Page 71 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
She certainly could offer no suppositions, and the play of firelight over the muscled planes of his chest and abdomen almost distracted her entirely. He must have seen her glazed, lust-filled look, must have known what her slack mouth and lack of response meant. He led her toward the bed, wrapped her in his arms, and dragged her down with him so that he sat against the headboard, and she sat across his lap.
“I think,” he said, “Pentshire means to take another bride.”
“No!” She could not imagine that always jolly and joking man doing anything like that.
“What other reason could he have?”
“But… but he does not need to marry a woman with a title. Does he need funds?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Then what possible reason could he have for hiding one wife in order to marry another?”
Theo shrugged, his gaze roving over her nearly undressed state, her unbound hair, down the length of her legs and over the curves of her feet. “Men do bad things for very little reason.” His words distracted, his voice hoarse as his hands began to roam her body.
But she could not find distraction in his touch. Nothing quite made sense. “How will you find out why he married her only to hide her? No, not hide her. She’s living here. Almost as his wife. Because she is his wife!” She jumped to her feet, chewed her fingernail. None of it made sense, and the implications shredded her good opinion of the man. Perhaps she should not have formed them to begin with. But both he and Miss Mires had seemed so happy living in scandal, and no one at the party seemed to mind overly much. They’d reacted with more vehemence to her past with Simon than to Miss Mires. And she’d never judge, not when she’d been judged so often herself, and falsely. She knew the weight of that, the eternal herculean effort to wear a smile and think the best despite everyone believing the worst.
Behind her, the mattress creaked, and Theo exhaled a heavy sigh. “I’m not worried about the why, Delia. Not right now at least. Come back.”
She whirled, palms upright, demanding he place an answer there. “Why bring her here and put her on such public display when he has no intentions of acknowledging her position, her true relationship to him?” He sat on the edge of the mattress, legs spread wide, and she stepped between them, smoothed her palms over his shoulders. “Will you ask him tomorrow?”
He pulled her down onto his leg, kissed her neck. “No.”
“But of course you will.” What if… what if Miss Mires needed help of some sort?
“Think it through, love.”
The word, dropped so casually from his lips, startled her, but he barreled forward as if he’d not consciously chosen it, as if it were of no consequence.
“If I speak to him on the matter, and he tells me anything, I cannot publish any drawings about it. He’ll know who drew them as good as if I published them under my own name.”
Some dark doubt gnawed at her. “ThenI’llask him.”
“We’re to marry. And husband and wife”—he kissed her cheek, her jaw—“have no secrets from one another. He’ll still have good cause to suspect me.”
“It doesn’t feel right.”
“This feels very right.” He nipped her ear.
“No. I don’t meanthat.” She jumped to her feet. “I mean publishing private information regarding Lord Pentshire and Miss Mires without knowing the full story.”
He sighed, falling back onto the bed, arms flailing out wide. “It’s not ideal, but it’s the best I’ve got. The pristine Earl of Pentshire hasn’t just got a mistress in the country, living with him, he’s got a wife pretending to be a mistress.” He shook his head. “Damn odd, if you ask me.”
“Askhim!” She jumped to her feet. “Ask him why. Discover the circumstances. They cannot be nefarious. I like Lord Pentshire. And I like Miss Mires, and I do not want to see them hurt.”
“You don’t know them,” he groaned.
She marched to the table. The drawing he’d been working on when she arrived still lay in the middle of the desk, surrounded by other scattered and torn bits of paper, by inkblots and half-finished ideas. The paper felt thick between her fingers and already cool to the touch, and she brought it closer to the fire to better see it. The creak of the mattress told her he’d shifted somehow, but she did not look. The drawing in her hands, though half-penciled and half-inked, began to make sense.
“Oh, Theo,” she breathed, disappointment coursing through her. “The earl’s nose is not that big, truly. And Miss Mires’s, ah”—she motioned around her breasts—“theyare not so large either.”
“Exaggeration is required. And… she’s a dairy maid, so—”
“Theo!”
He splayed on the bed, propped up with his elbows behind him, and her fingers itched to stroke the muscles she’d come to know so well. His lips quirked in a hesitant smirk, as if he wanted her to laugh and call him clever, but he rather suspected she would not. That hesitation told him true. The cad.
“This sketch suggests that Pentshire is abigamist.” She shook the paper at him, blurring Miss Mires, the earl, and the line of proper ton ladies lined up like cows in stalls at a dairy farm.
