Prologue
March 27, 1839, Rosemount House dining room, Mayfair
For a reason she knew quite well, dinner was dragging on entirely too long. Deciding it was time for the dessert course, Estelle Jones Tennison, Countess of Everly and known to her friends as Stella, waved at the footman who stood ready at the end of the dining room. He disappeared through a panel in the wall, and she turned her attention back to the conversation that had her son and daughter at odds over something their father had been discussing.
Probably something to do with plants or trees. Something about changing colors being a sign of something important.
Although she was usually interested enough to follow whatever they talked about over the formal meal, Stella found she was distracted this evening.
The encounter with Lord Framingham earlier that afternoon had been so unexpected, so unnerving, she had replayed it in her mind’s eye at least a dozen times in an effort to determine if it had really happened or if she had merely imagined it.
Wincing at the thought that she could have conjured such a despicable situation, Stella decided that, yes, it had happened.
Lord Framingham had propositioned her at the counter in Floris.
Until that day, the perfumery shop had been her favorite store in Jermyn Street. She and her best friend, Nike Bradley, would marvel over the latest in hair brushes and combs, toothbrushes and shaving tools, and of course, perfumes and colognes. Now it would be forever tainted with the reminder of what the marquess had said to her as his bushy brows waggled and his pudgy ringed finger traced the outline of her jaw.
“I would very much like to tup you over the edge of my library table,” he had whispered as his eyes gleamed with delight. “Is there a chance you have finished your last affaire and might be amenable to a new one?”
Shocked, not only by what he wished to do to her—and where—Stella wondered how he had the impression she’d ever had an affaire. She’d only ever been with her husband, Harold. For over twenty-two years, she had only ever shared a bed with him.
When she recovered somewhat from the scandalous query, Stella shook her head and said, “You must have me confused with a different countess, my lord. I’ve never engaged in an affaire in my entire life.”
The marquess furrowed the brows that had been dancing only a moment ago, his expression sobering. “Well, then allow me to be your first,” he said, as if he were offering her the world.
Given his girth and the odor that permeated the air around them—definitely not a scent Floris had created in the back room—his world was not one she wanted.
Stella had angled her head to one side and adopted the most apologetic voice she could manage. “Although I appreciate the offer, my lord, I am afraid I must decline. Everly would be terribly jealous should he discover what we’d done, and although he’s a horrible shot, he’s an excellent swordsman.” She leaned in closer, attempting to hold her breath lest the man’s body odor cause her to faint, and added, “I should hate for you to lose a particularly... proud part.” Her glance down confirmed that beneath his portly middle, his pantaloons were tented where only moments ago they displayed a more rounded silhouette.
Her comment must have hit the mark, for Lord Framingham hissed and immediately moved away. “I trust you’ll keep our little tête-à-tête between us?”
Stella exhaled softly. “Of course, my lord. Good day.” She dipped a curtsy and took her leave of the shop. Her lady’s maid had been forced to practically run after her as she made her way to the Everly town coach.
Stella felt terrible when she had to send Thompson back into the shop to finish ordering her favorite perfume.
If only Nike had been able to join her on this day, she was sure Framingham would have kept his distance. But one of Nike’s children had come down with a cold, and she had insisted on remaining home with him. “Despite having a nursemaid, you did the same,” Nike reminded her when Stella practically begged her to come along for her weekly foray in Jermyn Street.
Stella had to agree. Had her two children still been the age of Nike’s youngest, she would have remained at home as well.
But they were grown now. Old enough to be out on their own. At least Alexander was. At one-and-twenty, he might have looked like a Greek god, but he didn’t allow his handsome features and otherwise charmed life to get in the way of his avocation—metallurgy. He was determined to create beautiful things with gold and silver. His choice of colors with respect to gemstones wasn’t always pleasing, but his craftsmanship was exquisite.
Helen, about eighteen and anxious for her come-out, was learning everything her father deigned to teach her with respect to botany. Stella wasn’t sure if she did so just to earn her father’s approval or if she was truly interested in the natural sciences. Either way, if Helen didn’t end up married to an aristocrat after her come-out this year, she would probably agree to a marriage with a member of the Royal Society. She had been introduced to nearly every member in the course of her eighteen years.
As for Stella’s husband, the few minutes alone in the coach had her reviewing her entire married life in her mind’s eye.
Harold Tennison, Earl of Everly, hadn’t been particularly amorous after their first few years together. They had since settled into a comfortable routine in Rosemount House in Park Lane—perhaps too comfortable. Harold joined her in her bedchamber most Saturday nights. They spoke of mundane topics for a few moments, and then they made love.
Their sessions were by no means earth-shattering. The bed shook, of course, the headboard sometimes thumping against the wall. Barely mussed, the bed linens were easily put to rights. Harold would thank her profusely for the tumble, sleep for a few minutes, kiss her on the cheek, and then remove himself to his own bedchamber by way of the connecting dressing room.
Given their routine, Stella couldn’t exactly claim they were having an affaire. But for Lord Framingham to infer that she was having an affaire... that meant someone’s tongue was wagging, either in a Mayfair parlor or in a men’s club.
Or perhaps Framingham was merely testing her?
The thought was a relief, but at the very same time it angered her. How dare the marquess infer she was ripe for the plucking? Or poking? Or tupping?
Perhaps her ire had her heated enough, for a waft of her perfume drifted in front of her nose.
The same perfume she had used since she had married Harold.
As the footman set her dessert plate in front of her, she vowed she would have the perfumer create something new for her. Something more sophisticated. Something a bit less floral. More spicy.
Something to wake up her husband.
The thought had her lifting her gaze to discover he was looking at her.
“This dessert is delicious,” he announced, as if he hadn’t been eating the same dessert every Wednesday night for the past twenty years.
Alex and Helen chimed in with their positive reviews as Stella held her husband’s gaze. Rather than say anything in response, she merely arched a brow.
Harold blinked.
When he didn’t look away, she slipped her tongue over the lower edge of her lip.
He blinked again.
Not exactly a seductress, Stella angled her head to one side and drew a finger along the edge of her low neckline.
Harold swallowed. “Are you... are you flirting with me?” he asked, his voice a half-octave higher than usual.
Stella blinked as she exhaled. Loudly. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” she replied, sounding ever so disappointed.
“Mother!” Helen scolded from her right, her look of shock appropriate for one her age.
“Good for you, Mother,” Alex said from her left, his grin magnifying his handsome features.
Stella decided he was now her favorite.
Aiming a lopsided grin in her direction, her husband seemed to grow three inches taller in his chair. Perhaps he was growing in another area as well, for he turned his attention to the footman and said, “I will forgo port on this night.”
Stella turned her gaze onto Helen and said, “I’m going to forgo tea this evening. But do stay at the table and have some port with your brother. Continue your conversation on photo sin the sis—”
“Photosynthesis, Mother,” Alexander interrupted.
“Whilst I engage your father in a completely different science.”
Harold leaned toward his son and murmured, “She’s referring to magnetism.”
Alexander rolled his eyes. “I rather doubt that’s what she’s thinking, Father.”
Helen’s eyes widened as she watched first her mother and then her father rise from their chairs and depart from the dining room.
When she and her brother were alone, Helen watched with glee as the footman set a glass of port in front of her and then did the same with Alex. “They’re going to make love, aren’t they?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.
His attention on the bite of dessert on his fork, Alexander said, “If they remember how.”
The comment left Helen with her brows furrowed. She drank the port in one swallow.
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