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“You don’t appear to be having a good time,” he accused, his face as stern as usual. His words clearly meant, It was your idea to come here, and I need us to appear as a normal couple. You have no one to blame but yourself if you aren’t having fun.
As if the Monk knew how to have a good time.
Well, if she was miserable, he could be too.
“Perhaps I would like to dance,” she suggested.
His gaze discomfited her. He didn’t refuse right away, either. If anything, he appeared to be considering the idea.
“Perhaps you should find someone to ask then.”
The words were unkind, but they lacked true bite, almost as if he said them because they were expected. And they were, of course. He and Eleanor had developed an ugly pattern to their conversations. But lately...
What if he was truly concerned that she wasn’t having a good time? What if he did want to dance with her?
Octavius lifted his head, moving on. “The evening seems to be a success.”
Eleanor swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I agree. Mrs. Robson is much amused. And Portia too.”
“That’s good, yes?”
“Yes,” Eleanor admitted. Her husband’s artless-older-brother act was a bit unfair, but she couldn’t stop a slight curve of her lips. “As we suspected, the attention of other men has done much to improve her mood.”
Octavius blew out a breath, clearly pleased. Then: “There’s a balcony at the other end of the room.” He paused. “Would you like to step outside?”
She looked up, surprised to see no bitterness or severity in his eyes. Nothing but trepidation and kindness. Was it possible? Could he possibly want to change things for the better? Could she possibly trust him?
“I would love to,” she decided. And she looped her arm through his proffered one and tucked herself up against his side.
No one greeted them as they wended their way through the crowd, but quite a few heads turned. It would have been easy to think that Octavius was putting on a show because he wanted everyone to see how happily married they were; however, Eleanor wanted to try thinking differently. Perhaps he simply liked having her there, snug against his side. That nickname was burned into her mind, though: The Monk. Was everyone thinking what a fool she was, carrying on as if she were important to him when he had a string of lovers? Actually, wasn’t she a fool any way she looked at this?
They stepped onto the balcony which overlooked the Ardmores’ back garden. A light breeze wafted across her arms and chest, immediately cooling Eleanor off. She’d needed this relief more than she’d known. One other couple was there, off to the right, so Octavius guided her to the other corner.
She rested her arm on the balustrade while her husband leaned his back against it. Knowing he probably wouldn’t start the conversation, she remarked, “I truly think Mrs. Robson is enjoying herself.”
“Excellent.” The wavering candlelight from inside illuminated the side of Octavius’s face that she could see. He slanted his gaze toward her. “Thank you.”
Well. Gratitude was unexpected “You’re welcome. And Mr. Robson?”
He lifted a shoulder. “He doesn’t like to be parted from his wife for very long.”
“How sweet.” She’d tried her best not to inject any sort of judgment into those two words.
“Do you think so? Most of them”—he waved toward the house—“wouldn’t agree.”
“No, they probably wouldn’t,” Eleanor said quickly, grasping at the opportunity to have a normal conversation with her husband. “Seeing the Robsons together makes me want to smile, though. They are happy. They are each accepting of who the other is. I mean, she’s a bit of a mother hen, but he doesn’t let it bother him.”
“I would almost say he likes being henpecked.”
Eleanor couldn’t miss the sparkle of knowing humor on her husband’s face. Goodness, he was handsome. She could stare into those warm brown eyes forever, as long as he held the usual acrimony at bay.
He slipped his hand into hers and bent his head closer. “When you look at me like that, I want to kiss you.”
She inhaled, sending a rich combination of red wine and his bayberry cologne straight to her head, and she replied honestly, “I stare at you like that because I want you to kiss me.”
He wouldn’t do it, though. Not with a hundred people so near, including his sis—
His hot hand molded to her neck and pulled her close, and he kissed her as if he were powerless to stop himself. At that notion, Eleanor’s skin tingled. It was as if she’d just stepped in from the freezing cold to find a roaring fire. Octavius was firmly in charge, holding her in place with his hand, his mouth claiming hers in kiss after hungry kiss...and she didn’t mind in the least. She put her hands on his chest and leaned into him, the wild beat of his heart reverberating through her.
Someone nearby laughed loudly. Octavius stilled. Drawing away, he turned her slowly so that his broad back blocked her from the view of those inside.
As it was, they’d provided enough fodder for any party gossips. They needed to step back onto formal, defensive ground.
Eleanor knew just the question. “Why are you known as the Monk?”
Wariness shadowed his eyes. “Where did you hear that? It’s not important.”
“It is to me.” More important than she wanted it to be, in fact.
His cheek had turned a harsh shade of red. “I would rather not say, Eleanor.”
“And I would probably rather not hear, Octavius, but I’m going to insist anyway.”
He huffed out a breath and shook his head. When he spoke at last, she could barely hear him. “I’ve never had a mistress. Nor have I dallied with any widows or...anyone else. Certain acquaintances thought it was funny and...”
Eleanor could barely breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest. “You— Never? In six years?”
A small muscle twitched in his jaw. “No.”
“Not even once? With some pretty actress?”
“Eleanor.”
No wonder last week’s romp had been so fabulous. Then again, with his reaction afterwards... Perhaps he simply wasn’t interested in those sorts of activities, marital or extramarital.
