Free A Most Improper Rumor by Emma Wildes

been a little queasy, it was now. Although despite his reserve and tendency toward secrecy, she was sure he would never be unfaithful.
    But could she deny that many men in the beau monde married for duty and had mistresses for pleasure? Her mouth compressed lightly as she tugged on her gloves, making sure they were adjusted just right above her elbow.
    The woman acknowledged her as she passed in a swirl of velvet and perfume, just a slight inclination of her head, and Alicia could swear she looked familiar and yet again was just as certain they had never been introduced.
    The scenario took her aback, her thoughts arrested, and then Ben was there to grasp her elbow in a light clasp, his face impassive. “You’re certain you wish for us to see this performance?”
    “Absolutely,” she murmured, allowing him to escort her through the throng.
    “Shakespeare.” His voice held a certain resignation. “Scottish kings, I imagine, and bloodthirsty relatives, and God only knows what sort of other melodrama.”
    “Don’t you admit people do act that way from time to time?”
    “In plays, yes.”
    “I think in life they can be far more dramatic. Who was that woman?”
    Their box was warm and empty, though he’d thoughtfully had champagne delivered, for it sat in a silver bucket on a pedestal. “To whom are you referring?” Her husband stood politely until she sat down.
    “The one you were talking to before we caught up with each other. Red hair and a remarkable figure.”
    For a moment she thought he might deny it, but then he merely said, “Ah, Mrs. Dulcet.”
    The name was vaguely familiar. Alicia thought maybe she’d heard it in connection with a venerable duke. “I don’t believe I have ever seen her before.”
    “She is recently returned to town.”
    “How do you know her?”
    “She has proved useful in the past.” He fished the dripping bottle from the ice bath.
    As that could be interpreted in several ways, Alicia blinked, and studiously considered her response. “By useful, do you mean . . . that the two of you—”
    “Good God, my dear, not
that
,” he muttered, correctly reading the expression on her face, the champagne cork making a soft sound as he opened the bottle. “No. Not that.”
    What am I supposed to think?
Though those words were tempting, she said quietly instead, “She’s very beautiful and you just stood and ignored me while you talked to her for quite a long while, or at least it seemed so.”
    “Ignored you?” He sat down and reached for the tray of glasses. “Never. Rest assured I am aware of you at all times. It seemed to me you were engrossed in some sort of discussion with your sister and her circle of friends.”
    The startling fact was she believed him; the not-so-startling fact was he had circumvented the question. That was Ben. “Who is she?”
    “I think I just told you. Mrs. Dulcet.” He handed over a glass of sparkling wine. “Which abysmal performance are we seeing? If you say
Hamlet
, I must toss back most of the bottle right now.”
    “No.
The Tempest
.”
    “Ah. Books drowned in water and blue-eyed hags. I still might need more refreshment. Have I mentioned I like that color on you?”
    It was odd, but when he tried to be witty, he succeeded admirably, but he usually didn’t try.
    “Blue-eyed hag?” she asked dryly since her gown was actually blue.
    “I was referring to the play.” And he laughed as he rarely did, the mirth seeming to be spontaneous. “I meant that color of silk, no hags involved. Would you prefer some cool water?”
    Another lesson learned about her husband. Only when he didn’t want her to pursue a certain line of questioning did he seek to charm. Usually he was polite—well,
always
polite—but not with an intent to divert. It wasn’t obvious, but she’d learned that much about him.
    “I would prefer water,” she admitted. The pregnancy made her queasy only at times, but the episodes were unexpected and she wasn’t