Lady Windermere's Lover (7 page)

Did that mean he intended to sleep with her all the time? Utterly confounded, she adjusted the position of the candelabrum on the bedside table and opened her book. “I am going to read Miss Burney. I’m sorry if the light troubles you.”

She might as well have saved her breath. “I’m used to sleeping through all manner of disturbances in foreign cities.” Then the wretched man had the gall to turn on his side, punch his pillow, pull more than his share of blankets over his broad shoulders, and close his eyes.

Rigid with tension, she stared at the pages, but the English language had ceased to have any meaning for her. She kept stealing sideways glances at him, half expecting him to pounce. Why else was he there, if not to get himself an heir? It made no sense. To her indignation he began to emit a light snore, more of a loud breathing really. She was supposed to sleep through this? Unlike him, she was not accustomed to the disturbances of foreign parts. Though if she were being honest she’d admit that some of the girls at school had been noisier sleepers.

Giving up on
Cecilia
and on trying to understand her husband as well, she blew out her candles and settled down to sleep herself, trying to ignore the way his unclothed flesh radiated heat.

Chapter 6

T
he servants knew that His Lordship had spent the entire night in her bed. It wouldn’t bother Caro, Cynthia told herself firmly, and she had no reason to feel self-conscious about it. Her husband certainly hadn’t. When her maid brought in her early morning chocolate, he’d descended from the bed in all his naked glory, shrugged into his robe, and asked the woman to send up his valet, all without a hint of embarrassment. Meanwhile Cynthia clutched the sheet up to her chin and avoided looking at him. She couldn’t summon more than a muttered croak in reply to his cheerful “Good morning” and a reminder that they were expecting company for dinner.

The housekeeper was most indignant at the suggestion that any bed under her command should be in anything less than prime condition. Nevertheless, Cynthia ordered her to have His Lordship’s mattress restuffed to eliminate the chance that her husband’s excuse for his strange visit to her bedchamber was actually the true one. The woman returned a quarter of an hour later considerably chastened. Moth holes had been discovered in the curtains of His Lordship’s bed. The room would need to be cleaned and the velvet replaced.

“Never mind,” Cynthia said. She always found it hard to be angry with servants who worked so hard. “Perhaps last year’s tenants damaged the hangings. Can they not be mended?”

“You’re very good, my lady, but I know moth when I see it. If we are lucky we’ll be able to replace sections only, if we can match the cloth.”

A lengthy discussion of the problem led to the decision that the proprietress of Bow’s Silk Warehouse should be asked to assemble samples of velvet in different shades of red. The interview had barely concluded when the footman announced that Mr. Oliver Bream had come to call.

“Oliver!” Cynthia cried. “Thank goodness you are here. You must come to dinner tonight.”

The cherub-faced artist shook his mop of curly hair and grinned. “Glad you asked, Cynthia. Saves me having to angle for an invitation. I came as soon as I heard you were back in town.”

“Why else would you be here if not to find a meal?”

Oliver pretended to look offended. “To see you, of course.” His eyes roamed around the parlor. “Did you breakfast already?”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. Months ago, when they first met at Caro Townsend’s house, Oliver had fallen madly in love with her, just as Caro had predicted. His feelings had lasted all of a week before moving on to another object, and then another. His passion for his latest paramour always came second to his devotion to free meals, and a distant third to his true obsession, which was his art. In the view of Cynthia and his friends, he had real talent as a painter. Since this opinion was not shared by the rest of the world, he lived rent-free in Caro’s carriage house and cadged meals wherever he could.

Having sent the servant for tea and cakes, she patted the sofa beside her. “It’s good to see you, Oliver. Tell me your news.”

It was soothing to listen to him ramble on about the lamentable lack of skill in a couple of pupils who came to him for lessons in watercolors, the latest iniquity perpetrated by artists more successful than he, and the matchless beauty of Mrs. Langton, wife of a purveyor of canvas in High Holborn.

“Does she return your regard? Will she run away with you?” Cynthia asked, knowing that Oliver chose the most unattainable objects of his pursuit and would be disconcerted if not appalled should he actually catch one.

Oliver swallowed a mouthful of plum cake and shook his head. “Langton is a brute of a man. Very strong. She wouldn’t dare leave him. Besides, his canvas is the best in town and I shouldn’t like to upset him. He might refuse to extend me credit. I wish she had a different husband.”

“You will be able to judge mine this evening.”

“Windermere is in London?”

