t the end of the first week of the house party, the guest head count at Huntington had climbed to forty. The house existed in a state of permanent bustle, its occupants consuming caviar by the stone and guzzling fifty-year-old claret as if it were so much lemonade.

Bread was brought in by the cartload from the village. Crates of crabs, sturgeon, and whitebait arrived packed in straw and ice. Hens, ducklings, and guinea fowls came in latticed cages, emerging from the kitchen only after having been roasted, stuffed, and stewed.

Temporary cookmaids and scullery maids chopped and washed alongside frantic sous chefs. Footmen were permanently out of breath. The laundry department operated six days a week, bravely attacking mountains of napkins and undershirts.

During the day, Louisa rarely had a moment to herself, and she was glad for it. Every servant who approached her with a question or a problem was a welcome distraction, each guest who wanted her attention likewise.

At night, well, it actually wasn’t too difficult to fall asleep, given that she now woke up at four o’clock each morning to spend time with her telescope, which she’d had moved to the balcony outside the sitting room of her apartment.

She started with the much bombarded face of the moon, dear old friend to those lovers of astronomy who could observe only with the na**d eye, or a pair of binoculars at best. Then she moved on to the planets. She still remembered her star map, memorized during long-ago childhood summers, so she needed only look for heavenly bodies that were out of place. Mars’s moons, Jupiter’s spot, Saturn’s rings—celestial entities she’d never before seen with her own eyes bowed before the powerful magnification of her telescope.

Only once did she turn the telescope toward the hillock on which the Roman folly sat. The sun had just risen, the belvedere was bathed in a lovely, champagne-colored light, and the dress dummies were nowhere in sight. Vanished, like her husband’s interest in her.

She joined other early risers on daily hikes across the breadth of the estate. Her husband never did, though he was always there to lead interested parties on grouse-terminating expeditions.

His friends were people of boundless energy. Groups of cycle enthusiasts regularly charged down country lanes, to the bemusement of nearby cattle. The gentlemen played cricket and association football. Ladies thwacked away on the tennis courts set up on the west lawn. And almost every afternoon, rowing parties and impromptu races took place on the lake.

And since one could not come by the appellation of The Ideal Gentleman without also being a superlative sportsman, Lord Wrenworth rarely idled, taking part in everything, as graceful and surefooted running across a grassy field as he was turning about a ballroom.

He was the best tennis player among the gentlemen, it was commonly acknowledged, and also the best shot. As for who was the fastest swimmer, that particular question was settled with a contest.

Louisa was on a different side of the house, ensconced among the half dozen or so guests who preferred painting, reading, and gossiping to the more vigorous pastimes. But at the news that at least a dozen gentlemen had waded out into the lake, these supposedly sedentary guests leaped up into a sprint, leaving Louisa no choice but to follow in their wake.

A crowd had already gathered at the edge of the water. She would have been glad to remain at the back of the spectators. But once her guests realized that she had come, they stepped aside and waved her through to the front.

A dense pack of men were in the waters off the far shore. She couldn’t see their faces, but from the rapidly forming wagers, it became apparent that her husband was among the contestants.

Near the middle of the lake, the three or four strongest swimmers separated themselves from the pack.

“Mr. Dunlop is in the lead, Mr. Weston behind him, and Lord Wrenworth in third,” a sharp-eyed matron beside Louisa reported.

A man snorted behind her. “Dunlop’ll fade soon enough—fellow doesn’t know how to pace himself. But that should be an interesting contest between Weston and Wrenworth. Weston’s a bit heavy, but he swims like a fish.”

As he predicted, Dunlop soon dropped out of the lead, and it came down to a spirited sprint between the two others. Louisa held her breath, not so much invested in the result of the race—what did it matter who came in first?—as unhappily gnawing over the prospect of being seen as riveted by his doings, when he couldn’t bother to reciprocate that interest.

Lord Wrenworth won by a full body length. He and Mr. Weston came ashore, laughing, shaking hands, and congratulating each other in easy camaraderie.

They were both minimally clad. Her husband had stripped down to his shirtsleeves. And what garments still remained on him were plastered to his person, limning the strong, lithe form his more formal attires only hinted at. He rolled up his sleeves as he emerged from the lake, exposing long, sinewy arms to the afternoon sun and much avid feminine scrutiny.

“Oh, my!” murmured a lady to the right of Louisa. “What a sight.”

“I had better send someone to collect all the clothes left on the other bank,” Louisa said, very sensibly.

