Page 25 of Twelfth Night Sorcery (The Cambion Club #2)

As it turned out, the performance of Twelfth Night at the White Rose was quite good.

Whoever had written the songs that broke up the spoken drama had a gift for wordplay, though many of the jokes bordered on the bawdy.

But then, so did much of Shakespeare, so one could hardly complain of that.

And Lady Valance did not seem shocked by any of the humor.

Valance wondered, though, whether his wife even understood all the jokes. How much did she know about sexual congress? When she had propositioned him at the Masquerade, had she even understood what she offered him?

He wondered if he should ask his mother to talk to Honora about marital relations.

But that would mean admitting to his mother that he had not yet consummated the marriage, despite having been married a month.

No man wanted to admit that! At the same time, he did not relish the prospect of having to explain the marriage bed to his wife.

Because, he thought as he watched her laugh at the play, he really had no excuse to put that conversation off forever.

Nor did he particularly enjoy living in a celibate marriage.

On the contrary, one of the unanticipated effects of spending more time with his wife was that he had grown increasingly frustrated with the distance between them.

He was tired of bidding her good night and going to his cold bed alone.

They were married, after all. Perhaps they ought to start acting like it.

But he had no idea how to begin bridging the distance.

He had not thought it right to ask to share his wife’s bed when they had been strangers. But they had been living together for a month, and they knew each other much better now—better, in some ways, than many couples knew each other when they became betrothed.

Living in the same house as they did, Lord and Lady Valance could have few illusions about each other’s faults.

He knew she often felt cranky and withdrawn in the morning, preferring to avoid breakfast table chit chat.

She probably knew at least half the things that triggered his headaches.

She could have told a stranger which brandies he liked, and he could have informed the same stranger that his wife had a fondness for both vermouth and cream sherry, but did not like port.

More importantly, they could read each other’s expressions and reactions.

For example, he could tell that she’d been relieved that the Duke of Belmont was not present.

Lady Valance sat in the front of their box, next to Susan, who pointed out cast members she knew.

Because Valance sat right behind her, he clearly saw his wife scanning the audience at the beginning of the play, and he noticed how she relaxed when she realized the duke was not there.

Would she ever feel safe in society, given that she was bound to meet Belmont year after year?

Before Valance could worry too much about that, Abigail Carrington leaned closer to him and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan. He twisted around in his chair to face her.

“Oliver,” she whispered, “do you always ogle your wife this much when you are in public? Really, I am quite embarrassed to be seen with the two of you. It is positively disgraceful.” Her eyes danced and her lips curled up, so he knew she spoke in jest.

“I am not ogling my wife,” he said, trying to reply with dignity. “But I cannot help staring at her. She is the most beautiful woman in England, after all.” Possibly in Great Britain. He could not vouch for the whole of the United Kingdom, though. He had never been to Ireland.

Lady Valance looked particularly well tonight.

She wore a dress of a silvery-blue shot silk.

And she wore the set of aquamarines he had purchased for her.

They were not quite the same color as her eyes, but they came closer to matching them than any other jewels he’d seen.

No wonder so many other theatergoers took a second glance at her when they scanned the audience.

Abigail’s eyes widened. She opened her fan and covered her mouth with it, probably to hide her laughter. “You really believe that, don’t you? Goodness, Oliver, you must be absolutely smitten.”

“What? No! I am merely stating the truth.” But a blush rose on his cheeks. He darted his eyes away to avoid seeing one of his oldest friends laughing at him.

He did not think he’d said anything ridiculous. On the contrary, it felt like an obvious law of nature. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, spring always blossomed into summer, and the Viscountess Valance was the most beautiful woman in England. Facts!

Abigail chuckled and poked him with her fan again. “I am very happy for you, old friend. But perhaps I will wait to come to the theater with you again until the honeymoon is over. Couples in the first glow of love often nauseate other people with their happiness.”

