For whether the officer were in London or Spain mattered not. Not when he held a place in Elizabeth's heart.
Even if she paraded through Hyde Park with the officer or waltzed with him at Almack's, Philip knew Elizabeth's innate goodness would prevent her from having an affair with Smythe.
Not until she presented Philip with the heir he desired.
Hadn't the notion of securing the dukedom been one of the primary reasons Philip had offered for her in the first place? Hadn't her aristocratic pedigree been her chief qualification to become his duchess?
Why in the devil did Philip feel so bloody beastly? It wasn't as if they had married for love. It wasn't as if he had ever been in love with her or she with him. Their marriage had been more like a business arrangement. He could not deny that a deep affection had grown between them, and the very thought of her lying beneath him, breathless and sated, was enough to make him groan with longing.
In a perverted sense of self-torture, he thought of her lying with that damned officer. Anger as virulent as thunder tore through him. At that moment he thought he could possibly be capable of murder.
What in the devil had come over him? In his entire life, Philip had never demonstrated a jealous bent. And now he was consumed with jealousy toward a man he'd never even met! More than that, his jealousy was so potent, he fancied the notion of killing another man!
As he sat there speechless while Haverstock directed conversation toward the tax bill, a nearly paralyzing thought occurred to him.
I am in love with my wife.
Good lord, what was he going to do about this? Admitting to a one-sided love was out of the question. A man, especially a duke, had his pride.
Dazed, he continued sitting there and came to another realization: this was the first time in his two and thirty years he'd ever experienced what it was to be in love.
And he did
not
recommend it!
He'd rather wish the pox on a friend than wish anyone to experience a longing so intense it obliterated rationality, threatened a man's dignity, and ignited an unquenchable hunger.
A flitting thought sent a jolt of hope strumming through him. Was it possible he could win Elizabeth's love? To conquer her heart—if indeed it were possible—would mean that her position in his life needed to be elevated. As it was now, he only had time for Elizabeth when there were no other demands on him. That was no way to show a wife that he loved her.
True, they had both insisted that duty came first, but he needed to demonstrate that she was as important to him as any duty. He could not imagine life without her. Not after knowing the pleasure of being her husband. Would the day ever come when he could convey to her how dear she was to him?
While his guests talked, he tried to decide which of his duties he could temporarily neglect. Elizabeth deserved a devoted husband to escort her to balls and to the theatre. He wanted to be the man sitting beside her as they leisurely drove through Hyde Park. He wanted to show every man in London that the lovely Duchess of Aldridge belonged to him. He especially wanted to show that damned Captain Smythe that Elizabeth was deeply loved by the man she had married.
Would Philip ever feel
he
was deeply loved by the woman he'd wed?
As soon as he and Haverstock cracked what they dubbed the Pyrenees Code, he would start taking his wife to the park. Surely they would break the French cipher any day. That very afternoon, he had discovered a vital key to unlocking the French battle plans.
If tonight's dinner could accomplish what he hoped it would accomplish, he would no longer feel compelled to attend every single session of the House of Lords. Then he could devote more attention to Elizabeth.
He finally gathered enough composure to see to it that the wine glasses of those around him were refilled, but he was incapable of directing intelligent conversation to parliamentary matters. Not when he was reeling from the force of these unaccustomed emotions.
"I have a personal reason for wanting to win this war expediently," Haverstock said, his voice clearly heard by everyone at the table. His gaze met Lydia's, then Elizabeth's. "Our brother is serving in the Peninsula, and we want him home."
Elizabeth nodded. "His youth has been sacrificed for our country." Her voice started to crack. "We pray his life's not sacrificed." She sucked in a deep breath, attempted to steady her voice, and continued. "How many of you here at the table have a loved one fighting against the French?"
Nearly every person seated there solemnly raised a hand. "We lost a son," Lord Danvers said, sorrowfully meeting his wife's gaze.
Philip had never been prouder of his wife. Her ability to tap into these men's emotions could serve his cause far more than any pleas he or Haverstock or that damned Rothcomb-Smedley could ever make.
Now, because his wife had paved the way, Philip could carry on. "We will beat the French, but we need more weaponry, more soldiers, more money. That, my respected colleagues, is why it's imperative we adopt a tax increase."
"If it will bring our boys home, I'll do everything in my power to persuade my husband to pass that bill," Lady Hickman said. "Our three youngest sons are with Wellington."
A dozen people spoke at once, most of them nodding in agreement with Lady Hickman.
This response was better than he could ever have hoped for. When the talk died down, and attention was again directed to the head of the table, Philip said, "I vow that once we've defeated the French, we'll restore the tax to its current rate."
Haverstock nodded. "What we need is for each of you distinguished peers to help unify the House of Lords."
"If each of you can sway a single fellow member who's presently opposed to the tax increase," Philip added, his gaze traveling along the table, making eye contact with each man, "we can race to end this war."
His comments met with enthusiastic approval. He peered down the table as Elizabeth looked up and offered him a gentle smile. He was unable to remove his gaze from her. She was possessed of such a fair, delicate beauty, and he loved her so much. She was the most feminine creature he'd ever known. In spite of these crippling emotions she elicited in him, he was grateful that he'd married her. There was not another woman in the kingdom who could have made a better wife. And there was not another woman in the universe he could love so powerfully.
He grew impatient for the guests to leave. He desperately wanted to take his wife in his arms and with every stroke of her silken flesh, every compulsive kiss, every breathless whisper demonstrate his complete captivation. In his two and thirty years he had never so blindingly hungered for a woman as he hungered for Elizabeth tonight.
He was happy when the sweetmeats were served. He did not even object when the conversation steered to other, non-parliamentary matters. He was happy that the dinner was coming to an end, happy that his mission had succeeded—due largely to the efforts of his wife. Soon it would be just he and Elizabeth. Soon they could be alone. Soon, he would be able to slake his debilitating need.
