His friends laughed. “Thanks for warning us,” said Marlow. “We wouldn’t have known.”
Wescott had felt at ease with the other two gentlemen for as long as he could remember, but something was missing. They all felt it. Townsend had always rounded out their conversations with his pithy remarks. “What do you think Towns is up to?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “Have his parents had any letters?”
“You ought to ask Hazel,” August said. “She and his sister Rosalind are close in age. The two of them ought to scheme to get him interested in some other lady…” His voice trailed off.
“Some other lady than my wife?” finished Wescott wryly. “That would probably be best. I’m not certain he won’t slap a glove in my face when we all return to London.”
“By Christmastide, he’ll have mellowed,” said Marlow. “We’ll drag him along for our winter visit here at the Abbey and force him to come around with country dances and sherry.”
“We’ll put mistletoe everywhere,” agreed August. “And keep your pretty wife away from it. She is pretty as blazes, Wes. That must make you happy.”
“We’re happy enough.” He frowned. “For people so recently wed.”
Marlow shook his head. “That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“He says she doesn’t like him at all,” said August. “Bit of a shame.”
Marlow’s eyes lit with mischief. “You must step up your powers of seduction, then. I can offer some tips if you like.”
“Obnoxious,” murmured August. “Just because you’re the ladykiller of our group.”
“I’ve never killed any lady, except with pleasure.”
“Gentlemen,” said Wescott. “We’re not drunk enough for this conversation, and not alone enough.” He swept his glance about the warm, bright parlor, and lowered his voice. “Although I’ll say things are just fine in that area of our marriage. It’s the one time she goes quiet, if you know what I mean.”
August shook his head. “I’d rather not know what you mean.”
And I’d rather not admit the truth, that I haven’t been inside her once since we’ve been married. How they would mock him forever afterward about it, even if he managed to bed her tonight. He was relieved when Elizabeth and Hazel came to join them, along with Ophelia. She stood awkwardly, not knowing how to greet him in front of the others, so he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“She says we may call her ‘Fifi,’” Elizabeth said, eyes shining. “And we’ve told her all about you, all the things you should have told her yourself.”
“Such as?” He raised a brow.
“Why, how adept you are at swordplay, for one thing.”
His ignored his friends’ guffaws, sending them warning looks. Ophelia smiled uneasily. He wasn’t sure she got the joke, but having seen his “sword” on a few occasions now, she might have. He was proud of his swordplay in both the literal and provocative sense. If only she’d let him show her what else he could do to bring her pleasure.
“It grows late,” he told her softly. “When you see fit as hostess, you are free to invite our houseguests off to bed.”
Chapter Twelve
Trying to Understand
Wescott came to her room before she’d even finished her evening ablutions, dressed in his bed robe. Rochelle helped her don her night shift, then bobbed a curtsey, excusing herself. Ophelia rather wished she’d stay, because her husband seemed in an amorous mood.
He was a different man around his friends: happier, bolder, more at ease. He lounged on her bed with an air of carnality. It will happen eventually. He will demand it, eventually.
She didn’t know why she continued to resist. She had found pleasure in their first joining, dread and confusion notwithstanding. In moments of reverie, as she looked at him, she admitted to herself that he had thrilled her that night at the inn, even if the morning after covered all of it with a veil of shame.
It would be better, more wifely, to give herself to him, but some stubborn part of her held to reservations. Once he had her, she would never be herself again. She’d be changed into his wife in truth, her past self no longer relevant at all.
A line played in her head from a duet she’d performed in Vienna on the topic of marriage, part of Mozart’s The Magic Flute. The German lyrics, roughly translated: nothing is more noble than man and wife. Mann und Weib, und Weib und Mann. Man and wife, and wife and man. She’d sung it over and over as the character Pamina, enjoying each note as she harmonized with the young baritone who’d played Papageno. It had only been a year ago, but how innocent and ignorant she’d been.
Man and wife, and wife and man. She wished the voice in her head would be silent. She’d never be able to sing that again with the same light, easy sense of romance.