Elizabeth sat on a French chair, facing the window seat where the three sisters sat shoulder to shoulder. It seemed almost inconceivable that Clair could be sisters to the other two. No ladies in the
ton
dressed more beautifully than Margaret and Caroline. The perusing of the fashion prints in
Ackermann's
occupied much of their time, and the pair of them—or their maid—went to great pains with the styling of their hair every day. Almack's, to them, was the center of the universe; capturing young men's attention was the force that guided all their actions—except for their desire to help with Elizabeth's charitable project.
Poor Clair. Seeing her side-by-side with these two sisters plainly illustrated how shortchanged she had been with her physical appearance. The three shared just one single physical trait. They each had hair the colour of tree bark. While her sisters were rounded in the very areas where a man liked to see a woman rounded, Clair was almost hideously thin. And where the other sisters were possessed of delicate, creamy complexions, Clair was covered from head to foot with freckles. Still, if she cared a whit about her appearance, she might convey a more flattering look.
Sadly, Lady Clair Ponsby's interest in being fashionable was as absent as the meaty bits other ladies liked to flaunt.
Whether Clair knew it or not, marriage could enrich her life immeasurably. And Elizabeth vowed to assist in such an endeavor, whether or not Clair was aware of her meddling.
Elizabeth sketched out her plans for Trent Square, filling her in on what had heretofore been done.
Clair's brows lowered. "You've done all this in a matter of weeks?"
"With Philip's help," Elizabeth answered. "And now with most able assistance from the Ponsby sisters."
"Have you filled all the bedchambers?" Clair asked.
"Yes and no," Elizabeth responded.
"How can it not be either yes or no?"
"Because," Caroline said authoritatively, "we've selected all the needy families, but we have yet to locate all of them."
Clair, who was highly intelligent and well read, mumbled almost to herself. "Yes, I can see where the difficulties arise when one has no home at which they can be reached."
Elizabeth smiled. "I shall be delighted to have you working with us."
"It is ever so much fun," Margaret said. "The children are such dears, and the mothers are all a pleasure to be near."
"Whilst I was riding in the park with my cousin Richie today, I had what I think a brilliant idea."
"Pray, you must share with us!" Caroline's always-ready interest in Elizabeth's project secured the lady's firm position in Elizabeth's affections.
"As brilliant as it is, I shall need help from every member of this family," Elizabeth said.
"Enlighten us, please," Clair commanded.
"Would it not be wonderful if Parliament granted a comfortable pension to the widows of our soldiers?"
Clair nodded thoughtfully. "It is so obvious one wonders why it hasn't already been done."
"I’ve asked for Richie's support, and I plan to make a convincing case to my dear Philip. . ." Elizabeth's face brightened as she eyed Clair. "Did you know your brother is sitting in the House of Lords?"
"If I get any prouder of my eldest brother," Clair said, "I am sure I will explode. We must owe our gratitude for his transformation to you, my dear Elizabeth."
"You underestimate your brother. Compulsion to duty is why he returned to England."
Clair lifted a brow. "And his marriage to you? To what do we owe this splendid addition to our family?"
She could not admit her very own mistake resulted in his offer of marriage. For one reason, she could no longer look upon her rash action that day as a mistake. Not when it yielded such blissful results.
Instead, Elizabeth spoke only for herself when she answered. "Love."
* * *
God, but the sight of his home filled him with satisfaction. In his exhausted state, he could sink into his bed and sleep for four and twenty hours. He began to trudge up the stairs which were lit only by a single sconce at this hour. His wife and sisters would long be asleep. He frowned to himself. This would be the first day since they had wed that he had not at least spoken to his wife.
He wished like the devil he could have come home early enough to see her, to speak with her, to. . . hold her in his arms. His need for her rather startled him. Not being with his Elizabeth left a gnawing void in his existence.
