the crowd in search of a footman and more punch for her, determined never to react so badly to anyone’s opinion about his looks. Matilda liked him as he was, and that had to be enough.
Eleven
Matilda kicked off her shoes and shrugged her shoulders to shift the unease that was building inside her. Her first night out in society as William’s wife had been all too revealing of how
ill prepared she was to live in his world. Their arrival had caused a ripple of conversation to sweep the ballroom ahead of them and for people to turn and stare. The whispers had started almost immediately and continued all night. As a consequence, she had been wary of everyone but his family.
His friends had smiled too broadly at her, as if they knew a secret she did not, and were always watching everything she did and said. She had never felt so self-conscious before.
When William had left her alone for a short while, a woman had pressed for details of their love affair. Then later she’d been discreetly offered a real man in her bed as she’d danced mere feet away from her glowering husband. The idea of betraying William had shocked her speechless for the rest of the dance, and she’d been relieved to leave the entertainment somewhat earlier than expected.
She had no idea what she was doing anymore, but she felt she was waiting for William’s next request.
He had never continued the conversation regarding her enjoyment of spanking, for which she was profoundly grateful and suitably chastened. After all, he was paying her to continue the charade of being in love with him, not to be intimate with him.
She’d no idea what he thought most of the time, but she knew his moods. Tension was building in him. She had thought he was softening until tonight. Not that the captain was ever completely gentle where she was concerned. Once they were out of the spotlight of attention, he usually sent her to this drawing room where she sat alone, idly reading a novel or watching the sunset. It was a nice room but far too empty for just herself.
“Are you going to stand there all night or come to bed?”
Matilda shrugged, shivering at the annoyance in his tone. “I thought you had already retired. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
William stood in the doorway to his dressing room, severe and yet oddly comforting in his beautiful clothes and scowl. The scar on his cheek puckered whenever he clenched his jaw, a premonition of his unstable mood. It was just a part of him, like his usual gruff temper, but she still felt apprehension.
She took a step and winced. “Ouch.”
Matilda hobbled to a chair, sat down, and inspected her toes, abused by an earlier dance partner.
“What is wrong?”
She flexed her toes, wincing at a spot of blood on the tip of her fine silk stockings. She eased the material away and hissed at the stab of pain. “Mr. Cobb stomped on my foot harder than I suspected.”