“Leave them,” said another lady, entirely insensibly. “We have no need of them.”

It would have seemed odd if she didn’t join the ensuing tittering, brought on in large part by the collective admiration for her husband’s fine physique, so she did, though all she wanted was to leave, to hide places where she could not possibly be exposed to his beauty and fitness.

That was when he saw her, her hand over her mouth, in a fit of silly giggling.

She kept on giggling, she was sure—the sound echoed in her head. But a scalding mortification filled her, as if he had just wiped the hand that had touched her on a handkerchief and discarded the latter as not worthy of ever being inside his pocket again.

He came to her and kissed her on her forehead. “Aren’t you proud of me?” he murmured, just loud enough for those nearest to overhear.

He touched her like this from time to time, decorously, always before an audience, and always with just a hint of loverly familiarity: a hand on the small of her back, a nudge with his shoulder, and once, a playful tug on her hat ribbon as he passed her.

She knew why he made such gestures. Without ever consulting each other, they played a pair of secretly devoted lovers, as if they’d been colleagues in the same theatrical production for years upon years.

She peered at him from underneath her eyelashes, the pad of her index finger alighting upon a still-wet button on his shirt. “Maybe.”

Their gazes held for a moment. Twin arrows of lust and pain pierced her person. It would be so much easier if he weren’t such a good actor—if in one brief look he didn’t make her feel as if he would give up his entire fortune for one night with her.

“My, my, Felix, what delicious dishabille!”

Startled, Louisa looked toward the speaker, a striking, raven-haired woman in a gown of burgundy and gold stripes.

Lady Tremaine. Back from her man-sampling up north.

She approached Lord Wrenworth, her gloved hands outstretched. “What is this, Felix? I go off for a few weeks and come back to find you married?”

Felix. Appalling intimacy, when everyone else, even his oldest friends, thought it quite adequate to adhere to his title or some variant thereof.

He did not seem to mind at all. “My dear,” he said to Louisa, “allow me to present the Marchioness of Tremaine. Lady Tremaine, Lady Wrenworth.”

The two women shook hands.

“We are so glad you could come, Lady Tremaine,” said Louisa. “And did you find the... charms of Scandinavia as delightful as you had hoped?”

Something flickered in Lady Tremaine’s eyes, as if she hadn’t expected such a cheeky question from the country bumpkin her former lover had married. “The salmon was certainly of exceptional quality everywhere. And may I tender my congratulations on your marriage. I am sure Lord Wrenworth is an exceedingly fortunate man to have won your hand.”

“He thanks his lucky stars every day,” Louisa said sweetly. She turned to him. “My dear, best change before you catch a chill.”

And then, to Lady Tremaine, “I’m sorry we didn’t have advance notice of your visit. But shall we get you settled?”

• • •

Later that afternoon, another guest arrived, an expected one this time, but one as unwelcome to Felix as Lady Tremaine must be to his wife.

Drummond.

The man had an uncanny nose for marital discord—and rarely hesitated to take advantage of a wife’s displeasure with her husband to present himself as everything the poor sod wasn’t. Such tendencies had scarcely mattered to Felix when he was a bachelor. And would have scarcely mattered to him as a married man, had he and his wife remained cocooned in erotic bliss.

But erotic bliss did not characterize the state of his marriage. And as Drummond monopolized Louisa after dinner, Felix felt as if he were an incarcerated convict who could only rattle the bars of his prison with impotent frustration as another man circled his wife, getting ready to exploit his absence.

“Well, tell me,” said Lady Tremaine, pulling his attention back to her. “Why did this girl succeed whereas so many before her have failed?”

She had beckoned him to her earlier; they stood in a corner of the drawing room, half separated from the rest of the crowd by a Japanese screen.

He settled for a noncommittal reply. “Excellent timing?”

She appeared skeptical. “I thought you planned to marry the female equivalent of Lord Vere—tremendous looks and very little brain.”

Would that he’d adhered to that laudable plan. “And you believed me?”

“I had no reason not to. Many men like that kind of woman.”

“Obviously I decided against a dim-witted wife.”

“She is rather sharp, your lady.” She leaned forward an inch. “And how do you like married life, by the way, Felix?”

He had not thought much of Lady Tremaine’s unexpected arrival—this was where she was accustomed to spending half of her August, so why should she not have availed herself of his hospitality, when she found herself back in England sooner than expected? He also had not thought much of her interest in his sudden marriage—it would have come as quite a surprise to her, since the last time they spoke he’d had no idea himself that his bachelor days were coming to an end.