“He arrived at Windermere House yesterday. And he invited Julian to dinner.”

“Really?” Oliver said with mild surprise. “I thought they disliked each other.” As a longtime intimate of Caro and her set, he was well acquainted with the history. But Oliver was never overly concerned with matters that weren’t of personal or artistic interest. It made him a safe confidant. Anything she said would likely be forgotten by tomorrow.

“Windermere and Denford haven’t spoken in years.”

“Oh right. I remember now.” He frowned. “What was the row about?”

“Caro said she could never get the truth out of Robert, and Julian shuts up like an oyster whenever I ask him. I’ve always guessed his attentions to me have been largely an effort to annoy my husband.”

“I thought you liked Julian?”

“Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean I entirely trust him.”

“That’s very cynical, Cynthia. Not like you.”

“Am I not cynical? Perhaps you are right. But neither am I naïve. I used to be, but not any longer. Why would a woman of my very modest attractions have inspired instant admiration in a man as worldly and jaded as Denford? Yet the very first time we met, he treated me as though I were a fascinating beauty.”

She noticed with amusement that Oliver didn’t contradict her assessment of her charms. He’d long ago forgotten his brief infatuation. Instead he spared her a glance away from the alluring array of pastries. “You’re very pretty, Cynthia.”

“Better than I was, now that I have acquired some town polish. When Julian first met me I was a provincial dowd. I knew he was using me and I used him back. He’s a very amusing escort and I was in need of company. Though I believe we have become genuinely fond of each other.”

He had awoken desires that she had thought put to rest when Windermere disappointed her. But now she was almost certain that those dangerous urges had been aroused mainly by a wish to irritate—or attract—her neglectful husband. “As friends,” she added firmly.

“I like Julian too,” Oliver said. “Even if he doesn’t understand painting.”

“Indeed,” Cynthia said. “He has abysmal taste. The Holbein portrait he bought a couple of months ago is a horrid thing.”

Oliver grinned sheepishly at her teasing. “I’ll admit he has an eye for the older painters, but he has no notion of where the future of the art lies.”

Cynthia had listened to Oliver’s views of the noble future of painting—with specific reference to his own oeuvre—a dozen times and was disinclined to indulge his obsession now. “I am glad you will be here this evening because I don’t fancy sitting between those two at dinner without help.”

“Do you think they will fight?”

She laughed at Oliver’s expression of terror and fascination. “If it comes to that I shan’t expect you to intervene, or get in the way of any flying fists. We’ll leave them to it.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“My cook is planning something special for the return of the master of the house.”

“Good! In that case I shall brave it”—as though there were any chance of Oliver missing a meal—“no matter the danger. And no matter what either of them does.”

“I have a very good idea what Julian is up to, but I haven’t a clue what Windermere has in mind.”

S
itting down to dinner between his wife and her lover was a situation awkward enough to daunt even an experienced diplomat. First thing that morning, Damian had summoned reinforcements in the form of his cousin and his cousin’s wife. It turned out Lady Windermere had done the same. As the party assembled he wondered how this mismatched group was going to converse. He couldn’t see George Lewis, the stolid Tory MP for Kendal, having much to say to Oliver Bream, who was some kind of artist, evidenced by a wild shock of hair and traces of paint on his hands. Denford would doubtless regard the ensuing debacle with sardonic enjoyment. How the hostess anticipated the disparate gathering he had no idea. He’d avoided Cynthia all day, alarmed by his desire on waking to remain under the covers and make love to her. Letting nature take its course when husband and wife found themselves in bed together was not currently an urge he could entertain.

With all the leaves removed from the dining room table, the party of six was seated so that conversation could be heard by all. Damian was dutifully listening to Louisa Lewis’s account of her three sons, when Bream, seated on his other side, interrupted the devoted mother’s peaceful flow.

“That is an exceptionally ugly picture,” he said loudly.

The artist was staring at the space over the mantelpiece where, Damian noticed for the first time, a chinoiserie mirror had been replaced by a huge portrait of a lady in the fashion of King Charles II’s reign.

Cousin Louisa looked startled and peered nervously over her shoulder. “She is quite plump,” she said, “and her eyes stick out, but her blue velvet gown is handsome.”

Bream waved aside the observation. “My point is that it is very badly painted. Where did you find such a beastly thing, Cynthia?” He addressed his hostess across a horrified George Lewis, who wasn’t used to such loose manners.

Damian looked down the table at his wife and raised his brows. He’d like to know the answer himself.