He had told Lawford not to wait up for him. He'd told Elizabeth the same thing, and now he wished he hadn't. At the third floor, he began to creak along the long wooden corridor, regretfully past his wife's chamber, then to his own.
Why in the devil had Lawford left so many candles burning?
Then he saw her. She was in her night shift with the creamy shawl draped around her shoulders, sitting in front of the fire reading.
No sight had ever been lovelier.
How had she known how badly he craved being with her? Did marriage establish a magical connection between two beings? A connection where one intrinsically sensed the other's needs?
"You shouldn't have waited up."
She put down her book and favored him with a sweet smile. "I shouldn't like to establish the practice of either of us going to bed without sharing the day's activities with one another." Her gaze flicked to the book. "Besides, I'm fascinated with Smith's work."
"Adam Smith?"
She nodded.
He came to press a kiss to her cheek, then to sit beside his wife. "I did not know women were interested in such things."
"This woman must educate herself to be her husband's perfect helpmate."
Had he not spent most of his life schooling himself to always be unwaveringly strong, her words could have choked him with emotion. Dear God! If one must be shackled, one could do no better than to have Elizabeth for a wife. "You bring to mind Lady Wickshire."
"I mean to. She is my model. Is she not a perfect wife?"
His arm settled around her, and he spoke huskily. "The Wickshires' marriage is well known for being one of the strongest, most loving unions ever." Why in the blazes should Elizabeth wish to emulate that?
"That is, until my brother wed Anna. No two people are more devoted to each other than they."
His brows lowered, he smiled. "Not Morgie and Lydia?"
She shrugged. "Their marriage is altogether different. They do not sweet talk to one another in public, and I always get the impression that Lydia has reversed the marital roles."
"You mean she wears the pants in the family?"
"I suppose that
is
what I mean, but please don't disparage such a marriage. For them, it is the perfect marriage, and it would be impossible to be more devoted to one another."
"I wish my own sisters could have so strong a union."
"Oh! Clair is home."
"And you took her to Almack's tonight?"
She shook her head. "She refused to go. Said she had nothing suitable to wear. So I firmly told her I will be taking her to the dressmakers."
"Good."
"She's awfully eager to help out at Trent Square."
"I knew she would be. How did things go there today?"
"I was only there a few minutes. I am still trying to locate some of the widows whose husbands James wrote me about."
It suddenly occurred to him that it was not likely these widows lived in Mayfair. His brows lowered. "Do not tell me you've been going to unsavory neighborhoods without a man to protect you!"
"Then I will not tell you."
He scowled. "Now I understand how Haverstock felt about his wife traipsing off to the East End without proper protection!"
"Quite frankly, I never worried about facing danger because the coachman was with me."
"The man is hardly bigger than you! Some protector he would be! I don't like you going off like that. Tomorrow, you'll take our biggest, strongest footman, and I'll fit him with a sword. That should repel any threat."
"Oh, my dearest Philip, I am so touched that you worry about me."
He did not like speaking of his emotions. He had never been capable of demonstrating his feelings. But, God, how he wanted this woman! His simmering gaze raked over her, slowly, lingeringly, then he hauled her into his arms, crushing her against him while they hungrily kissed.
Her breath was as ragged as his. Who would ever have thought this daughter of a stiff marquess could unleash such passions? And how in the hell had that cold father of hers sired a woman as gentle and loving as Elizabeth?
He slung away her book, gathered her up into his arms as if she were a small child, and strode to his bed.
Philip was deciphering at his desk next to a tall casement that overlooked the Horse Guards when Haverstock walked into his office.
"I promised my wife I would personally seek you out with an invitation for a family dinner at our house tonight. She is at present imploring your wife to join us, along with Morgie and Lydia." Haverstock shrugged. "We thought it would be a good time since there's no House of Lords tonight, no assemblies at Almack's."
