The morning was well advanced when Therese finally opened her eyes. She blinked, then turned onto her back, confirming that, as always, Devlin had left long ago; when she passed her palm over the sheet, it held no lingering warmth.
On a nevertheless sated sigh, with the memories of shared pleasures making her smile, she stretched her arms over her head, then snuggled them back beneath the covers. Staring up at the canopy of lilac silk, she reviewed the events of the previous day. Her smile widened as she remembered Christopher and Ellen’s transparent happiness; she’d been so delighted to see the pair so patently in love.
Then she recalled Devlin’s odd comments. Her smile faded as she re-examined them. She ended frowning.
On the journey back to London, she’d replayed those comments countless times and still had no clue what he’d meant.
She knew her husband; he wasn’t given to making abstruse comments. “So what the devil did he mean?”
In her mind, she recreated those moments when he and she had stood by the side of the Bigfield House ballroom. She’d been fondly observing Christopher and Ellen moving among the crowd. Devlin had been standing beside her—now she thought of it, he’d stuck by her side through most of the day—so he’d been there to hear her sigh happily and commend Christopher on his good sense in recognizing the possibilities for happiness that Ellen represented and acting and marrying her.
Looking back…it seemed that something about either her sigh or her comment had provoked Devlin into saying, “Perhaps your dear Christopher finally opened his eyes and took his cue from me.”
She frowned direfully at the lilac silk. “That still makes absolutely no sense.”
After examining the words yet again, along with his intonation and every other little clue she’d learned over the past five years that could help clarify her husband’s thinking, she still found herself utterly at sea.
“Nonsense.” She wrestled the covers more tightly about her and frowned even harder. Not only was she confused, she was confused over being confused; normally, she encountered no difficulty interpreting Devlin’s utterances.
Even more discombobulating had been his response when she’d challenged him to explain. Instead of laughingly admitting he’d forgotten that it had been she who had dragged him to the altar rather than the other way around, he’d met her gaze and, with an odd light in his greeny-hazel eyes, had smiled in a rather strange way and, quite deliberately, said, “Oops.”
Therese heard that single syllable resonate in her mind and narrowed her eyes to slits. Abruptly, she shook her head, thrust back the covers, and electing to consign her handsome husband’s almost certainly deliberately confusing utterances to the darkest recess of her mind, all but leapt from the bed.
The chill of the late-autumn morning struck through the fine silk of her nightgown, and she grabbed her robe from the chair on which it lay. Shrugging into the woolen robe, she hurried across the carpeted floor to the bellpull and tugged it, summoning Parker, her dresser, with her washing water.
Therese belted the robe and went to the window. Grasping the curtains in both hands, she drew them wide, revealing a view over the rose garden at the side of the house. It was foggy outside. She stared down at what was usually a calming sight and heard in her mind, once again, “Oops.”
Their children frequently used the word, as did Devlin when dealing with them. Invariably, he used it to denote a mistake, often a deliberate or cheeky one.
Therese folded her arms beneath her breasts. “So where in that short exchange did he make a mistake of that nature?”
In suggesting an equivalence between how their marriage and Christopher’s had come about?
Judging by the bare words, that seemed the obvious answer, but no matter how often she replayed the words as Devlin had said them, especially the way he’d said that oops with that certain light in his eyes, she couldn’t convince herself that was what he’d meant.
Every word that had fallen from his lips had been definite and deliberate, and he’d been watching her intently throughout. No, he’d meant something other than the obvious, and she was increasingly certain that his oops hadn’t been any indication that he was backing down or resiling from what he had said.
“Annoying man!” Especially as, the more she replayed that oops in her head, the more it sounded like a leading comment. A teasing lure, an invitation to play some game with him, but she had no idea what game that might be, and she wasn’t at all happy about that.
A tap fell on the door, and Parker came in, followed by the tweeny hefting a porcelain jug of hot water.
By the time Parker looked Therese’s way, she’d wiped the frown from her face. She nodded equably to the dresser. “I’ve an at-home this morning and two this afternoon. My rose-silk day gown might be best.”
Banishing her husband’s annoying oops from her mind, she focused on getting ready to face her day.
Therese walked into the breakfast parlor and wasn’t surprised to find it empty.
Portland, the butler, held her usual chair for her. As she sat, he murmured, “His lordship breakfasted earlier, ma’am, and has gone riding in the park.”
Having expected as much, she picked up her napkin and flicked it out. “Thank you, Portland.” She glanced at the well-stocked sideboard. “Just tea and toast, please.” She weakened and added, “And perhaps some of Cook’s strawberry jam.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
While Portland whisked away to fetch her tea, she found herself gazing at Devlin’s empty chair. She wished now that she’d held firm to her intention of the previous night and questioned him the instant he’d entered her room. Unfortunately, when that moment had come, it hadn’t seemed an appropriate one in which to commence a wifely interrogation. Aside from all else, she still found Devlin, nude, immensely distracting, so even if she’d managed to get a question out, she would likely not have remembered his answer.
Portland returned with the teapot, a rack of warm toast, a dish of creamy butter, and another holding rich strawberry jam. She smiled and thanked him, poured herself a cup of tea, then set about slathering a slice of toast with butter and jam.
Lifting the slice to her lips, she crunched, chewed, and staring unseeing across the table, reminded herself of the reality of her marriage.
Although from their first meeting she’d recognized that Devlin was attracted to her, she’d never deceived herself by imagining he loved her. Nor had she assumed that he would somehow, over time, come to love her; she’d viewed that as unlikely, and nothing over the past five years had changed her mind.
She’d approached finding a husband—the right husband for her—in her customary, organized, methodical fashion. She’d accepted that being a Cynster, it was possible, even likely, that she would be struck by what her brothers and male cousins labeled “the Cynster curse,” an apparently inescapable compulsion that ensured that every Cynster married for love. Consequently, from her first forays into society, she had evaluated every likely gentleman who crossed her path, expecting that, eventually, she would find the right man and fall in love.
While the Cynster curse was assumed to result in a mutual love-match, and she knew it most often had, as far as she could see, there was nothing in the words “a Cynster always marries for love” that stated that said love was guaranteed to be returned. She’d gone into her own search with an open mind, but by the time, at age twenty-one, she’d embarked on her third Season, she’d learned a great deal about herself and about how the gentlemen of the ton viewed her. She’d overheard enough comments, and over the years, those comments had only grown more definite and accepted; she was too prickly, too strong-willed, too much her own person, and most damaging of all, too managing. She’d been considered “too” in far too many ways to be viewed by tonnish gentlemen as a desirable parti; she’d never been destined to be a comfortable wife.