But now he was beginning to be a little wary. There was something in the tone of her voice. Perhaps it had been there since she stepped into Huntington, but he’d been first too distracted by his wife’s touch on his shirt button, and then even more distracted by the sight of her smiling at Drummond, her fan fluttering prettily.

“Married life is more or less as I’d expected,” he answered, choosing his words carefully.

“What? No paean to marital felicity?”

“Since when do you believe in marital felicity?”

“You are right. What a vulgar concept—and quite beneath The Ideal Gentleman.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. My wife and I deal with each other very favorably, you will see. And I have every expectation we shall maintain great harmony in this house for decades to come.”

“Well, then, my congratulations,” said Lady Tremaine.

But he was already once again distracted. In the mirror above the mantel he could see his wife tapping on Drummond’s arm with the tip of her now-closed fan, in an almost flirtatious manner.

He’d thought she could not stand the man.

“Thank you, my dear. Now, if you will please excuse me, I believe Drummond has something he wants to say to me.”

Drummond, of course, didn’t yet know that he wanted to say anything to Felix. But Felix planned to steer him into a conversation about horseflesh. And if there was anything Drummond could not resist, it was a discussion on the making of a prizewinning stallion.

He set his hand for a fraction of a second on Louisa’s lower back, before placing an arm around Drummond’s shoulders. “I know firsthand how irresistible Lady Wrenworth’s company is, but I do believe Mallen was hoping to arrange a match between your Gibraltar and his Lady Burke.”

“Oh my!” exclaimed Drummond. “Lady Burke has a fascinating bloodline, from what I’ve heard—a worthy match for Gibraltar.”

“Forgive us,” Felix said to his wife, as he maneuvered Drummond away from her.

She nodded, a thin smile on her face. “Of course you are forgiven for every trespass, my lord. Always.”

• • •

For days, it had seemed that the house party would never end, that Louisa would always need to have her public demeanor firmly in place, sixteen hours a day. Then, abruptly, the last full day of the party was upon them.

The morning saw a vigorous tennis tournament. Louisa did not participate in the matches, but she was obliged to watch and applaud as her husband handed out one defeat after another.

For several days after the handkerchief incident, it had seemed as if she were made of cold ash, incapable of even the smallest embers of lust. She had thought that it would always be so, that his contempt had permanently smothered all her yearning.

Unfortunately that had not proved the case, especially at times like this, when she must keep her eyes on him to maintain her image of the devoted bride. So much athletic grace, so much stamina, so much cleverness and strategy—the angles of his shots were a thing of beauty—not to mention, from time to time, sheer physical dominance, when he simply overpowered an opponent with a muscular forehand.

It made her almost thankful for Mr. Drummond’s presence at her side. He did not criticize Lord Wrenworth’s technique or shot selection, but no one else escaped his criticism. And his constant faultfinding grated on her nerves just enough for her not to be prostrate with desire for the husband who did not reciprocate it.

Without that lust on his part, she was just a woman to whom he gave five thousand pounds a year, and who existed in the periphery of his life as a mobile ornament for the estate.

After luncheon, it began to rain. Many of those who had taken part in the tennis tournament were down for a nap, in order to be in top form for the bonfire party in the evening. Of those left awake, the ladies stayed in their rooms to write letters and the gentlemen made use of the billiard room. For once, Huntington was quiet and relaxed.

Louisa retreated to the window alcove in the library, to spend time with a volume on the care and proper operation of telescopes. It was a wonderful book, tailored to a novice, the explanations detailed yet clear—or at least she thought so. She could be reading a housekeeping manual, for all she knew.

Why had he married her at all?

And was that the limit of her womanly appeal, all exhausted in a single night?

He made her miss the man who had baldly schemed to make her his mistress. At least that man had wanted her enough to take risks and damn the consequences. Whereas this man...

A thousand times she had cautioned herself against trusting him. But stupidly, she had been anxious only that she should not translate the physical pleasures he would give her into cascading verses of love. That he would distance himself from her during the honeymoon itself—the thought had never even crossed her mind.

The door of the library opened. The alcove was hidden behind a bookshelf that could slide along on concealed rails. It offered wonderful privacy, but on the other hand, the bookshelf, its back entirely paneled, made it difficult for Louisa to see who had come into the library.

