Page 62 of Rogue of My Heart

She propped herself up on an elbow. “I do. You may jest if you like, but I am investigating a mystery, and today I have plans to gather my information together.”

“A mystery?” he asked.

“Yes. Surely Willow has told you about the Ladies’ Amateur Sleuth Society.”

He nodded.

“Yes, well, we have been after the Jack of Hearts since the Times first posted about him. Needless to say, we’ve never come close to uncovering his identity. Although, obviously I’ve been close to him.” She felt the blush heat her cheeks.

“And you want to be the one to solve the case,” he said, his tone revealing nothing.

“I believe I have the most at stake in this investigation. He compromised me. Sought me out.”

His eyes dropped to the front of her gown and she was reminded of what she wore. The nightgown he’d selected for her for last night. So sheer that now while her nipples beaded to stiff points, he’d be able to determine the precise shade of her skin. He swallowed hard and stood from the bed.

Desire, hot and thick, pulsed through her body and pooled between her thighs. How could she still want him after he’d proven he did not want her?

“What will you do when you catch him, Charlotte?” he asked.

She pulled the sheet up and held it tightly to her chest. “I hadn’t thought about it beyond identifying him.”

“I’m only speculating, but if he’s heard about the compromise, and our wedding, then I’d wager he wouldn’t seek you out again. In fact, he might steer clear of you all together.”

“So you don’t believe I can find him,” she said.

He shrugged. “I suppose you will find him should he want to be found.” He smacked his thigh and both dogs hopped off the bed, to wag their furry tails at his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out. Your things should be delivered to your bedchamber sometime today.”

With that, he strode out of the room. She sighed and crawled out of bed. She would not spend the day feeling sorry for herself and crying in bed. Her life could have been patently worse. She could have been sent to live in the country alone, without her friends. Deciding on a warm bath before she began her day, she rang for her new maid. So far, she was feeling rather conflicted about being a wife.

Ten

It was their first outing as a married couple, a poetry reading held in Lord Asterville’s glorious parlor. Everyone in the medium-sized crowd had already taken their seats, waiting for the performance to begin. Edmond sat stiffly to her right wearing a sharp black jacket that molded nicely to what she now knew were perfectly sculpted broad shoulders.

It had been nearly a week since their wedding and, more importantly, their wedding night. Still, he had not touched her. He had not come to her bed. He had not so much as given her a kiss on the cheek to bid her good morrow or good night. In fact, she’d seen very little of him. He left in the morning and did not often return until dinner. Although he was gone most of the day, he did take the evening meal with her, and spoke with her about her day. He was perfectly polite during those conversations. One might even say he was congenial.

Already it seemed they had settled into a most interesting schedule. She wanted to ask one of her friends about this, but didn’t dare. They, unlike her, were in marriages full of love and passion. She did not want to admit to them that Edmond hadn’t even consummated their union.

Lord Asterville was a known patron to the arts, and had a fondness for the gentleness and romanticism of the poets. The presenter, a tall, thin man with fair coloring and pale eyes took his place in front of the seated crowd. He bent in a deep bow, then stood and began reciting the poem.

Charlotte tried to disguise her yawn beneath her gloved hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Edmond smile. She straightened in her seat and examined the room to see if she couldn’t make herself more alert.

Asterville’s townhome was known throughout London for being quite grand and opulent. She’d heard his country estate was astounding, but he rarely held events there. The ceiling’s molding was gilded, with real gold, no doubt, and a fresco of cupids carried vines and flowers about. The panels on the walls were covered in deep-blue wallpaper. She yawned again. Well, detailing the room was certainly not keeping her awake.

The French double doors burst open, and several ladies gasped.

“Good evening.” The Jack of Hearts stepped into the room and waved a pistol about.

Edmond tensed beside her and reached over to put his hand over hers.

“Sorry to interrupt such a festive event. If you would but bear with me, I’ll be out and you can resume your,” Jack paused and eyed the performer, “what is it that you’re doing?”

The poet balked and swallowed visible. “Reciting poetry,” he said in a much softer voice than he’d been using this evening. “An original.”

Jack’s face pinched. “Poetry. That sounds about right. You there,” he pointed to the gentleman sitting closest to the door. “Come here.”