Sherry Thomas - His At Night

She rubbed her temple. Her uncle, ever insidiously clever, had chosen the perfect target for his threat. Elissande and Aunt Rachel knew the danger they faced in him; they were prepared to do everything to save themselves.

But how did she protect Lord Vere, who did not understand his imperilment? And yet protect him she must—it was only because of her action that he was embroiled in her troubles.

He’d returned with a box from the bakery just before they boarded the train and offered her the box’s contents. And she’d shaken her head vigorously in refusal. But now she moved beside him and opened the bakery box. He’d left her two currant buns and a small Vienna cake.

Without quite intending to, she ate both the currant buns and half the Vienna cake. Perhaps he’d been right: She did feel less panicky with something in her stomach. And perhaps he had good cause not to be afraid of her uncle: Never in her life had she seen anyone put Edmund Douglas in his place the way her husband had.

He was so strong. She wished very much to be like him now, stalwart and unworried.

She sighed and laid her hand on his elbow.

He did not expect her touch. He expected even less that it should feel as it did: infinitely familiar.

After a while, she removed her hat and rested her head along his upper arm. He opened his eyes to remind himself that it was only Lady Vere, who had become his wife by engaging in deceit and assault. But as he looked down upon her shining hair and listened to her soft, steady breaths, nothing, it seemed, could diminish the sweetness of her near-embrace.

There was what he thought of her. There was what he felt regardless. And there was very little middle ground.

To his surprise, the next thing he knew, the train was decelerating into London and she was gently calling for him to wake up from a deep sleep.

They detrained, met the brougham that had been sent to fetch them, and drove to his town house, left to him by his late maternal grandfather, one of Britain’s richest men while he lived.

Mr. Woodbridge had acquired the house with the intention to demolish it and build a bigger, taller mansion on the lot, but he had died before his architect completed the new plans. Vere, who saw no need for anything bigger or taller, had the plumbing modernized, electricity wired, and telephone service installed, but otherwise left the structure of the house unaltered.

The town house was situated exactly halfway between Grosvenor Square and Berkeley Square, an imposing classical edifice with soaring Ionic columns and a pediment that depicted a trident-wielding Poseidon on a hippocampus-drawn chariot. Lady Vere lifted her veil and swept her gaze over his impressive home—he was glad to see that the swelling on her face had already gone down.

“This is not the Savoy Hotel,” she said.

“Well, no, this is my house.”

“But my aunt, she is still at the hotel. We must retrieve her too if we are to stay here.”

“She’s already here. Don’t you remember, in the morning I told you that when she’d had rest enough, Mrs. Dilwyn would bring her home?”

“You never told me any such thing.”

Of course he never did. He hadn’t even wanted to put Mrs. Dilwyn at her aunt’s disposal. Had, in fact, meant to keep his wife and her aunt well away from his house and separate from all the other spheres of his life. But now he had no choice but to take them into his home.

He patted her on the hand. “That’s quite understandable, my dear. You were hardly yourself this morning—all that Sauternes. Come now, the staff will be waiting to meet you.”

As soon as the servants had been presented to her, she asked to see her aunt. Mrs. Dilwyn accompanied her, giving a report of Mrs. Douglas’s day as they started up the steps.

Vere remained behind and read the post that had come for him during his absence before he too took the stairs. By mutual agreement, he and Holbrook rarely met in public or called upon each other’s residences. But they did belong to the same club. Tonight it would be quicker for Vere to find Holbrook at the club—and for that he needed to change into his evening clothes.

His wife and Mrs. Dilwyn were in the passage outside the mistress’s room.

“Would you like me to bring back one of Mrs. Douglas’s nightdresses for you to use tonight, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Dilwyn.

His wife frowned, an unusual expression for her.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked. “Is everything all right with Mrs. Douglas?”

“She is very well, thank you. And there’s not a problem at all,” she said. “I forgot to pack nightdresses for myself—and I just had the maids take away all the rest of Mrs. Douglas’s for laundering.”

“What’s the matter with Mrs. Douglas’s nightdresses?”