But the sound of the gait was nothing like her husband’s. A woman, most probably. The woman made a round in the library and left after less than a minute.

A light fog had descended on the lake along with the rain, obscuring the opposite bank like a gauzy curtain. But now that curtain drew apart and Louisa found herself looking directly at the Greek folly.

A marble-columned pavilion stands by this lake.

A quick sentence in a matter-of-fact guidebook, yet in those days when he had tormented her with the possibility of becoming his mistress, she had concocted an entire three-act play around that setting. Act I: The girl, staring longingly at the great manor from across the lake, is ravished in the shadows of the pavilion. Act II: The girl, staring longingly at her evilly perfect lover, is ravished all across the grounds of his extensive estate. Act III: The girl, back home after a fortnight of ravishment, stumbling about like an empty shell of her former self, hears the doorbell ring at a most unusual hour.

A two-and-a-half-act play, rather: The clear-eyed realist that she was had never been able to picture opening the door of her house to him. The real Lord Wrenworth would not call, write, or send presents. She would just have to wait months upon months before staring longingly at him again.

Then he’d proposed, and her world had turned upside down in the most pleasurable way. And she had forgotten that around him she always needed her shield and her sword. Had walked into the dragon’s lair na**d and unarmed, with nothing but the foolish conviction that the dragon would never incinerate a girl he liked.

But looking back, ought she to have been surprised? He had deliberately made her simmer in a state of arousal at the dinner at Lady Tenwhestle’s house. He had clearly enjoyed informing her that her preferred suitors were both deeply flawed. Not to mention he had never experienced the slightest qualm about enticing a respectably raised virgin to sell her body.

Why shouldn’t such a man prove himself capricious and heartless?

The door of the library opened and closed again.

“There is no one here,” said a woman. “I came through just a minute ago.”

Lady Tremaine.

“And pray tell, why is the lack of a public so important?” That serene voice belonged to none other than Louisa’s husband.

“Privacy is always nice, don’t you agree?”

He chuckled but gave no reply.

They were coming closer. There was a rustling of fabric, the sound of a woman sitting down and adjusting her skirts. “Care for a seat, Felix?”

Lady Tremaine sounded as if she were speaking directly into Louisa’s ear.

“I will be able to better admire your toilette, Philippa, from my superior vantage point right here,” he answered.

There was a smile in his voice, a cool smile.

Lady Tremaine laughed, a sultry sound. “Look all you want, Felix.”

A long pause. Lurid images exploded in Louisa’s head. Then Lady Tremaine spoke again. She did not sound as if there were a man pressed against her. “Congratulations on your stellar results in the tennis tournament.”

“Thank you.”

“You were very, very vigorous.”

“I am a man of twenty-eight, rusticating in the country. If I didn’t abound with energy, I’d need to consult my physician.”

“You are also a man on your honeymoon. Shouldn’t you have conserved a bit of stamina for pleasuring your wife?”

“Your concern is very kind. But I am sure I will somehow gather the wherewithal to see my wife to her satisfaction.”

Liar.

“Maybe you can, but are you? For every day of my stay, I have seen you from my window at half past four in the morning, coming back into the house.”

It was hardly news to Louisa. But that Lady Tremaine should know about it... She flushed with hot shame.

Lord Wrenworth did not address Lady Tremaine’s point, but instead asked, “What were you doing up at half past four in the morning?”

“Having trouble sleeping, obviously.”

The sound of rustling silk again, and of someone standing up. Footsteps. Louisa imagined Lady Tremaine circling Lord Wrenworth like a she-wolf about to pounce.

“I have been observing your wife. I do not believe she loves you. I do not even believe she likes you.”

He was silent for a long time. Louisa hoped he was at least chagrined that anyone would toss such a thing in his face. It was almost enough to make her embrace Lady Tremaine in friendship.

“My wife does not like to make her sentiments public,” he said at last. “What she feels, only she and I know.”

Lady Tremaine snorted at his answer. “So I’m right, then. Don’t worry; I won’t demand to know the why and wherefore of her sentiments. Or yours. I am interested only in what you can do to help me sleep better.”

Louisa found it difficult to remain quiet. She seemed to be able to take in air only in huge gulps. Even with her hands over her mouth, her trembling inhalations echoed in her hiding space.

“Since we are both awake in the middle of the night,” continued Lady Tremaine, “come and make love to me instead. At least you know I like you. In fact, sometimes I adore you.”

