Chapter Eleven

TREVOR THOUGHT SHE should be thankful that he'd not roared and railed at them for their unprecedented, unacceptable, and wholly improper conduct. Perhaps it was only his near complete shock that had held his tongue to the brief and unsatisfying rebuke he'd given.

"Nicole, you will not—"

"Don't you dare tell me what I can and cannot do." She'd jumped up from the window seat, her eyes blazing. "It's tea and they are my—"

"They are not your family! They are the servants!"

"They are my friends."

This circumstance, too, was of his doing, he supposed. Good God! How was he ever to turn this around? Begin as you mean to proceed, his father had always taught him. It would now be difficult indeed to train the servants to actually behave as servants, showing the proper deference for the lady of the manor when she was happy to invite them to tea! What was next—bringing them out with her to local dinner parties?

But how was he supposed to denounce the only friends she claimed to have, as this situation was, essentially, his own fault? This, he decided with a sigh, was a challenge for some later date. Presently, he had far greater quandaries to address. He worked at lowering his voice and his temper.

"You asked me earlier why I had come now to the abbey."

She surprised him by saying, not with rancor, but just a statement of fact, it seemed, "But then I decided that I really wasn't interested in your reasons for coming."

"Nicole, while there is much to appreciate in the very apparent growth you've made as a person over the past year, you would do well to discern the difference between speaking up for yourself in a mature fashion and simply being a brat."

He watched her eyes widen to such a degree as to leave no question about her reception of his suggestion and held up his hand when she looked about to spew forth her very obvious thoughts on this.

"Apologies. That was uncalled for."

She seethed, breathing through her nose, her little hands fisted at her sides.

"I've thought about coming to the abbey for quite some time." He stepped forward, so that only a few feet separated them. "I know now that my actions upon our wedding day, and since, have been deplorable. I thought, perhaps I still believe, there was deceit and an attempt to entrap me into marriage. However, I believe the marriage can be saved yet."

She looked still particularly amazed, but said, with quiet calm, "You've just admitted that you still believe I conspired against you but you're willing to ‘save' the marriage you threw away? Yes, well now I'm even more confused."

"I am saying I am sorry for my actions."

"It actually sounded like you are sorry for my supposed actions but being the kind and rational man that you are, you're willing to give me a chance to beg forgiveness for something I didn't do."

Through near-gritted teeth, he said, "I've come to say let's work on the marriage, and get through all these issues—"

"And I am saying that is all well and good, but I am still not much inclined to be married or have a relationship with a person who can so cavalierly set aside his own wife—one who was quite obviously and so tremendously infatuated with him—on the mere assumption of some slight against him." When he would have spoken she added pointedly, her ire and volume increasing, "And maybe then—if there were a true affront—maybe only a week might pass, and he would come to his senses. Perhaps it might be several weeks, if he were especially stubborn and clung to the notion that he'd been so abused. But I wonder, what kind of man allows his wife to wallow in this imposed exile for nigh on a year? And furthermore, expects her to so gladly leap into his arms, without so much affection toward her own dignity that it be banished simply by his maddening arrival and questionable intent?"

"This is about your dignity? Your pride? While I'm the one who came back—"

She threw up her hands, in despair or disdain, he did not know.

"Listen to all the words, my lord," she said with some exasperation. "I wouldn't even want to know a person who was cruel or cold or unforgiving—let alone be married to him."

"You're going to preach about forgiveness when you offer none?"

She sighed. "I forgive you, my lord—people make mistakes, myself more than most, perhaps. I just don't want to know you."

These, then, he was sure, were likely the most heartbreaking words he'd ever heard.

I cannot... not know you, he thought, knowing this was what had driven him back to her.

She shifted on her feet and he knew she was going to leave him again.

Trevor blocked her escape, his eyes on hers. She stared back, undaunted, not the girl he'd married anymore, he was reminded again.

"I'll leave, Nicki." He was sorry to see the relief she bothered not to hide. "On one condition."

Her eyes narrowed, but he wouldn't have said she was wary.

"On the condition that you kiss me—or rather, allow me to kiss you." Ah, here was a response finally. She drew in her breath. He was aware of her chest rising and falling noticeably. A good sign, it seemed. "You must allow me to kiss you. If you do not respond, if you truly feel nothing at all, I will leave." He let that sink in, was quite sure her mind whirred just now, surely wondering how difficult it could truly be to have no response at all to only a kiss. "If you do respond, if you feel anything, I remain. And we're going to do things my way."

"I-I don't need to play little games—"

"But you've said you don't even want to know me," he challenged. "Surely one little kiss can have no effect on you. I could be out of this house today."

Her chin raised, and he was just fiend enough to happily note that her eyes lit for the briefest of seconds upon his mouth, mayhap recalling their too-long-ago bewitching kisses.

"One kiss, Nicki."

She was torn, he could quite plainly see. She cried, "Why won't you just return to London? Can't we just continue as we were? I'm happy here. I could be happy here for years, maybe forever. It's all right that you didn't want me as a wife. I mean that—I'm over it. Why do you even want to be here?"