“I’m taking Henry to the park tomorrow,” he suddenly said, and Eleanor refocused her attention on him. Clearly he wanted to speak of anything else but his after-dark proclivities.
She drew in a ragged breath. “Yes, he told me as much. I can hardly credit it though.”
“We made a deal.”
“Oh? What was his end of the bargain?”
“I’m not making him do anything nefarious. We struck a gentlemen’s agreement, that’s all.”
Eleanor shivered at the sudden chill of the wind. “You’re being purposely vague.”
“I know. You’re being purposely intrusive,” he replied, but was it in the tone he’d used to fondly relate Mr. Robson’s wife’s henpecking?
“Of course I want to know. He’s my son.”
“He’s...mine too.”
Octavius’s voice started as forceful as hers but had trailed off in a whisper. The chatter, clinks, and musical notes of the soiree faded into the background. An owl hooted, emphasizing the silence where they stood. Finally, Eleanor smiled.
“Yes, he is. You’ll both have a grand time.”
Octavius stared at the ground. Then he was suddenly leaving. “I promised Mr. Baltry a game of whist. He’s interested in the arsenal.”
The magic, such as it was, had ended. Eleanor nodded and watched her husband walk off. She’d known she couldn’t rely on him for entertainment, of course. That was up to her. So she returned inside to find it, only slightly upended by Octavius’s abrupt behavior.
After an exhilarating contra dance in which Mr. Robson proved himself quite talented, she barely had time to catch her breath before William Drummond approached. “Your husband won’t mind if I steal you for the next reel, will he, Lady Lexden?” Her old friend did a quick survey of the room. “Is he even here this evening?”
“Yes,” Eleanor replied with a vague wave of her hand, still a bit breathless. She would really rather not think about Octavius or the way she found herself pouncing upon any little scrap of attention or affection he tossed her way. Or how she might be—was—at least partially responsible for the wretched state of their communication.
Oh. She had been asked to dance and promptly dropped into a brown study. She blinked up at Mr. Drummond and gave him a brilliant smile to cover her embarrassment. “Lord Lexden won’t mind in the least if we dance. And I would like nothing better.”
Drummond’s smile seemed slightly odd, but before she had time to wonder why, he took her hand and swept her onto the parquet floor and into a rousing set. Every time they met up in the promenade or circle, he bent his head to Eleanor’s ear and made a droll remark about the company, the food, or even his dancing skills. Eleanor was amused—one would be hard-pressed not to be—and laughed often. A piece of her mind couldn’t help straying, however, time and again to Octavius. What was he doing? Regretting not asking her to dance? Wishing their kiss could have been more? More likely he was speaking with Mr. Robson about the arsenal and wishing himself elsewhere.
At last she and Drummond had a moment in the dance to catch her breath. While others performed the lively steps, he winked at her and asked, “What brings you to London, my lady? You and Lady Portia. I don’t believe I realized how lacking in belles this Season was until the two of you arrived this evening.”
What silliness. But then what did she expect from Drummond? He was charming to be sure, but he never said anything of substance. Which was probably why she liked him. He made her laugh but required nothing in return. He was easy to be around—unlike certain other people.
“I thought it would do both my son and Lady Portia some good to enjoy the amusements of Town. Portia, especially, has been kept from Society for too long.” So, so true. As an earl’s daughter, she could have been launched and married off years ago: a situation that would seem to be a boon for Octavius, as he would no longer be responsible for her.
Then again, Eleanor had never understood her husband’s motivations regarding anything. Take, for example, his accusation that she had cuckolded him. What had she ever done to make him suspicious of her fidelity? The very few times they’d been out and about socially, she’d been virtually ostracized. Certainly she’d been ignored by all except Mr. Drummond. Surely Octavius didn’t think—
“My lady?” Drummond had his hand out. They were expected down the line of dancers.
Eleanor set off with him, murmuring an apology. She couldn’t afford to alienate the one friend she did have, so for the rest of the set she gave Drummond her full attention.
When they finished, he kept her arm tucked in his and escorted her to the side of the room.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asked as his gaze skimmed the crowd.
His eyes cut to her. After a moment’s hesitation, he smiled ruefully. “Just your lovely sister-in-law. I wish to dance with her again.”
Eleanor smiled. “I think she would like that.”
They found Portia near the refreshments table with Justine. She was all smiles and twinkling blue eyes when he made his proposal, and as the pair headed back to the dancing room, Justine and Eleanor watched.
Not long after, Mr. Robson came to claim his wife for another dance. Eleanor set off to find Alice the duchess.
Instead, she found her husband.
“Eleanor.”
His hand circled her arm. She didn’t flinch. No indeed, she wanted to turn and lean into him, as she’d done on the balcony. She wanted to give him that look that would make him kiss her...which frustrated her no end. They solved none of their problems with kisses.
Instead, she locked her muscles and raised her brows inquiringly. “Yes?”
Someone bumped into her, thrusting her against Octavius’s chest. His grip tightened around her arm, and his other hand went to her hip to steady her. A shiver of excitement strummed along her spine. Blast.
“Where is Portia?” he asked, failing to remove either of his hands.
“She’s dancing.”
“With whom?”
“Mr. Drummond again.”