“Hmm, a tempting offer,” he said.

“One that you’d regret declining.”

“Would I?” His words were low and soft.

“You remember what it was like.” Lady Tremaine’s voice was all willful seduction. “We were magnificent together.”

“I remember.”

“Midnight, then.”

“I haven’t said I’d come.”

“You’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t you?”

And she departed on that triumphant note, walking out of the library. The closing of the door echoed in the silence.

Louisa gasped when the bookshelf was pushed aside.

“I thought you might be here,” her husband said coolly, as if he hadn’t just failed to turn down an invitation to adultery.

And what should she say in return? Sleep with her and I will give you a concussion with my telescope stand?

“Yes,” she said, “it’s a comfortable spot. Pretty view, too.”

“I will leave you to your reading, then.”

“Thank you,” she said politely.

Then she bent her face to her book, indicating that she had nothing else to say to him.

A few seconds later, the bookshelf slid back into place, shutting her in.

• • •

Felix remained where he was.

He wanted to leave, but his feet were rooted in place, and his hands kept reaching out to push the bookshelf aside again. Madly enough, he didn’t want to shove her against the wall and claim her with the force of an asteroid strike. In his mind, he sat down next to her and together they watched the clouds depart in the wake of the rain, revealing a clear, spotless afternoon sky.

He left only when he must, to supervise the preparation of the fire pit, with an emptiness in his heart that felt, unhappily, all too familiar.

Along with a strange anxiety.

He wasn’t worried about what Lady Tremaine might or might not do. He knew her very well: If she wanted him, it was only as a distraction—something about her Scandinavian trip had upset her.

His wife, on the other hand...

On bonfire nights, no formal dinners were laid out. Instead, a buffet supper was served on the grand terrace, which had been lit with dozens of lanterns suspended from a pergola set up specifically for the occasion.

His sense of misgiving doubled when she appeared on the terrace clad in the same dinner gown she’d worn on their wedding night. Without looking left or right, she went directly to Drummond, who bowed and kissed her hand.

They stood by the balustrade and chatted, ignoring the buffet supper altogether. As they spoke, with only the barest nod at subtlety, Drummond inched toward her. She seemed perfectly conversant with the game. From time to time, she would rest the tip of her closed fan against his chest, to slow his inexorable progress. And once in a while, she would slide a foot to the left, to keep a respectable distance between them.

Then, all of a sudden, not only did she stop moving away, she leaned toward Drummond. And when he lowered his head to say something in her ear, she tilted her face and gave him a sideways smile.

A smile that spoke of a Greek folly lit by torches, of slender columns that could barely conceal a grown woman, and of hot, frantic coupling in the shadows, perhaps only a few yards from those who oohed and ahhed over the display of fireworks.

In the wake of the smile, she whispered to Drummond and pointed to the very pavilion across the water, the one Felix could not look at without an echoing sense of loss.

She left Drummond with a flirtatious caress of her fan down his arm, to mix with the other guests. Felix felt as if there were a hand at his throat, choking him. He had not agreed to an adulterous affair; surely she could recall that. He had not turned down Lady Tremaine flat because he had not wanted to interrogate her on why she was propositioning him out of the blue, knowing that they were not truly alone.

He found Lady Tremaine and led her down to the lawn, out of earshot of the others. “Regretting it yet?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do know what I mean. You were wondering whether to have a headache or pretend to be too drunk when I showed up at midnight.”

She sighed. “Why must you know me so well?”

“I assume it’s not anything your Scandinavian lovers said or did.” He doubted that she’d had any lovers at all; she was not the sort to sleep with a man on a short acquaintance.

She looked away. “Tremaine was in Copenhagen.”

Her permanently absent husband. “At his sister’s house?”

“No. I mean, I’m sure that’s where he was staying, but we ran into each other quite accidentally.” She exhaled. “And he had a woman with him.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It’s just the shock of it. I will be all right in no time.”

He touched her on her arm. “Come back at Christmas. I’ll pack the house with handsome men and you can have your pick.”

She laughed rather valiantly, her hand reaching up to adjust the scarf his valet had draped about his neck against the eventual chill of the night. “That’s right—instead of the ugly men you usually host.”

Her barely-beneath-the-surface pain reverberated inside his own chest. He was feeling too much these days—and no longer knew how to stop.

He squeezed her hand. “I will even get rid of the homelier footmen, just for you.”

They both laughed rather valiantly at that. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Felix.”

