tucked up warm and cosy in the bedroom next door you will enjoy yourself there, too!’
Dominique looked into that kindly, smiling face and knew she would have to tell the housekeeper that she and Mr Albury were not really man and wife and must have separate rooms. She took a deep breath.
‘Thank you.’
The explanation withered before it even reached her tongue. The idea of confessing the truth—and her own collusion in the deception—even to this kind-hearted soul, was beyond her. She shrivelled at the very thought of it and allowed the housekeeper to withdraw without uttering another word.
Dominique berated herself soundly. She should have insisted Mrs Chiswick make up another bed for her and put a second bed in the room for herself. She removed the lace fichu and poured water into the basin to wash her face. Did she really expect Gideon Albury to keep away from her if she did not take such measures? She might think him charming, but what did she really know of him? Should one not judge a man by his company? He was friends with her cousin and Max was a cruel bully.
The heavy gold band on her finger touched her cheek, reminding her of her perilous situation. She was married. The register had been signed and she now belonged to the man sitting downstairs in that snug little parlour. The law of the land was quite specific: she was his property, to do with as he wished. A shiver ran through her.
The distant chiming of a clock caught her attention. She had dallied as long as she dared, but she could not remain in the dressing room forever. Picking up the bedroom candle, she snuffed the other lights and made her way out through the adjoining bedchamber. The large canopied bed loomed dark and menacing in the centre of the room, the hangings casting ominous shadows over the bare mattress. Dominique averted her gaze, looking instead around the room. A large linen press stood against one wall next to a bow-fronted chest of drawers, while under the window was a pretty little writing desk, still adorned with its accessories. As she passed the light glinted on the silver inkstand with its cut-glass inkwell, silver nib box and a fine ivory-handled letter opener.
Dominique stopped and set down the candlestick. She picked up the letter opener and slid it into her sleeve. The ivory handle pressed against the soft skin on the inside of her wrist, but the buttoned cuff disguised its slight bulge. She dropped her arm. The letter opener did not move, her tight-fitting sleeve holding it fast. Satisfied, she picked up her candle and continued on her way downstairs.
* * *
Gideon was waiting for her in the parlour, a fresh bottle of wine open on the table. He had loosened his neckcloth and was lounging in a chair by the table, one booted ankle resting on the other, but she thought he looked incredibly handsome, the candlelight accentuating the smooth planes of his face. Her eyes were drawn to the sensual curve of his lips and Dominique found herself wondering what he would taste like. The thought shocked her so much that she stopped just inside the door.
Perhaps he thought she was offended by his negligent attitude, for he rose to his feet and pulled out a chair for her. Silently she sank down on to it, aware of his hands on the chair back, his presence towering over her. She took a deep breath to steady herself, but instead found her senses filled with the sharp tang of soap and a musky scent. She had a strong desire to lean back against his fingers, to turn her head and press a kiss against them, inviting him to—
No! Good heavens, where did such wicked thoughts come from? She sank her teeth into her lip, forcing herself to sit still.
‘Well...’ he refilled her glass and held it out to her ‘...did you explain our situation to Mrs Chiswick?’
‘No.’ His surprised stare would have made Dominique flush, if her cheeks had not already been burning with her own wayward thoughts. ‘I thought perhaps you should do so.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’ She took the glass, resisting the urge to slide her fingers over his. ‘I thought if I broached the subject she might think you had coerced me into this marriage.’
‘Instead of you tricking me.’
‘I did not!’ she retorted hotly. ‘I was as much a victim as you. Well, almost.’
His lips tightened.
‘Let us agree to blame Max for this sorry mess, shall we? He knew that someone with French blood would be the worst possible match for me.’
‘Of course.’ She recalled his reaction when Max had explained her parentage. ‘Will you tell me why that should be?’
‘Because—’ He broke off as they were interrupted again, saying impatiently, ‘Yes, Chiswick, what is it now?’
‘Dinner is ready now, sir, if you is amenable.’
‘Very well, we will be over directly.’ As the butler withdrew he turned back to Dominique, ‘We will continue this discussion later.’
He spoke harshly, but she detected a note of relief in his tone. Silently she rose and took his proffered arm as they crossed the hall to the dining room. Beneath her fingers she could feel his strength through the sleeve. He was tense, his anger barely contained. This courtesy was a veneer, a sham, and she felt as if she were walking beside a wild animal—one wrong word and he would pounce on her.
* * *
Chiswick served them, passing on his wife’s apologies for the lack of dishes upon the table. Dominique was quick to reassure him that there was more than sufficient. Indeed, by the time she had tried the white soup, followed by the neck of mutton with turnips and carrots, a little of the carp and the macaroni pie she had no room for the fricassee of chicken or any of the small sweet tarts and the plum pudding that followed. Mrs Chiswick proved to be a good cook and the wines her husband provided to accompany the dishes were excellent. Dominique drank several glasses, partly to calm her nerves. She had never before dined alone with any man and she was all too conscious of the taciturn gentleman sitting at the far end of the table. She shivered, regretting that she had left her lace fichu in the dressing room. Not that she was really cold, just...nervous.
* * *
Conversation had been necessarily stilted and she was relieved when the meal was over and she could return to the parlour. She hesitated when Gideon followed her out of the room.
‘Are you not remaining to drink your port, sir?’
‘Chiswick shall bring me some brandy in the parlour. I do not like to drink alone.’
‘I admit I have always thought it an odd custom, to remain in solitary state when there are no guests in the house. My cousin insists upon it at the Abbey, although he is rarely there without company.’
Dominique babbled on as Gideon escorted her back across the dark and echoing hall, but she could not help herself. It was nerves, she knew, but there was something else, an undercurrent of excitement at being alone with Gideon. It was a situation she had thought about—dreamed of—for weeks, only in her dreams he had been in her company out of choice, not necessity. She continued to chatter until they were both seated in the parlour. Chiswick deposited a little dish of sweetmeats at her elbow and placed a tray bearing decanters and glasses on the sideboard.
‘Shall I send in the tea tray in an hour, madam?’
‘No, let Mrs Chiswick bring it in now,’ Gideon answered for her. He added, once they were alone, ‘You can tell her when she comes in that