She seemed to be avoiding his eye. “I bought this one because the gown matches the curtains in here. Sir Peter Lely painted it, did he not, Denford?”

“Lely, or one of his assistants. An inferior work by an inferior artist. Mrs. Lewis is quite correct about the eyes. All Lely’s subjects look like pugs.”

Poor Cousin Louisa, who’d spent the whole of dinner stealing appalled glances at Denford, appeared about to faint at being addressed directly by the disreputable duke. Unwillingly, Damian felt the urge to laugh. George’s wife was a good woman but very dull. They were a well-suited pair.

“Matching a picture to the drapery is an unusual notion,” she murmured. “Very soothing to the digestion.”

Oliver Bream bristled with indignation. “Art is supposed to elevate the mind, not calm the stomach.”

Since the topic of art was very much on Damian’s agenda for the evening, he asked Bream about his own work and the table talk became general. He described what he’d seen in Tehran, and spoke of the antique paintings of Persia. He could almost imagine himself back at Oxford, or in Paris, having the same kind of heated discussions he’d once enjoyed with Julian, Robert, and Marcus.

Except that everything had changed. George and Louisa Lewis he could ignore; his wife’s presence, while not intrusive, could not be forgotten. He was aware of every move and gesture, whether directing the servants or deftly seeing to the comfort of her guests. His ears strained to hear her every word.

“I had no idea you knew so much about art, my lord,” she said at one point. Of course she didn’t. When he had known her he’d been too bilious with rage and disappointment to reveal anything of himself, or afford her more than the most basic courtesy. In the year since, he’d admitted to himself that he’d treated her unfairly.

“If you are interested, I’ll take you to the Royal Academy,” he said on impulse. “But perhaps you have already been.”

“As it happens I have not. I would enjoy that.”

“I hope you enjoy yourself,” Denford said. “But I doubt it. You know I despise modern painting.” He turned to Damian. “I haven’t changed.”

“Are you still of the same mind about ancient sculpture too?” he asked.

“The Italian and Dutch are the only true masters, and a few of the French. I never could keep your taste from erring.”

“You were too narrow in your view,” he retorted.

“I broadened your horizons.”

For a moment he felt happy, then came down to earth with a thud when he remembered that he was no longer the wide-eyed Viscount Kendal sharing a youthful enthusiasm for paintings with the equally ardent Mr. Fortescue. Julian was his enemy, and the avid interest of the lovely woman opposite him was likely inspired by her lover, not her husband. Silence fell over the company with his sudden shift in mood.

“An angel must have passed over us,” his wife said, before the moment became awkward. She smiled through the flickering candles at him, her skin glowing in the soft light. Then she turned to Denford, seated to her right. “You never told me how you met Windermere,” she said. “Only that you were at Oxford.”

“I found him in a dark cellar at the Bodleian Library, peering at Greek statues.”

“I was studying the classics, and the university collection was not in a cellar, though I grant that the visibility was less than ideal.”

“I brought him into the light and introduced him to the glories of Raphael, Michelangelo, and Van Dyck.”

“He took me upstairs to show me Oxford’s gallery of Old Masters,” Damian said. “My father was not an admirer of the arts and I was grateful for the revelation.” A yearning for the innocent mischief of those days seized him. Why must everything have gone so wrong?

“I would like to see them too,” his wife said. “There is nothing so fine on display in London.”

Julian shook his head in disgust. “It is a disgrace that a capital as great as London does not possess a first-rate public art gallery. The king is a man of taste and I am surprised he has not seen to the matter.”

“Perhaps His Majesty’s poor health stands in his way,” she said. She pursed her lips with a sympathy that appeared unfeigned and he noticed that her mouth was small and pink and shaped for kissing.

“In that case his ministers should see to it, but they are a crowd of uncivilized louts.”

He had to stop thinking about Cynthia and pay attention. Denford had said something interesting. Was he hoping to sell the Falleron collection to King George? If so, he’d catch cold at that plan. Grenville would stop any public funds being released for the purpose, as long as the Alt-Brandenburg question persisted.

While Denford performed a witty—and not wholly undeserved—dissection of the members of the Tory government, Damian leaned back, sipped his wine, and observed the interaction between his wife and her lover. They seemed to know each other well. Almost too well, like an old married couple rather than a pair engaged in an adulterous affair. It must have been going on some time for them to be so comfortable together. He wondered if the liaison was well known in London. Lady Belinda knew, he realized. She had laughed slyly at his failure to recognize his own wife.