And of course his wife would choose that moment to look his way, her gaze hardening into daggers.

• • •

At ten minutes to midnight, Felix walked into the folly.

His wife was already there, her hand on a pillar, looking toward the bonfire on the opposite shore of the lake. He still couldn’t quite believe it—that she had arranged a rendezvous with a man she actively disliked, just to spite him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, this house?” she said without glancing behind her. “I used to study a tiny picture of it, and imagine how it would look in person, lit up like this, impossibly majestic against the night.”

He had come to tell her that he had already dispatched Drummond—by letting it be known that a man to whom Drummond owed a large gaming debt would be among those coming to watch the fireworks at midnight. Drummond had fled almost before Felix had stopped speaking, rather to Felix’s disappointment. He would have preferred to enjoy the man’s panic for a bit longer.

Her head tilted up. “And such stars. Have I ever told you of my interest in astronomy? I have always been intrigued by the night sky, ever since I was a child. To think that there is a vast universe out there, full of deep, marvelous unknowns.”

She had never told him, directly, of her fascination with the stars. Never allowed him to share her sense of wonder.

“But you didn’t come to hear me prattle on. Please proceed with what we’ve agreed upon.”

He felt a burning in his throat. What we’ve agreed upon.

What had they agreed upon?

He meant to speak, to let her know that Drummond had vacated the premises. Instead, he found himself standing directly behind her, his hands on her cool, bare arms.

She trembled. With disgust—or desire? How could she feel anything for that dunce, whom Felix tolerated only because he was nephew to Felix’s former guardian?

He kissed her hair, the lobe of her ear, the side of her neck, his fingers spreading over her collarbone.

“Such a workmanlike approach, sir. No praise for my slender throat or my velvety skin?”

He bit her shoulder in response, not hard, just enough for her to emit a sob of arousal.

“Did you bring the blindfold?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

His hand tightened. That, too, was a fantasy that belonged to them. She couldn’t have displayed a little originality and found something different for Drummond to do?

He took off his scarf and used it to blindfold her.

She turned around. A little hesitantly, her hand lifted and felt its way to his jaw. Could she not tell that it was him?

“I used to dream of riding in a glass carriage, na**d and blindfolded. There was a man in the carriage with me. It doesn’t matter who the man was. All that matters is that—”

He silenced her with a hard kiss. He could take no more of her cruel words; nor could he care anymore that he was giving in to his obsession.

She kissed him back almost as bruisingly, her hands gripping his hair. He pushed her against the pillar as she dragged his shirt up, her hands hungry for his skin.

He had no recollection of either shoving aside her skirts or freeing himself from the encumbrance of his trousers. The next thing he knew was a desperate upward plunge as he entered her—and the gasps that echoed between them.

The ferocity of her lips, the avarice of her hands, the sheer, agonizing scorch of her person. He didn’t know how he remembered to clamp a palm over her mouth—perhaps only when he heard someone calling, from no more than fifteen feet away, “Quick. The fireworks are about to start.”

Their own fireworks ignited first. He barely protested before surrendering to the demonic pleasures of her body clenching and shuddering about his.

She was heavenly. Her hair smelled of chamomile, her skin was paradise, her h*ps beneath his hands sweetly pliant.

But reality seeped back, winding a cord of dismay around his heart, softly, nearly imperceptibly. Then there came a sharp, cruel yank.

She’d let Drummond touch her. Invade her. Spill his seed inside her.

He stumbled back a step. Then another.

Her breaths were still erratic, but she calmly shook and rearranged her skirts. Just as calmly, she took off her blindfold.

The hour was late and the torches that lit the pavilion were guttering. But he could see her face clearly, and she must see his just as well. He waited for her shock and outrage. Neither came. She only cast him a look halfway between desire and loathing, turned, and walked away.

He reached out and grabbed her by the arm. “I was never going to sleep with Lady Tremaine.”

She pried his hand from her person. “And I told Drummond to stay away from the pavilion, because of the wasps.”

And then she was gone, marching to the explosion of fireworks overhead.

• • •

It was not long after Louisa lay down in bed that her husband joined her. He didn’t speak, but only kissed and caressed her in the darkness, until she could no longer remain still and silent.

He spread her arms to the sides, linked their fingers together, and drove into her, wreaking havoc with every thrust.

She lost count of the number of times he brought her to pleasure. Enough to make tears roll down her face, when she was once again alone, sometime in the small hours of the night.