Free The Reluctant Marquess by Maggi Andersen Page B

The baby, christened James Ord, was to be sent to be raised by Catholics in America.
    Charity could hardly believe her ears, and indeed wished to cover them, as one witty man listed in very droll fashion all the women the prince had bedded before the tender age of one and twenty.
    Charity sat to rest her aching feet, declining another glass of champagne. She hadn’t noticed how many glasses she’d drunk through the course of the evening. It would not do to appear drunk here, and although she’d never suffered such a fate, she felt that she was in danger of it.
    When she could bear no more, she went in search of her husband. She found him at the card table. He looked up at her blankly as if he didn’t recognize her.
    Charity quaked and lowered her gaze, saying, “I wish to go home, my lord.”
    Robert threw down his cards. “I’m out.” He looked in a challenging fashion around the assembled group, and tossed a pile of coins into the mix of paper money and wagers in the center of the table. Shoving back his chair, he bowed to the men.
    “Gentlemen. I shall have to wait until another evening to remove you of your funds.”
    “Take care, St Malin. You may not win at home, either,” a red-haired man said. Their laughter followed Charity and Robert from the room.
    Robert glowered as they sought out their hostess. “Don’t ever do that again,” he said in a fierce undertone.
    He complimented Lady Arabella on the success of her ball.
    She tilted her head and smiled at him flirtatiously, accepting his praise with grace while managing to completely ignore Charity.
    Charity wanted to apologize for embarrassing him in the card room, but his rigid profile made her hold her tongue as they made their way to the front door.
    “Bring out our coats and send for my carriage,” Robert told a footman.
    While they waited, Charity yawned behind a gloved hand. As the fresh air hit her, she felt suddenly dizzy and gripped his arm when she stumbled over her feet.
    Robert’s frown faded, and his eyes softened. “It’s been quite an evening, for you, hasn’t it?” He arranged her cape over her shoulders. Placing his hand lightly on her back, he escorted her to the entrance.
    Charity felt weak with relief at having made it through the evening without disgracing herself or Robert. But it had taken its toll. She felt so exhausted, her knees trembled as she climbed the carriage steps.
    They were driven through the dim London streets. Two link boys passed them, lighting the way for a sedan chair, for the streets were dark. Street lamps went out at eleven she had been told. Charity yawned again, her head spinning. She tried to count how many glasses of champagne she’d drunk during the course of the evening.
    A town-crier called the hour. Only a few hours until dawn.
    Robert quizzed her on the evening, whom she had met, and whom she had liked and disliked. She hoped she gave a rather droll description of Lord Branchford’s opinion of Oxford, pleased when she made Robert laugh. But her tongue felt thick and refused to form the words and she lapsed into silence. A swerve of the carriage threw her against him. His arm came round her shoulders to steady her, and he left it there. Her head drooped against his shoulder, and she rested, enjoying his clean, manly smell far more than those with whom she’d been dancing, where the heavy use of scent failed to disguise the rank smell of stale sweat. She was not used to staying up so late. The rhythmic clunk of the carriage wheels on the cobbles proved soporific, and her eyelids grew heavy.
    She peeped up at his handsome profile in the half-dark. It was not done for a woman to show affection for her husband in public. She’d heard a woman at the ball criticize a wife for kissing her husband too demonstrably. In fact, it didn’t seem fashionable to love one’s husband at all. Affairs could be arranged if any of the gossip she’d overheard could be believed.
    If it was discreet, few appeared to