Page 22 of Miss Delectable
“You never envisioned her serving out her apprenticeship and actually plying her trade.” Meli picked up her glass of wine and moved to the place at Horace’s right hand. “Neither did I, but she enjoys what she does, and she is of age.” Ann also had a modest fortune, which was hers to manage now that she had reached the antediluvian milestone of five-and-twenty.
“Can’t you find her a husband, Melisande? Sooner or later, somebody will learn that she spends her days chopping cabbage and plucking geese in a gaming hell. I dread the explanations we’ll have to make.”
Meli dreaded those explanations too. “What few people I mention Ann to believe her to be my retiring, rustic niece cantering toward spinsterdom at the family seat. You need not worry.” Meli patted his sleeve. “I have sent out the invitations to your autumn supper.”
“Have you now?”
Horace’s quarterly officers’ dinners were the high point of his social calendar, bringing together the best and brightest of his former comrades and direct reports. Wellington held such dinners, and Meli had had the inspired idea of taking up the tradition.
Though actually, Ann might have mentioned the notion to her first.
“I anticipate every single invitation will be accepted. Nothing save ill health or recent bereavement stops your men from paying their respects.”
Horace caught her hand. “They all long for another chance to flirt with you, my love.” He kissed her knuckles, exactly the sort of gallantry that had first brought him to Ann’s notice. “Do you ever miss being on campaign?”
Well, no. Not ever. Only a daft woman would miss death, dismemberment, camp rations, unrelenting illness, intrigues, constant fear for her husband… the whole business. Horace, in his delicate way, was asking about Philippe, a topic never raised between husband and wife overtly.
“A warrior is bored by peace,” Meli said. “A warrior’s wife thanks God nightly for the cessation of hostilities. You always made such a dashing figure riding before the troops, but I tell you honestly, Husband, I hated seeing you off to battle. The thought of losing you…” At her worst and most foolish, Meli had never wished anything but a contented old age for her spouse, which he—oddly—might find more trying than a battlefield death.
Horace studied her, her hand still in his. “I believe you mean that.”
“I most assuredly do. I am proud to be your wife, and that has always been true.”
Horace stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. He was a considerate and undemanding lover and only affectionate when private. Meli esteemed him for those courtesies, even if they did bore her a bit.
“Philippe is in London, Melisande. I thought you should know.”
Meli endured the inevitable welter of feelings that came with thoughts of a man she’d once regarded as the love of her life. Shame was predictable, for with Philippe, Meli had disgraced her marital vows. A current of longing nonetheless accompanied her guilt. If only there hadn’t been a war, a husband, a passel of generals intent on slaughter and spying…
Wistfulness inevitably rose as well. She had loved Philippe. She had known passion with him, desperate, glorious, wild passion, such as only young people in the throes of their first love affair can know.
“Philippe who?” Meli said, raising her chin. “My recollection of the various Frenchmen we encountered grows increasingly vague. I trust his path and mine will not cross, and I would appreciate it if you would aid me in that objective.”
Horace half rose to kiss her cheek. “No more need be said. Why don’t you bring your place setting down to my end of the table, and you can tell me all the latest gossip. I heard Mrs. Bainbridge played a little too deeply at faro last week.”
Meli complied, relieved to have the subject of Philippe closed. What was he doing in London, and how should she react if she did see him? London had only so many parks, and Philippe loved to be out of doors. He was from quite good family and would likely be socializing beyond the émigré community.
She collected her cutlery and joined Horace at the sunnier end of the table, keeping the conversation to tattle and household matters. Daniella’s progress with her letters and the head maid’s chronic sore knee. Horace reciprocated with the gossip from Horse Guards, and another meal passed without incident.
Horace rose to take his leave with another kiss to Meli’s cheek. “I’m off to lecture the solicitors. The investments aren’t performing quite to standards, and the lawyers need to know that I’m well aware of the problem.”
“You are ambushing them?”
“A surprise inspection. Have no fear, though. Unless you take to gambling in Emily Bainbridge’s fashion, we are still quite comfortably well fixed and can afford every indulgence where the regimental dinners are concerned.”
Horace was a good husband and a good provider. Meli truly did esteem him and always had. “Would it be too great an imposition to ask for more of your company, Horace? I grow a bit lonely late in the evening.”
He smiled, exhibiting a soupçon of the old dash. “Never let it be said I allowed my lady wife to languish for lack of my attentions. You will have my company tonight, if that suits.”
“That suits wonderfully.”
He bowed and withdrew, leaving Meli to pour herself another glass of wine and wonder how exactly Horace had heard of Emily Bainbridge’s gambling problem.
* * *
Sycamore Dorning valuedfamily above all else, but preciselyhowto value Orion Goddard, reluctant brother-in-law and grouch at large, remained a mystery. Even Jeanette was short on ideas when it came to coaxing Goddard closer to the familial hearth.
“I’m having lunch sent over from the club,” Sycamore said. “You will join me, or good food will go to waste.”
