“Thank you, Portland.” Therese handed over her bonnet. “I’ll go straight up.”
“Luncheon will be ready shortly, my lady.”
She smiled at Devlin as she made for the stairs. “I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
Still smiling himself, he inclined his head. “I’ll see you later.”
As she climbed the stairs, she looked back and saw him heading down the corridor to his study.
Therese faced forward. She hadn’t stopped smiling for quite a few minutes, purely because, between them, all was as it should be—and given the possibilities of what might have occurred, that was, in fact, significantly better than merely well.
That evening, when Therese and Devlin attended a dinner party hosted by their next-door neighbors, the ageing Lord and Lady Warkworth, they were the youngest couple present by a goodly number of years.
Indeed, given that she was younger than the majority of the guests’ children, Therese had difficulty even pretending to an interest in the topics the ladies chose to discuss. She wasn’t silly enough to attempt to introduce any topics of her own. Dealing with this company required all the social skills she’d accumulated over her twenty-seven years in the ton.
Consequently, after a torturous time over the dinner table, where she’d been flanked by gentlemen older than her father and rather less interesting, as she perched on the edge of an uncomfortable straight-backed chair in the Warkworths’ drawing room and sipped tepid tea with the female half of the company as they awaited the return of the male guests, her gaze kept drifting to the drawing room door, while inwardly, she willed the gentlemen to appear.
She was aware that her nerves were just a touch tightly strung, and her senses were alert as if anticipating…something. She had no idea what. Ever since she’d come downstairs after discussing Horry’s latest bout of teething with Nanny Sprockett, gaily expecting to join Devlin at the luncheon table, only to discover, via Portland, that his master had quit the house, she’d been out of sorts. Just a tad disgruntled.
According to Portland, Devlin had had business matters to attend to and had elected to lunch at one of his clubs.
For some reason, that news—which she would have found utterly unremarkable just a few weeks ago—had dimmed her mood.
Subsequently, she hadn’t seen Devlin until, turned out in his customary impeccable evening attire and, therefore, appearing every inch an aristocratic Adonis, he’d joined her in the front hall just in time to leave for the Warkworths’; the short stroll around the corner and along Upper Grosvenor Street had left no time at all for even the briefest of conversations.
She wanted to go home and, somehow, assess whether she’d misread their earlier embracing of what she’d taken to mentally terming “a deeper connection” or if she’d been correct in thinking they were, in fact, growing closer and Devlin’s decision to leave the house instead of sharing luncheon with her had been driven by necessity rather than inclination.
“So, my dear Lady Alverton.” Ensconced on the sofa, Lady Carmichael turned and leaned closer to address Therese. “What university did your sons attend—you have two, I believe? Was it Oxford or Cambridge?”
Therese plastered on an innocent smile. “I fear my sons are still in the nursery.”
Lady Carmichael’s eyes widened, and she sat back. “They are?” Her ladyship’s gaze swiftly surveyed Therese as if finally registering her age. “Yes, well, I suppose that’s not to be wondered at, heh? Can’t imagine that husband of yours being that much of a cradle snatcher, devil though he undoubtedly is.”
Therese smiled weakly and prayed the gentlemen ran out of port.
Two minutes later, noises in the hall heralded the return of the men. She surreptitiously heaved a relieved sigh and waited; she was prepared to claim a headache—something she’d never done in her life—if that was what it took to get Devlin to leave expeditiously.
The gentlemen started to stream in, and finally, she spotted Devlin toward the rear of the pack, strolling in that nonchalant way that was so much a part of the languid image he projected in such company.
She’d expected to have to rise and go to him, but instead, without in any way appearing to do so, he made a beeline for her. She watched him in slight surprise.
When he neared, he trapped her gaze and widened his eyes in a look she had no difficulty interpreting as Can we please go home?
She fought to mask her delight. She set aside her teacup and, when he halted beside her and, with a show of solicitousness, leaned closer as if to speak with her, she promptly informed him, “Horry’s teething and having a dreadful time of it.” Lady Carmichael and two others were close enough to overhear. Therese fixed Devlin with an anxious-mother look. “I really think we should return home.”
Hiding his relief, Devlin schooled his features to reflect appropriate concern, both for his daughter and his wife. He straightened and offered Therese his hand. “Come. I’m sure Lady Warkworth will understand that we need to leave.”
Therese put her fingers in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet. He twined his arm with hers and led her to the other sofa, where Lady Warkworth was holding court. Her ladyship was all solicitousness; Devlin was grateful that it was to Therese that the inevitable questions regarding Horry’s teeth and general well-being were directed. He knew Horry had teeth; he didn’t know how many.
He wanted to get Therese alone, but not to discuss Horry’s teeth. Or Spencer’s or Rupert’s.
He wanted…his wife. It really was that simple.
Since returning from the hell, he’d been plagued by the inevitable outcome of the morning’s excitement. Not so much his business success, although that lesser triumph undoubtedly contributed to the compulsion simmering in his veins. He’d always known Therese engaged a protectiveness in him that he couldn’t entirely rule. What he hadn’t appreciated was that his push to acknowledge that he loved her would escalate that protectiveness to new heights and imbue his reaction to having said protectiveness exercised with commensurately ungovernable power.
When, at midday, they’d walked into the front hall, he’d had to wrestle the unruly demands of his baser self into submission simply to allow her to walk up the stairs and away. If she hadn’t been going to the nursery, he wasn’t sure he’d have managed it. He’d retreated to the study and, unable to sit, had paced.
And paced.
It hadn’t helped.
Courtesy of hauling her out of that hell, his possessive instincts and all that trailed in their wake had been aroused and left hungry and not for food. The notion of sitting through a luncheon with the object of his ravenous desire within reach…
He’d had no idea what might have happened—what possibly premature revelations might have slipped past his guard in the heat of an out-of-control engagement—so he’d cravenly left to spend the afternoon and as much of the early evening as he could in his clubs.
Now, after sitting through a dinner of near-unimaginable dullness, he felt he’d regained some semblance of control. Enough, at least, to go forward and appease—or at least take the edge from—his clamorous needs.
Finally, Lady Warkworth released them, and with nods to the rest of the company, they walked into the front hall, retrieved Therese’s evening cloak and his overcoat, hat, and cane, and quit the house.