"Sounds most agreeable to me. Even though I see you every day, we seldom get to really converse with one another." How fortunate Philip was to have married the sister of his best friend in the world. Even as lads who pledged a lifelong friendship, they had not ever considered that one day they would, through marriage, become family to one another. Lads were not likely to visualize themselves as husbands, he thought, smiling, especially when defending castles and riding fast horses held far more allure.
"May I bring my most sensible sister?" Philip asked. "She's just down from the country, and I haven't seen her in five years."
"Yes, of course. Allow me to guess. You are referring to Clair?"
"Indeed."
Haverstock came to sit in a chair in front of his brother-in-law's desk. "I keep hearing that Elizabeth is seen every day in the park with our cousin Richie." His eyes narrowed. "Do you not object?"
Every day?
He most certainly
did
object! Especially since that damned Richie acted as if he was in love with Philip's wife. Yet Philip could not betray his emotions to Haverstock. Or to anyone. "My dear wife is merely using her cousin to educate her on the ways of government."
"Why in the blazes does she want to know about the bloody government?"
"She claims she wants to be the perfect wife. Am I not the most fortunate man?"
Haverstock's face gentled. "That is very commendable."
"She's quite the prize. I count my good fortune every day. I will own, I am puzzled as to how one possessed of her beauty and many other attributes could still be unmarried three years after coming out."
"It's that damned Smythe's- - -" Haverstock clamped shut his mouth.
Philip felt as if he'd just been struck down by a thoroughbred on the turf at Newmarket. "Are you saying my wife was previously betrothed?"
"She was never betrothed," Haverstock snapped, bitterness in his voice.
What man who had engaged her affections would not to wish to marry Elizabeth? God, just being the daughter of a marquess was enough to ensure she was highly sought after. Philip's brows squeezed together. "She fell in love with a man who did not return her ardor?"
Haverstock stood. "You will have to ask her. I do not know the nature of the feelings she may have held for Captain Smythe."
A military man?
"My wife and I have decided that our lives began on the day we married. Anything that came before our wedding is no longer of consequence." Yet it
did
concern him if she had come into their marriage while being in love with another man.
"That is an excellent plan." Haverstock moved toward the door.
"Wait."
His brother-in-law turned back.
"This. . . this captain. . . did he want to marry Elizabeth?"
Haverstock did not respond immediately. "I believe he did, but he didn't think it right until after the war. It wouldn't be right to leave her a widow."
While that sounded like a noble gesture—denying one's own strongest desires to protect the one he loved—Philip took no consolation in it. His stomach turned. "We shall see you tonight."
* * *
When he walked into his wife's bedchamber that night, she sat before her dressing table as her maid finished pinning up her hair. She wore a pale blue gown of nearly sheer fabric. "I cannot believe you have once again worn a dress that corresponds in colour to the gems I've brought."
Her glittering gaze followed him through his reflection in her mirror. "Sapphires?"
"Indeed."
"Thank you, Fanny," she said, dismissing her servant.
He removed the necklace from the velvet box and moved to fasten it around her elegant neck, which he seemed incapable of doing without availing himself of the opportunity to nibble on her neck. When he finished, he stood back, and he too peered into the looking glass. "Beautiful."
She came to her feet and flung her arms gratefully about his neck. "Thank you, my dearest. The necklace is lovely."
He kissed her softly. "Not nearly as lovely as you."
She linked her arm with his, and they left. "I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have you home tonight," she said.
He chuckled. "I cannot convey to you how deuced good it is to be home tonight. Or, allow me to rephrase. To be with my family tonight."
Clair awaited them in the porter's hall, and as good as it was to see her again, he lamented that she had taken no pains to make herself look more attractive. They hugged. They told each other they looked wonderful. They said how good it was to see one another again.
Then the three of them got into the carriage for the short ride to Haverstock House. "And Auntie Hop-sham?" he asked.
"She is well. She sent a family heirloom to give to you and Elizabeth as a wedding gift. It's a small, but very exquisite, piece of silver. She called it a bon bon dish."
"Very thoughtful of her," he said.