“Where to expand, where to consolidate, where to wait and see?” she singsonged, as though she had heard it all before. Probably at her family’s infamous dining table.
He had never envisioned a wife who understood his business dealings. Admittedly, it was a practical thing as far as having a conversation was concerned.
“Then I meet men of business for lunch,” he said. “Men who work in iron, or cotton, or mining.” Or the lieutenants of shady figures from the art-dealing world, but that was none of her concern. “Probably once a week I travel to some stock exchange city in the Home Counties to tap local information sources,” he said instead. “And I visit my factories.”
She looked impressed. “I hadn’t realized you were so actively pursuing entrepreneurship, too.”
“I need to put the money somewhere,” he said. “And it makes sense to own ironworks, which are fueled with coal from my mines, which produce railroad tracks and cars for the railway companies where I have shares. I spend a good deal of my time integrating and eventually splitting businesses again.” And before she could prod some more, he added, “And, in my evenings, I read the newspaper sections and government white books on economic policies.”
Her ears seemed to prick up. “You have an interest in politics?”
“You can’t separate business from politics,” he said evasively.
“The Duke of Montgomery will introduce an amendment to the Married Women’s Property Act in a while,” she supplied.
“Ah,” he said. “They try that every few years, don’t they?”
“Would you say you oppose women’s suffrage?” Her neutral expression was fairly convincing, but he knew she ran with the suffragists. His man, Carson, had reported it after investigating her background in Oxford, and he hadn’t been surprised at all.
“I don’t oppose it, no,” he said. “I haven’t given the matter much thought.”
She failed to hide her disappointment over the latter statement, and he felt the sudden need to loosen his cravat.
“Well, you work a lot,” she said. “Perhaps too much?”
He scoffed. “Nah.”
“What do you like to do for pleasure, then?”
He gave her a wry look, and when the meaning seemed lost on her, he said, resigned: “Stock portfolios.”
She shook her head. “You do work too much.”
“Is it work when one enjoys it?” he asked. “I would have thought as a paintress, you’d understand.”
Her expression became serious. “I paint because it feels like a necessity,” she said. “It can be enjoyable, but it is more a matter of it becoming unbearable when I don’t do it.”
“Unbearable?”
“It’s an urge,” she said. “Colors and patterns have an effect on me; it’s as though they stimulate my appetite, for lack of a better word. If I don’t engage, it begins to feel like a living thing beneath my skin. Well, I suppose that sounds hysterical—I assure you I’m not. Unfortunately, I’m not nearly as consumed by my art as I should be.”
“Should you be?”
She nodded. “I have this notion that proper artists are servants to their inspiration and must constantly create, whereas The Urge aside, I experience long, dull, uninspired stretches and must be disciplined to complete my works. Sometimes, I wonder whether this makes me an imposter …” She stopped herself, seeming to remember whom she was speaking to, and he felt a pang of annoyance. He understood, he did—the urge to strategize his portfolios and maximize profits was a compulsion, too, alive beneath his skin, as she’d put it.
“You changed your perfume,” he said instead.
She shot him a quick glance. “Do you mind?”
“No.” He did mind; she smelled delicious, and he wanted to reach across and pull her onto his lap. Then kiss her. Then fondle her lush breasts. Perhaps put a hand up under her thick skirts to finger the soft skin at the back of her knees, and move up to the softer place between her legs until she was moaning against his neck.
“My mother insisted I wear the rose scent,” she said. “But I prefer this.”
Her brother, her mother. It proper quelled his surging arousal.
She seemed to enjoy the restaurant; she was still studying her surroundings with keen eyes after the waiter had seated them in his private booth. The first time he had lunched here, he had been reluctantly impressed by the décor, too. The domed ceiling was painted in a fancy white-and-gold pattern, while the large potted fig trees and creeping ivy added a rustic touch. The air was fragrant with the scent of French herbs and spices from the subcontinent. Harriet’s family must visit the same old places in Soho if the atmosphere here excited her so. Perhaps she was simply excitable.