She had never known what it was to be so thoroughly approved of, to be with someone—anyone, let alone a man—who looked at her as though she was important, as if her opinion mattered. Yet it was better even than that, for Ludo looked at her as if she was the beginning and the end of his world. She had tentatively begun to believe he meant it.
“Of course, really,” he said, impatient now, and then his expression darkened, and his voice was filled with regret, “it’s you who will be ashamed, love.”
Bunty took a moment to look him over, feeling a now familiar surge of heat as desire pooled in her belly. She shook her head and smiled at him.
“Now who’s having maggoty ideas?”
He gave a huff of laughter, but it was bitter-edged, and she did not like the sound of it. He turned away from her.
“If we go outside that door, you will realise this is all I’m good for.”
Bunty watched as he waved a dismissive hand at the bed.
“Don’t be foolish, Ludo,” she said, thinking perhaps he was joking, but the way he was dragging on his small clothes and then his breeches with sharp, angry movements made her reconsider.
“Fine,” he muttered “You want to go out? We’ll go out. You’ll figure it out eventually, anyway.”
“Ludo,” she protested, wondering where this unhappy, angry man had come from when he’d been so content just moments earlier.
She ought not have pressed him, ought not have insisted but… but no, this was silly. They were only going out to eat. It wasn’t Almack’s, not that they’d have a hope of gaining entry there, she thought with amusement and a complete absence of regret. Goodness, she could just imagine the patronesses’ elegant noses turn up in horror if she turned up with….
Oh.
“Ludo.”
He did not answer, searching for a clean shirt before giving up and snatching the one he’d married her in off the floor. He’d not worn one since.
“Ludo,” she said again, as he tugged the shirt over his head.
She moved to him, standing right before him and clutching at the billowing fabric so he had to give her his attention. He stilled, his eyes wary, tension rolling off him in waves.
“What?” he asked, terse and irritated, but not, she thought, with her.
“Ludo, you know how you don’t understand how I have always felt so… so uncomfortable with… with the way I look?”
Ludo rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, and Bunty smiled.
“Precisely,” she said, sliding her hands about his waist. “You do not understand it because, by some happy miracle, you do not see me like everyone else does.”
“Nonsense,” he snapped. “It’s only that you’ve let your mother dress you and hidden yourself away in corners, trying to make yourself shorter and skinnier, and something you’re not. You’re beautiful, inside and out, and everyone else would see it too, if you’d only believe it yourself.”
Bunty blinked away the emotion those words produced and reminded herself that she was reassuring him this time. It was only fair, after all, not to mention God’s honest truth.
“Well, perhaps,” she allowed, her voice quavering. “But the point is, Ludo, you’re wrong about what I think, about how I shall feel outside of these doors. I know your reputation. I followed your exploits, you know. I always searched the scandal sheets for your name to see what you’d been up to. I expect I know more about you than you do yourself, though I suspect much of it was fabrication, or at least the truth with fancy embroidery. I know all those things, and now I am coming to know you, and I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you, and not only because you’re so handsome you make my heart feel all strange and fluttery, but because you’re wonderful. You’re kind and funny and generous…. Oh, Ludo, don’t let other people’s opinions spoil everything, for I shan’t.”
She watched his throat work, saw the doubtful glint in his eyes and pressed on, determined to get her point across.
“You made me believe in myself, Ludo. You’ve made me feel beautiful these past days, and I shall continue to believe it no matter what others say, so long as you always think it. So believe in my words too… please?”
He pulled her into his arms and held her close, resting his head atop hers. He said nothing for the longest time and then looked down at her, one dark eyebrow quirking. “Strange and fluttery?”
Bunty laughed. “Oh, Ludo, that’s the bit of my heartfelt declaration that stuck in your head, was it?”
He gave her an odd look. “I’m a man, of course it was.”
She huffed and shook her head, giving in. “Yes, my beautiful man. Looking at you, thinking of you… it does peculiar things to my heart.”
“Not just your heart,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her.
Bunty spluttered and buried her face in his shirt.
“Dreadful,” she said despairingly.
Ludo touched her chin with his fingers, raising her face to his and bending down, kissing her with such tenderness that tears pricked at her eyes.
“You make me believe I could be something,” he said quietly. “And I want to be, for you. I want that very badly.”
Bunty swallowed and gave a decisive nod. “You already are, Ludo, but I believe you can be anything you want. I believe in you.”
Ludo took Bunty to Abingdon’s chop shop and watched his wife with the greatest of pleasure as she took in her surroundings. That she had never been to such a place in her life was evident, as her fascinated gaze swept over everything and everyone. At first he’d hesitated, uncertain he should take her inside, but… well, they had to eat, and she was right. If he was dead set against spending her money—which he knew was idiotic, but had stuck in his brain as a matter of principle—then it was either this or making her cook for them, and that he would not do. She had been raised a lady, raised with the expectation and ability to run a large and prosperous household. A woman who might have married an earl, or at least a viscount, not some disowned, disgraced youngest son with nothing but his tarnished name to claim as his own.
As he’d opened the door, he’d wished he was taking her somewhere fancy, that he could afford Claridge’s or Grillon’s, but now, watching her, he rather thought she preferred this. It was a bustling place with the rich scent of roasted meat heavy on the air. Ludo’s stomach growled as he realised how hungry he was. A harried waiter came up and took their orders, slapped a jug of ale on the table, and gave the scarred top a perfunctory wipe with a grubby cloth before hurrying away again.
Ludo poured them each a glass and watched with amusement as Bunty took a cautious sniff and then sipped. She screwed up her face and shuddered, then resolutely took another sip. By the fifth sip she seemed to have the hang of it, and Ludo reached his hand across the table, an odd sensation in his chest as he stared at her. She had always been a far-off dream, a bright hope he’d never dared want, for it was too implausible, too fantastic that she would ever look at someone like him, but here she was. His wife. Emotion filled his heart, pushed at his ribs, something new and fragile and optimistic, and he dared to let it flare to life instead of snuffing it out as he had with every other thing he’d ever wanted for himself. His hand was on the table, palm up. He felt silly, vulnerable, and went to withdraw it, except she noticed then that he had reached for her, and put her hand in his. She curled her fingers between his and held on tight, squeezing a little and smiling at him.