After the others left, Haverstock and Morgie and their respective wives lingered to discuss the success of the evening. Lydia spoke first. "You lords should be very satisfied with yourselves. I would say you were exceedingly successful."
Morgie nodded. "I calculate a one percent escalation in my tax could pay a year's salaries for a regiment. I've been poking through records at the War Office, thanks to Lord Palmerston. I want to be well informed during my electioneering."
Philip always marveled about the dichotomy that was his friend Morgie. When it came to money and numbers, the man was brilliant. "We shall be most happy to have your voice in the House of Commons."
Morgie shook his head. "Oh, you won't be hearing my voice there." He shuddered.
"But, dearest," Lydia said, "You will have to give speeches during your electioneering."
"But we'll all try to come and provide moral support," Anna said.
Philip's gaze went to Elizabeth. She had every right to be proud over the success of
her
dinner, but she was far too modest to boast about it. "I wish to thank my wife for all the work she put into tonight's fete." His voice softened. "Everything was perfect. You were perfect." He wanted to say, "
My love
," but the words stayed trapped in his throat.
"I was very proud of my sister," Haverstock said. "It was her simple question that did more to sway those men then a thousand of our words."
"It was brilliant," Anna said, "but successful for its sincerity."
A wistful look crossed Elizabeth's face. "I do want James home. He's been gone five long years. Every girl he ever fancied has now married another."
"'Tis the same with our two brothers who are in Spain," Clair said solemnly.
"It's very sad," Lydia agreed. Then she looked up at Morgie. "Come, dear love. I need to go feed our little angel."
Our little angel
. Once again, Philip was jealous. If only he and Elizabeth could have a son.
Barrow shuffled up to the Duke and Duchess of Aldridge, holding a silver tray on which a letter reposed and eying the duke. "Her grace said you weren't to be disturbed during dinner. This came while you were eating." He handed Philip a letter.
One glance confirmed Angelina's handwriting.
Damn the woman!
He directed a soft smile at his wife. "Allow me to pop into the library and read this."
She nodded, then turned and said farewells to her siblings as they departed.
He closed the library door and tore open the letter. As he read, rage tore through him.
Amore mio,
If you desire to guard your sister's dark secret, you must come to me tonight at the Chiswick.
Eternally yours,
Angelina
He crumpled the paper in his fists and hurled it into the fire.
Sarah!
How had the Contessa learned about that wretched business? He wished to God he'd never met Angelina Savatini. Even more than that, he wished to God Sarah had never met that piece of dung, Viscount Morton, who'd ended up fleeing to the Continent rather than face the wrath of the Duke of Aldridge.
Over the past five years Sarah had settled into a happy marriage with the good man who'd offered her—and her unborn child—his name. All of them had been lulled into the belief that no one would ever learn of the youthful indiscretion that had stolen her innocence.
He couldn't allow Angelina Savatini to destroy Sarah's life and that of her three children.
Though every cell in his body throbbed with desire for his wife, he must put duty above personal gratification. He had to go to Angelina Savatini.
Elizabeth could obviously judge from his thunderous expression when he stormed from the chamber that the letter had brought unwelcome news. "What's the matter?"
"A situation has arisen that demands my immediate attention."
Her face fell. "I was so looking forward to it being just you and me tonight. I've been longing to talk with you."
His solemn gaze agonizingly raked over her. He wanted to tell her how powerfully he longed for her, but he could not allow himself the luxury. His lips were a firm line. "I'm sorry."
Five minutes earlier she had thought she might explode with happiness. The dinner had been stupendously successful, but even more importantly, her husband had stood right here in this entry hall and praised her. The tenderness in his voice and the glittering in his eyes when he spoke actually had her believing he could come to love her.
Then Barrow brought the letter that changed everything.
What had it said?
After her husband curtly took his leave, she dismissed the footmen and Barrow, yet she continued to stand there in the hall, dazed.
Was there a chance Philip had left that letter in the library? She raced there to look, even though she felt guilty because she had no right to pry into her husband's private correspondence. That letter had snatched away her happiness, and she had to know why.
She went to the large walnut desk where the oil lamp still burned. There was no sign of the letter. She opened the drawers and looked, but there was nothing that looked like the folded paper she'd gotten a glimpse of.
Had he burned it? Her gaze darted to the waning fire. She strode there and peered into the embers. There was a wad of crumpled paper that had only partially caught fire.
Her heart beating erratically, she dropped to her knees in front of the hearth. For the first time all night she felt warm as she carefully lifted the partially burnt paper from the smoldering coals and tried to smooth it out. The ashed edges flaked away, and the beginning of the letter had burnt beyond deciphering. She could clearly read words written in a woman's flourishing script.
come to me tonight at the Chiswick.
Eternally yours,
Angelina
Had she been holding a viper Elizabeth could not have been as repulsed as she was at that moment.
Angelina Savatini's come to London
.
The dread that had filled her a moment earlier now slammed into her like the projectile from a giant catapult. The happiness she had known moments earlier was completely destroyed.
With shaking hands, she tossed the burnt paper back into the dying coals and left the library. Though she had no heart to go to her own bedchamber, that place where she'd experienced her greatest happiness, she mounted the stairs.
Tonight she would sleep in her cold bed while Philip would be making love to the Contessa Savatini at the Chiswick Hotel.
* * *
He did not need the liveried footman to show him to the Contessa's rooms. He threw open the Chiswick's huge timber entry door, stormed up the stairs, and pounded upon her door.
In transparent black lace, she opened the door herself and stood there silhouetted by the firelight behind her. Other men would likely have found her ravishingly beautiful.