“They smell of cloves. She doesn’t like cloves and neither do I.”

“You are right: That’s not a problem,” he said. “I’ll lend you a nightshirt for tonight. My nightshirts absolutely do not smell of cloves.”

It took two seconds before she beamed at him and said, “Thank you. But I don’t wish to trouble you, sir.”

Two whole seconds. When her smile was otherwise always instantaneous.

She was afraid he would touch her.

When she needed a little reassurance on the train, she’d felt quite free to touch him. And when she’d fallen asleep with her head against his person, her fragrance soft and sweet in his nostrils, he had thought—

He’d thought that he no longer quite repelled her.

And the irony was, he was not going to touch her. His offer of a solution had not been in any way a ploy to take advantage of her. He would have sent Mrs. Dilwyn to fetch a nightshirt from his dressing room.

But her disproportionate reaction had his imaginary self reaching for one more chunk of rock.

“No, no, it would be no trouble at all,” he said. “Come along.”

He walked on into his bedchamber; she had no choice but to follow him. He stripped off his day coat and continued to his dressing room.

“How do you like your new house, by the way?” he asked as he discarded his waistcoat, looking back at her.

“Very well,” she said, smiling. “It’s a very fine house.”

They managed quite a passable imitation of an ordinary marriage, he must concede.

“And Mrs. Dilwyn, has she been helpful?”

“Most helpful.” Her smile persevered but she stopped well short of the door of the dressing room.

“Come in so you can choose one.”

“Oh, I’m sure the one you choose will be perfectly fine.”

“Nonsense, come inside.”

She still maintained her smile, but needed a deep breath before she entered the dressing room.

He pulled his shirt over his head. Her smile deserted her.

He didn’t always have this musculature throughout the year. But it was at the end of summer: Since the middle of April he had been based in London, which meant three miles every morning at his swimming club. He was in the best form he could possibly be in. And when he was in his best form he was, physically, a very intimidating man.

The dressing room was large. But it was also thickly populated with shelves, cabinets, and armoires, which made it secluded and isolated. She stood with her back against a chest of drawers. He walked up to her, braced his arm next to her shoulder, and did nothing else for a moment—he truly was not above tormenting her—before pulling off his signet ring and tossing it in a tray of accessories atop the chest of drawers.

“Come,” he said softly.

She swallowed.

“You said you wanted to pick out the nightshirt you like best. So come.”

He could see it in her eyes, the desire to correct him, to argue that she’d never wanted anything of the sort, that he was the one to impose the choosing on her. But she only said, “Certainly.”

He had stacks of nightshirts, all white, in linen, flannel, silk, and merino wool. She snatched the uppermost nightshirt from the nearest stack.

“I’ll take this one.”

“But you haven’t felt the others yet. Feel them.”

He pressed the nightshirts into her hands, one after another, and offered accompanying treatises on fabrics and textures. Soon they stood in a knee-deep pile of discarded nightshirts. And he handed her yet another one to examine.

It was silk, lustrous, smooth, lavish, something that two thousand years ago would have been quite worth the walk from Chang’an to Damascus.

“So soft,” he said. “Like your skin.”

Her grip tightened on the nightshirt. “May I have this one then?”

“Indeed, have it. Took you long enough to find one you liked.”

But she would not escape him so easily yet. He insisted she unclench her fingers, to avoid wrinkling the silk, and then he took hold of her hand and rubbed his thumb over her palm. Giving her his most thick-witted smile, he sighed. “Ah, yes, just as lovely as I remember it.”

And remembered it. And remembered it.

It dawned on him that he tormented no one but himself with this little game of his.

He dropped her hand and stepped back. “Well, then, off you go.”

She looked at him uncertainly. He began to undo the fastening of his trousers. She needed no more urging after that, her departure swift and resounding.

Holbrook sported a black eye.

Vere had to smile at the sight. “So Lady Kingsley did not forget to pay you a visit when she was in London.”

Holbrook gingerly touched the bruises around his eye. “She should have delegated the task to you. You would have punished me more tenderly.”