“How chaste of you. I speak of Lord Wrenworth, Lord Acton, and the Honorable Mr. Williams.”
She sucked in a breath. How did he know? She'd been ever so careful, ever so discreet.
“Your mother wrote me.” He watched her, evidently enjoying her mounting dismay. “Of course, she only wished for me to fly into a jealous rage and hurry across the ocean to reclaim you as my own. I'm sure you will forgive her.”
If there ever existed extenuating circumstances for matricide, this was it. First thing tomorrow, she'd set loose two dozen famished goats in Mrs. Rowland's prized greenhouse. Then she'd corner the market on hair dyes and force the woman to show her graying roots.
“You have a choice,” he said amicably. “We can resolve it privately. Or we can have sworn testimonies from these gentlemen. You know every word they utter would be in all the papers.”
She blanched. Freddie was her very own human miracle, steadfast and loyal, loving her enough to willingly take part in all the hassle and ugliness of a divorce. But would he still love her when all her former lovers had testified to their affairs on public record?
“Why are you doing this?” Her voice rose. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Any emotion she displayed before Tremaine was a show of weakness. “I had my solicitors send you a dozen letters. You never responded. We could have had this marriage annulled with some dignity, without having to go through this circus.”
“And here I thought my lack of response adequately conveyed what I thought of your idea.”
“I offered you one hundred thousand pounds!”
“I'm worth twenty times that. But even if I hadn't a sou, that's not quite enough for me to stand before Her Majesty's magistrate and swear that I never touched you. We both know perfectly well that I shagged you to a fare-thee-well.”
She flinched and grew hot. Unfortunately, not entirely from anger. The memories of that night—no, she would not think about it. She had forgotten it already. “This is about Miss von Schweppenburg, isn't it? You are still trying to punish me.”
He gave her one of his cool stares that used to turn her knees to pudding. “Now, why would you think that?”
And what could she say? What could she say without dragging up their entire complicated and bitter history? She swallowed. “Fine,” she said, as indifferently as she could. “I have an evening engagement to keep. But I should be home about ten. I can permit you a quarter hour from half past ten.”
He laughed. “As impatient as always, my dear marchioness. No, tonight I will not be visiting you. I'm weary from my travels. And now that I've seen you, I'll need a few more days to get over my revulsion. But rest assured, I shall not be bound by any asinine time limits. I will stay in your bed for as long as I want, not a minute less—and not a minute more, no matter how you plead.”
Her jaw dropped from sheer stupefaction. “That is the most rid—”
He suddenly leaned toward her and placed an index finger over her lips. “I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you. You will not enjoy eating those words.”
She jerked her head away, her lips burning. “I would not want you to remain in my bed if you were the last man alive and I'd had nothing but Spanish flies for a fortnight.”
“What images you bring to mind, my lady Tremaine. With every man in the world perfectly alive and no aphrodisiacs at all, you were already a tigress.” He pushed away from the desk. “I've had all I can take of you for a day. I wish you a pleasant evening. Do convey my regards to your beloved. I hope he doesn't mind my exercises in conjugal rights.”
He left without a backward glance.
And not for the first time.
Lady Tremaine watched the door closing behind her husband and rued the day she first learned of his existence.
Chapter Two
Eleven years earlier . . .
London
July 1882
Eighteen-year-old Gigi Rowland gloated. She hoped she wasn't too obvious, but then, she didn't really care. What could the bejeweled, beplumed women in Lady Beckwith's drawing room possibly say? That she lacked becoming modesty? That she was hard-edged and arrogant? That she reeked of pound notes?
They had predicted, at the beginning of her London season, that she would be an unqualified disaster, a girl with no class, no comportment, no clue. But lo and behold, only two months into the season and she was already engaged—to a duke, a young, handsome one no less. Her Grace the Duchess of Fairford. She liked the sound of it. She liked it tremendously.