Free The Chadwick Ring by Julia Jeffries Page A

then he blurted, “Madame instructed me to tell you most humbly that she regrets the incident at Vauxhall Gardens Tuesday last and she hopes that you will forgive her her ill temper and will not allow it to affect your ... your relationship.”
    The marquess regarded him enigmatically. “A most ... intimate message to be carried by a third party. I wonder why Amalie did not choose to write it.”
    Even Ginevra could have advised Ferris that when the marquess’s voice became quiet, too quiet, it was prudent to avoid taxing him further, but she no longer monitored the men’s conversation. She had sunk back against the squabs, her face as colorless as the bleached straw of her bonnet. Amalie de Villeneuve—who was she? No, no, better not to ask. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to think about this London lady who pursued Lord Chadwick, who wanted him not for a debutante daughter but for herself. Who had already had him.
    Ginevra felt sick. Ever since that world-shattering moment earlier in the day when her husband kissed her, she had moved in a daze, flattered by his attention, hypnotized by his charm. He enticed her with every glance from those compelling blue eyes, and she succumbed, forgetting completely the sort of man he was. He was a rake, a libertine, a practitioner of the seductive arts since before she was born. Against him a green girl like herself was utterly defenseless. She shivered with disgust at the incipient tenderness she had left for him, the childish hope that they might be “friends.” How could she overlook the fact that he had married her to acquire a piece of property? He cared nothing for her personally. He hadn’t bothered to invite anyone to the ceremony, and he intended to spend no more than the minimum acceptable time alone with her in the country. With his deceitful tongue he wove poignant images of a man forced to curtail his honeymoon out of duty to his sovereign, but in truth he was probably anxious to return to London to the arms of his mistress, the one he had flaunted publicly not a week before the wedding.
    Chadwick’s voice, thick with cynical amusement, penetrated Ginevra’s brown study. “Why do I have the suspicion that Amalie sent you to spy upon my bride?”
    The small man stammered, “My lord, forgive me, I ... I beg y-you! Madame was most insistent, and I ... I dared not contravene her. When she becomes angry—”
    “Yes, I know what Amalie is like,” Chadwick said dryly. “I do not blame you for fearing her, but I am afraid I cannot let you accede to her orders. My wife is not to be ogled like an animal in a zoo. I think yon had better be on your way, Ferris.”
    “M-my lord—”
    “Ferris, I said go!” The marquess’s voice was cold and implacable. “If Amalie is cross with you, tell her I said to remember who pays your salary—and her rent.”
    The man snapped to a salute. “Yes, my lord!” He jumped into the curricle and whipped the horses to a gallop, spraying gravel as the light vehicle careened down the driveway.
    Chadwick returned to the carriage. He smiled and said, “Forgive the delay, my dear. I know you must be anxious to go inside.”
    Ginevra blinked. Was this all there was to be, a casual dismissal and nothing more? He must know she had heard some of his conversation with the other man. Would he not offer some explanation of why his name was coupled with that of another woman even after the banns had been called?
    Chadwick said, “Ginevra, are you coming?”
    She looked down, and her eyes were caught by the flash of sunlight on her rings. Of course there would be no explanation—for there would be no inquiry. She was Lord Chadwick’s wife now, and wives did not ask such questions. If a man pursued his lightskirts even after marriage, his wife must pretend ignorance of his activities. She was expected to console herself with the protection of his name and perhaps even be grateful that other women diverted his unwelcome attentions