Claiming His Wife (Domestic Discipline 4)

"I have plenty of fun," Irene retorted, with affection. "And I can sit down the next day when I do."

All three women dissolved into giggles.

Unfortunately Eleanor wasn't able to enjoy her mirth for very long, as her belly twinged. She'd started to become nauseous at all sorts of odd hours through the day, especially in the mornings. Swallowing hard, she prayed she wasn't about to humiliate herself by vomiting in the middle of the Countess of Spencer's drawing room.

"Eleanor? Are you all right?" Irene was looking at her with concern, Cynthia turning to see what was wrong as Irene reached out her hand.

"Yes... yes," Eleanor said faintly, pressing her hand against her stomach. "I'm fine, I just need a moment." She glanced over at the gaggle of women around the Countess, hoping that none of them had noticed her incapacity. To her relief, they were still involved in their conversation. If they knew she was increasing, they would be lenient about any feminine issues she had, of course, but since she hadn't told Edwin yet, she certainly didn't want that gossip making the rounds.

Although she was going to have to tell him soon. Her increasing nausea and bouts of fatigue were becoming harder and harder to hide.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, the door opened and the men began to trickle into the room. Alex and Edwin were among the first, and his dark gaze slashed around the women, searching for her. The moment he saw her, he frowned, and something inside of her shriveled. She realized, after a moment, that she didn't like feeling as though he was upset with her. Unless, of course, she meant him to be.

Doing it unintentionally made her feel small and sad, her mind grasping for what she might have done wrong and how she could make it right.

Her insides warmed as he immediately strode towards her, while Alex headed straight for his own wife, and she realized that Edwin was frowning in concern. Not upset. Some of her tension dissipated.

"What's wrong, Nell?" he asked, in a quiet voice, as soon as he reached her.

Part of her wanted to blurt out exactly what was wrong, but this was not the time or the place. "Nothing, really," she said, mustering up a smile as his frown deepened. "Just a megrim."

"She got very pale all of the sudden and clutched at her stomach," Cynthia said helpfully. Eleanor shot the woman a glare, but Cynthia wasn't looking at her at all; her gaze had immediately moved to Wesley as he came into the room.

His mouth drawn in a hard line, Edwin held out his hand. Not wanting to refuse him and make more of a fuss, Eleanor took it and allowed him to help her up. She was sure that no one else realized that the smile on his face was false, as he made their excuses to the Countess for an early departure. Perhaps Hugh might have noticed, but he was too busy fetching tea for Irene as the trolley came into the room while Edwin and Eleanor made their goodbyes.

But she felt entirely too nauseous and, now that she was standing, a bit dizzy to worry over it. Edwin was like a pillar of strength beside her, one that she could lean on both physically and mentally, trusting him to say and do the right things so that they could leave. She let him maneuver them out the doors and into the coach, where he sat her beside him and folded her into his arms.

Happily snuggling into his chest, Eleanor didn't see the continued worry that creased his brow, or the anxiety in his eyes as his finger stroked over her shoulder.

******

It took Alex less than two minutes, after he inserted himself into the circle of women around the Countess, to realize that his wife wasn't drunk after all. She'd been bamming him. And he'd been taken in completely. Which meant that her behavior over dinner had been deliberate. No wonder she'd been able to skate the line so well, making a minor scene without causing an actual scandal.

He grated his teeth as he sat and listened to her chatting with some of the most influential movers and shakers within the ton. None of whom knew quite what to make of her at this moment. They'd all become used to thinking of her as a walking scandal, but now her husband was back by her side and dancing attendance on her. On top of that, the Countess was one of the most influential women when it came to Society. She was considered a force to be reckoned with, and she was showing her obvious support of Grace.

Which he appreciated, since she was doing so at his request. She'd raised her finely arched eyebrows when he'd made the request, but had agreed readily enough.

When the teacart came in, his wife began testing his patience again.

He'd gotten up to fetch her a cup, joining the other gentlemen as they handed out the cups to the ladies, and by the time he'd turned around, she had separated herself from the Countess' circle and was flirtatiously batting her eyes at Lord Northrup as she accepted a cup of tea from him. Stony-faced, Alex took the cup that he'd procured to the Countess instead, bowing over her hand, before grimly stalking to his wife.

The amusement in the Countess' eyes as she'd accepted the tea from him had not improved his mood.

"Northrup," he said, rather shortly, as he settled next to Grace. He could practically feel the tension in her begin to tighten, the moment he placed himself beside her.

Reaching out, he placed his hand on the small of her back, a possessive movement that didn't go unnoticed by Northrup. The other man's dark eyes showed confusion that quickly cleared, as he realized that no matter how the lady might have been acting towards him, the lord was not going to be amenable.

"Brooke," he responded mildly. "Your lovely wife and I were just discussing the new Sheridan play."

"Ah yes," Alex said, putting a smile on his face as he shifted closer to Grace, his body language implying an intimacy between them that didn't actually exist. He could feel her tension ratcheting up even higher, although she didn't move away. It was like she was waiting for something... maybe just to see what he was going to do. "My Grace does love Sheridan's works. I prefer Shakespeare, myself."

Northrup chuckled, smoothing down his black mustache in a kind of nervous gesture, although he seemed to be relaxing now. "Who doesn't? The Bard is always popular."

"I think something new is preferable to something old," Grace said, her voice filled with gaiety, and yet her tone had an edge as well. "We've all read and seen the Bard's plays a hundred times over. I like to see new characters and plots on the stage, it's so much more engaging." As she spoke, Alex slid his fingers along her back so that the tips could subtly grip her waist, a calm satisfaction filling him as he felt her stiffen despite her outward composure.

He knew that she was trying to prod him, but strangely he felt more placid every passing minute.

"Yet there is always much to be appreciated about the old," he countered, looking down at her. Her bright blue eyes lifted to his, guarded but searching. Emotion seemed to churn underneath the smooth social mask, the blankness of which was wearing thin. "Not just the comfort of the familiar, but a depth of emotion that can only be built over time. New is not always better."