Read Online Lady Windermere's Lover by Miranda Neville - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miranda Neville
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What else could she say? “It’s on the table next to the chaise in the small parlor. It’s only a novel.”
“I shall bring it to you tout de suite .”
H e had called her “my dear” and he was coming to her room. Expecting him to be eager to start siring an heir, she’d been relieved when he’d failed to appear at the connecting door earlier. Perhaps he was too tired after his night with Lady Belinda. For all she knew, he’d been with his mistress that evening. Although she had little practical knowledge of the sensual habits of men, she’d picked up a good deal of gossip from Caro’s circle and knew that some men weren’t capable of performing more than once a night. Certainly Windermere had never repeated the act with her: into the room, into the bed, into her. In and out a few times, then out, out, out.
She couldn’t help wondering if she was so unappealing that his lack of interest was somehow her fault. She had gathered that both men and women had different levels of skill and attractiveness in these matters. Perhaps she should have taken the opportunity to find out with Julian, who had quite the reputation. If she couldn’t take and give pleasure with him , it probably was her fault.
On second thought, it might be better not to know. In the absence of any certainty, she could keep up her well-deserved anger against Windermere for his indifference and his betrayal.
She sat at her dressing table and fiddled with her brushes. The events of the past twenty-four hours had left her emotionally wrung out and too agitated to sleep. She hoped reading would calm her and let her sink into blessed forgetfulness for a few hours, before she had to wake up and deal with her erring husband. She now feared that she wouldn’t gain that respite.
He didn’t bother to knock, merely slipped in and closed the door behind him. He stood and looked at her, without saying a word. Remaining on the padded stool of her dressing table, she stared back defiantly. He’d always seemed the epitome of the English gentleman with his blue-gray eyes and neat brown hair. But a full-length banyan made from richly embroidered silk lent an exoticism to the regularity of his features and figure. She felt a stirring deep inside her that signaled a greater danger to the peace of mind he’d already rocked.
“Miss Burney’s Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress ,” he said. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Not as much as Evelina . Have you read it?”
“I liked Evelina better too. Mortimer Delvile seemed excessively proud, making Cecilia relinquish her fortune rather than marry her and take her name. You cannot accuse me of such behavior.”
The marriage settlement included a provision that their children would take on her name. The family name of the Earls of Windermere would henceforth be Chorley-Lewis. Having lost his only son and the chance of establishing a dynasty, her uncle wished to immortalize his name through her. To Cynthia it had made her uncle seem rather pathetic, not a word she would normally apply to the great bully.
“I acquit you of pride , my lord,” she said. “Mortimer Delvile is a tiresome creature and Cecilia deserves better. Our cases are not comparable, however. Delvile wishes to marry Cecilia for love, not for her great fortune.”
Whatever reaction she expected from him wasn’t forthcoming. She picked up a powder puff for something to do in the ensuing silence and waited for him to leave. When she dabbed at her neck, a sound came out of his throat, though what it signified she couldn’t guess. “Thank you for fetching the book, my lord. You may leave it on the bed.” Mentioning the word bed made her blush and she powdered furiously to cover it up.
Peering past her reflection in the mirror, she saw him lay the volume on the mattress, but he did not leave. Her eyes widened as he removed a pair of leather slippers with turned-up toes, and placed them neatly next to the bedside table. Next to go, drawing a
“I shall bring it to you tout de suite .”
H e had called her “my dear” and he was coming to her room. Expecting him to be eager to start siring an heir, she’d been relieved when he’d failed to appear at the connecting door earlier. Perhaps he was too tired after his night with Lady Belinda. For all she knew, he’d been with his mistress that evening. Although she had little practical knowledge of the sensual habits of men, she’d picked up a good deal of gossip from Caro’s circle and knew that some men weren’t capable of performing more than once a night. Certainly Windermere had never repeated the act with her: into the room, into the bed, into her. In and out a few times, then out, out, out.
She couldn’t help wondering if she was so unappealing that his lack of interest was somehow her fault. She had gathered that both men and women had different levels of skill and attractiveness in these matters. Perhaps she should have taken the opportunity to find out with Julian, who had quite the reputation. If she couldn’t take and give pleasure with him , it probably was her fault.
On second thought, it might be better not to know. In the absence of any certainty, she could keep up her well-deserved anger against Windermere for his indifference and his betrayal.
She sat at her dressing table and fiddled with her brushes. The events of the past twenty-four hours had left her emotionally wrung out and too agitated to sleep. She hoped reading would calm her and let her sink into blessed forgetfulness for a few hours, before she had to wake up and deal with her erring husband. She now feared that she wouldn’t gain that respite.
He didn’t bother to knock, merely slipped in and closed the door behind him. He stood and looked at her, without saying a word. Remaining on the padded stool of her dressing table, she stared back defiantly. He’d always seemed the epitome of the English gentleman with his blue-gray eyes and neat brown hair. But a full-length banyan made from richly embroidered silk lent an exoticism to the regularity of his features and figure. She felt a stirring deep inside her that signaled a greater danger to the peace of mind he’d already rocked.
“Miss Burney’s Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress ,” he said. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Not as much as Evelina . Have you read it?”
“I liked Evelina better too. Mortimer Delvile seemed excessively proud, making Cecilia relinquish her fortune rather than marry her and take her name. You cannot accuse me of such behavior.”
The marriage settlement included a provision that their children would take on her name. The family name of the Earls of Windermere would henceforth be Chorley-Lewis. Having lost his only son and the chance of establishing a dynasty, her uncle wished to immortalize his name through her. To Cynthia it had made her uncle seem rather pathetic, not a word she would normally apply to the great bully.
“I acquit you of pride , my lord,” she said. “Mortimer Delvile is a tiresome creature and Cecilia deserves better. Our cases are not comparable, however. Delvile wishes to marry Cecilia for love, not for her great fortune.”
Whatever reaction she expected from him wasn’t forthcoming. She picked up a powder puff for something to do in the ensuing silence and waited for him to leave. When she dabbed at her neck, a sound came out of his throat, though what it signified she couldn’t guess. “Thank you for fetching the book, my lord. You may leave it on the bed.” Mentioning the word bed made her blush and she powdered furiously to cover it up.
Peering past her reflection in the mirror, she saw him lay the volume on the mattress, but he did not leave. Her eyes widened as he removed a pair of leather slippers with turned-up toes, and placed them neatly next to the bedside table. Next to go, drawing a
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