Valance snorted. “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

He remembered very clearly how Abigail had behaved when she and Susan fell in love.

So much whispering. So many bashful glances, followed by so many blushes.

So many accidental brushes of hands together.

They probably thought they were being subtle, discreet, and cautious. But even Peregrine had noticed.

“Touché,” she said, apparently willing to own up to it. “It is because I remember what it is like to fall head over heels in love that I recognize it now. Well, I wish you a long and happy life together, and I hope you consider us as possible godparents when the first baby is born.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Valance grumbled.

“And if you want my advice,” Abigail added, “you will send your mother back to Surrey where she belongs. No couple needs in-laws on hand all the time.”

“Says the woman who lives with her younger brother?” He cocked one eyebrow at her.

She shrugged. “Peregrine knows better than to interfere with us.”

That was true, Valance supposed, unless one counted his magical experiments as interference.

But Peregrine never meant to cause trouble to his housemates.

He merely forgot that other people valued dining room tables more than shooting stars.

Apart from such occasional accidents, he was good company.

In truth, Valance had preferred living with the Carringtons to living with his mother.

He always had. As a child of six or seven, he had even made the mistake—an absolutely dreadful blunder, he now understood—of telling his mother he wished he had been born a Carrington rather than a Valance.

She had not taken this revelation well, and she never forgave the Carrington family for alienating her son’s affections.

But to Valance, his wish had seemed only natural.

At Dreadnaught Hall, there were no other children to play with.

Nor was he allowed to slide down the banister, track mud into the nursery, teach his dog to eat off a plate at the dinner table, or play with magic unless his tutor was present.

If he made too much noise, he was told he gave his mother a headache.

At Carrington Abbey, if Abigail handed musical instruments to her younger brothers and announced they were going to pretend to be a military band, her mother simply warned her to make sure she didn’t wake the baby.

If Peregrine tried to fly a kite with magic instead of wind and string, his father only told him “For God’s sake, do it on solid ground next time and not on the roof! ” lest he break his neck.

And when Valance ran over from his own house and interrupted breakfast at the Abbey by shouting that he had discovered an entirely new way to work sorcery with pen and paper, the whole household celebrated.

To be precise, Sir John and Lady Carrington praised him, Roderick smiled, Abigail clapped, Peregrine and Cosmo cheered, and Hannah shrieked with inarticulate toddler joy.

He could hardly help preferring their reaction to his mother’s disinterested “That’s nice, dear. ”

After that announcement, Lady Carrington had fixed him a plate of crumpets and marmalade, without suggesting that he “really did not need to eat so much, Oliver dear.” On the contrary, Lady Carrington always let Valance eat as much as he was hungry for, never once suggesting he might, perhaps, be getting a little stout.

Nor did she force Peregrine (always a picky eater) to try foods he did not like.

She allowed him to stick to bread and butter if that was all he wanted.

As a child, Valance had appreciated that very much, even if he could not articulate why he so much preferred it to his own mother’s approach to food.

Was it any wonder Valance had longed to be part of that household? That, too, seemed like some clear and inarguable law of nature. Fire burned, ice chilled, and the Carringtons were the happiest family in the world. Facts!

Given that history of life-long friendship, Valance spent the last act of the play considering the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Abigail Carrington was right.

She usually was right, though he did not always like to admit it.

Perhaps he had become infatuated with his wife.

Just a little. It was only natural, wasn’t it, that if you put a healthy young man in a house with the most beautiful woman in England, he might become a tiny bit smitten?

It could happen to anyone! (Well, almost anyone. Probably not Cosmo Carrington.)

Valance kept pondering this new idea as he handed Lady Valance into the carriage after the play. Perhaps that was why he sat beside her, close enough that his arm brushed against hers, instead of sitting in his usual seat across from her.

“Oh, sorry!” She scooted away from him.

His heart sank. “You need not apologize. I am the one who sat here. Do you mind? Would you rather I move to the other seat?”