Page 43 of Unmasking the Silver Heiress
"Do you like it?" she asked, her voice coming out of her mouth so softly that she barely heard herself.
He blinked, that reassuring pleasantness sliding back over his face, his lips curving into his most charming smile. "Eleanor," he said in his honey-smooth voice, “you look lovely."
Chapter 20
As a rule, Nate usually enjoyed social events. It was a chance to flex his political muscles, to learn and study people, and of course to wear smart clothing and eat exceptional fare. In fact, he would wager his fortune that he had never in his life wished so desperately to foregoanysocial obligation as much as he did the dinner at La Falaise tonight.
The last week had been trying enough, attempting to give his little wife the time and patience a woman required in the wake of her first intimate encounter. Nate had heard it mentioned once, between gentlemen ribbing a prospective groom one night at White's, that the way to a happy marital bed was to allow one's wife to initiate the second encounter, once she had recovered from a likely painful initiation. Attempting to stick to this nugget of wisdom was proving to be next to impossible.
If they hadn't been interrupted the morning after in the ballroom, things might have progressed immediately, but the appearance of Lady Dempierre and the subsequent discovery of the cellars had thrown everything askew. He'd had to bribe Kit with promises of his favorite meals and assistance in his work with the orchard deeds to get him to appear every day, serving as a buffer between the two of them should Nate lose his battle against his baser impulses.
This had proved equal parts effective and infuriating, especially with Kit's obvious ongoing amusement at the very concept of his marriage.
Tonight, though, it was as though the fatal blow had been dealt to his composure. He was under no illusion that he hadn't become extremely attracted to his wife, but he had not even considered, much less come to terms with, the prospect of every red-blooded man who saw her feeling the same. If she'd had gowns like this one and a maid so attentive during London, she'd have been swept up in her first Season, likely with a pack of suitors to choose from ravening at her heels.
He wasn't sure which was more tempting, the finished product or the vision she'd presented when he first walked in, corseted into her underthings with much flesh on display as her maid attended her hair, her lips glossy with rose oil and her cheeks warm and pink.
In the gown, her petite frame was lusciously curvaceous, emphasized by the dress he'd chosen at the whims of his own taste, without properly considering the consequences of seeing her in it. To his credit, it suited her very, very well. Too well. What had he been thinking, putting her in red?
Her coffee-brown hair was coiled over her shoulder, brushing the ribbon tied snugly about her slender, pale throat. Her breasts, which had always been effectively hidden from his view until that night they'd spent together, swelled temptingly over the lacy neckline, and when she turned her eyes up to meet his, that stormy, silvery blue was so striking that he'd felt his breath catch.
He wanted to do nothing else but drink in the vision of her in that dress almost as much as he wanted to remove it from her with extreme haste. Instead, he'd pressed his thumbnail into his palm and forced himself into his well-practiced charm and calm, assuring her that she looked well enough and that they must be off soon.
She had smiled in relief at his assurances, seemingly believing whatever he said at face value. She had crossed the room and retrieved a list of tasks for her maid, balancing her spectacles onto the upturned tip of her nose for a moment to review her own scribblings while he stood frozen in place, somehow even more enflamed by those silly, round frames appearing briefly on her face than he had been by the vision of her fit for portraiture.
He was the first to acknowledge that it was a strange thing to suddenly take issue with having an attractive wife, when he had been primed to marry a celebrated beauty with no concerns about the fact whatsoever. He couldn't make sense of it, nor did he particularly want to. He could keep control of his emotions, however irrational and overpowering they might be.
The drive through Dover was slower than it might otherwise have been, due to the foggy snowbank and iced slickness on the roads. Still, they made excellent time, and were fortunate enough to arrive at the doors of La Falaise amidst a retinue of other guests.
Nell clung to his side, her scent wafting up and coiling around him like a serpent as several passersby cast lengthy glances in her direction. She was gracious and pleasant, greeting everyone in impeccable French, her schoolgirl etiquette on bright display as they were led into a brightly lit antechamber, already dressed with garland for Yuletide.
When he reached up to pat her hand, he noted that she was wearing the wedding band he'd had made for her. He felt a twinge of regret that he had not remembered to wear the matching ring he'd commissioned for himself. A symbol signifying that they were a pair, belonging to one another, would have perhaps soothed some of his ruffled feathers at the prospect of others seeing her like this.
He did recognize the names of a few of the attendees, from their participation in the London Season and their stature amongst theton. Two of the gentlemen in attendance had British wives, which at the very least did not leave them the only outliers in a very French affair.
The Dempierres waited until most of the party was assembled before making their appearances. They arrived just as their staff went about opening up the doors to a lavish dining room, descending down their grand staircase with regal bearing, assured that their entrance had been properly noted. The patriarch of the family was not nearly so pleasing to the eye as his wife and daughter, with modest bearing and very little hair on his head.
The daughter, Giselle, seemed to hone in on Eleanor immediately, her eyes sparkling with what appeared to be genuine excitement as she rushed over to greet them. She was dressed very lightly for winter, her hair coiled up and wrapped in a vibrant blue ribbon. She seemed completely uninterested in the several young men who attempted to greet her as she cut her path between the staircase and the Atlases.
"Oh, that gown was my favorite of the lot! I'm so pleased that you chose to wear it tonight!" she gushed by way of hello, taking Nell's free hand and grasping it between her own. "You clever thing, hiding what a beauty you are until the opportune moment. I can positively feel the buzz of envy already!"
"Envy?" Nell repeated with a genuine laugh. "I think not."
"Oh," Gigi said, her eyes going wide in astonishment as she lifted her gaze from Nell's to Nathaniel's. "She doesn't know."
"Hello, Lady Giselle," Nate replied, giving the girl a conspiratorial twist of the lips, which won him a brilliant smile.
"Just Giselle is fine, or Gigi, if you like! My parents cling to gentry, but I've never known it. Come, you will be seated near to me. I promise you've never had gooseberry cheese so divine in all your life!" She motioned for the two of them to follow her amongst the throng of others filing into the dining area, oblivious to the assembled hopefuls who had intended to speak with her before the meal.
"What don't I know?" Nell whispered, turning those lovely gray eyes up to him, blinking with those feathered lashes in earnest confusion.
He chuckled, wishing they were not in public just now, so that he might demonstrate to her the effect of her beauty tonight. Instead, he waited until they had taken their seats and leaned over to press a kiss into her cheek. Into her ear, he whispered softly that she might look at a certain gentleman to their left, who had been gaping at her for long enough that the woman seated tohisleft was now glaring.
She shivered, the fine hairs rising on her delectable little neck at the warmth of his breath. She turned her head toward his, close enough for their eyes to meet while they still might communicate in whispers. "I don't know that man at all," she insisted.
"No, of course you don't," he replied with amusement. "And he wishes to remedy that error post-haste in the most Biblical sense of the phrase."
Color flooded to her face, her eyes widening with understanding. "Oh, but I would never—!"
