“Are lady’s maids for hire on Coburn Street?” she said. “I require one, since you forgot to invite Bailey along.”
Uppity brat.
“Say the word,” he said, and dragged his gaze over her disheveled appearance. “I’ll undress you. Assist with your bath, too.”
He pulled his shirt over his head, unwillingly aroused by the thought of her soapy, slippery body beneath his hands, and wasn’t surprised to find her gone when he reappeared.
Though she looked very pretty in the russet-colored gown the Harrods shop assistant had suggested, dinner would have been more palatable without her company. The small dining room should have attracted her attention; it was underground with low vaulted ceilings, whitewashed walls as thick as a castle’s, and torches burning in iron-cast sconces, but she was very much preoccupied with examining her fingernails after taking off her gloves. She did smile at the waiter, a wide, sweet smile that left both Lucian and the lad a little stunned.
“Is the lobster very fresh, I wonder?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” the young man replied, his gaze flickering uncertainly between her and Lucian. “It’s fresh from the firth every day, ma’am.”
“Lovely. I so love a fresh lobster.” Her smile sparkled in her eyes, and the waiter blushed.
“Bring the lobster for a starter,” Lucian said. “And the lamb for the main course.”
She was so outrageously clumsy in her attempts to provoke him that it shouldn’t have bothered him, not one bit. He still felt as irritated as if the place were swarming with midges, because despite the clumsiness, it had worked; he knew he’d commit a minor crime in exchange for such a smile from her.
She seemed to enjoy her wine and drank rather much of it, and later, she deftly plundered the fat lobster tail with her utensils. “I was wondering where you put me in your ledgers,” she said, glancing up as she pulled the soft white meat apart on her plate. “On the one hand, your return on me should be immense. On the other, I suppose I’m a depreciating asset since both my looks and my ability to bear you children shall fade with time.”
His etiquette guide for the discerning gentleman recommended a man stoically endure any mean-spirited remarks and unreasonable demands a woman directed at him, as those were the only weapons she was permitted, and in any case, her weak mind and volatile sensibilities weren’t her fault but a lamentable consequence of the nature of her sex. That had sounded like bollocks to him, for he had seen women chase after men while brandishing a skillet, and he had witnessed them stoically clean up tragedy and bring whole families through winter on their own. But now, faced with this sweetly smiling creature dissecting a crustacean on her plate with merciless precision, it all made sense. He ate in silence. Time was on his side. The law was on his side. Those were still the facts. It was but a feeling that the playing field had leveled today.
Chapter 17
When they resumed their journey the next day, the sky was a blustering display of dramatic white and gray swirls on blue, an El Greco the size of infinity. The Firth of Forth flowing alongside the railroad tracks sparkled like silver coins in the sun, another lovely sight over which to ignore a husband. The husband sat across from her, wearing a well-fitted navy tweed suit, a gray paisley waistcoat, and a deeply brooding expression that would have been alluring had she not resolved to despise him. At least he was keeping his word: he hadn’t made any attempts to claim husbandly rights last night. And he hadn’t as much as blinked when she had purchased half of Cockburn Street right under his nose this morning. Four large crates with costly frippery she had no intention of ever using were now on their way to Belgravia. She couldn’t bankrupt him this way, but it had been quite enjoyable to try.
She glanced at him. His shoulders were relaxed and the dark fans of his lashes lowered against his cheeks as if he were dozing. He never slept enough; he went to bed late and rose too early, that much she had learned about him. A loving wife would fuss over this, and she felt fresh resentment rise because he had forever taken such small, caring rituals from her.
He woke when the train rolled right down into the bustling harbor of Granton and came to a halt at the waterline.
She pointed at the large sign looming on the banks: Granton– Burntisland Ferry Service.
“Do they mean to move the entire train onto a boat?”
“It’s a roll-on ferry,” Lucian said, his voice distractingly scratchy.
“I see.”
His bleary gaze fell to her hands, clamped around the edge of her seat. “It’s been running well for thirty years,” he said. “It won’t have its first capsizing today.”