He said nothing.

Before his eyes, she composed herself, recovering from her almost frantic outburst, and again presented a rigid demeanor. And some spark entered her gaze just then. If Trevor read it correctly, she was thinking just now that her present fury would protect her from the tempest of any coming kiss. Her stormy green eyes lit with a calculating gleam; he knew he read her correctly, that she believed her anger would make her impervious to his kiss. "I'll give you one minute. And I want you gone before supper."

He knew his smile then was both predatory and gloating. He couldn't help it.

"Remember," he said softly, taking one step closer, "we're going to do things my way from now on."

Now her brow lifted in haughty rebuke. "You can do as you please when you're returned to London."

He took another step and saw that she worked hard to not retreat. He placed one hand on her hip, listened to her breathe through her nose. He stared into her beautiful green eyes, brightened now—finally—with wariness. The hand at her hip slid slowly around her back, drawing her near, bringing her chest to his. Her hands lifted, but touched nothing, just floated next to his arms. She bent her face away from him and closed her eyes. Trevor lowered his head, his lips hovering just near her turned cheek, waiting, breathing softly onto her. The hand at her back flexed, pressing her more fully against his chest and thighs. Her breathing intensified. He slid his hand down over her bottom, pushing her into his groin. He urged his head forward until his mouth touched her, just breezing his unmoving lips along her cheek toward her mouth at a tantalizingly slow pace. Her breath came hot and fast now. Her lips parted but he held back yet. Her hands now touched his arms, gripping the fabric of his sleeves. He moved his mouth again across her lips, provoking a sound so slight as to be almost unheard from deep within her chest, and only then did Trevor finally capture her lips fully, bringing his other hand to wrap around her and crush her to him. He thrust his tongue deep within her mouth, twisting and turning while he ground his growing erection against her.

She tried to resist him, he knew, felt her hands on his arms pushing him away even as she began to kiss him back. And then she cried as she surrendered, her fingers digging into his biceps then, slanting her head to receive him and return his kiss, pushing her tongue back at him.

They were frantic and noisy and sloppy and neither one of them cared. Her hands moved up, stealing into his hair, holding him close while her hips, of their own accord, swayed against him. Trevor brought one hand between them, sliding upward to cup the fullness of her breast, then his fingers curled around the nipple hardening beneath the light fabric. Every muscle in his body was tensed with expectation and heightened awareness. He caught her shiver, relished it, and continued to kiss her senseless as he gripped the shoulder of her gown to get the blasted thing out of his way.

But his hand stilled, caught just there at the neckline.

"No," he growled thickly against her lips. "Not like this." He put his hands at her hips and held her at arms' length. She whimpered, her confusion vital between them, the sound solely in response to his pulling away. "Jesus, not like this." Trevor was hardly able to comprehend his own words, wanting to cry as well for what he denied them just now. He lowered his head, trying to make his breathing normal.

When he lifted his eyes to her, he saw only her tortured desire, though her lips trembled. Faintly, slowly, her head moved side to side, her eyes pleading with him not to stop. Her hand found his, pressing her fingers into his palm though not drawing him back to her.

There wasn't any part of him that wanted to exult now in this triumph. He wanted only to bury himself deep inside her. But he knew it wasn't the manner in which he wanted to advance with her, not like this, not after what he'd done to her.

"I will communicate to Mrs. Abercorn to have dinner ready at seven," he said, endeavoring to keep his tone even, "in the blue dining room." He gave her hand a tender squeeze and then released her and removed himself from the room, from her still-longing gaze.

HE FOUND THE SERVANTS gathered now in the kitchens, all save Ian, which was perfect, as he hoped to speak to that man separately. They stared at him with their utterly bothersome habit of making him feel unwanted in his own home. But he had come straight from the library with the feel of Nicole's kiss still upon his lips and then was inclined to be generous. It was his intention to find with them some fine line between his own mother's almost always autocratic and demeaning treatment of those beneath her—and in her mind, that was nearly every other breathing soul—and Nicole's over-familiarity, her insistence that these people before him were her friends.

He addressed first Mrs. Abercorn, who stood at the counter wringing her hands in her apron, as if she'd only just washed them and now was set to give attention to the pheasants before her. "Please have dinner in the blue dining room at seven this evening—and every evening thereafter." He turned then to Franklin, who looked up at him from his stooped position, the now emptied tea tray dangling from one hand. "Dinner shall require the provision of wine, Mr. Franklin." He glanced at the very young footmen. "I assume these boys here can manage to accommodate us at dinner?"

"They're learning what they need to know to serve," the butler answered, a bit defensively.

"Let us allow them to practice this evening, attending us." And to the very young maid— Lorelei, he thought her name might be, "My lady will require half-dress this evening—silk gown, hair dressed, fine slippers. You should be available to her at least an hour before." He watched her eyes dart to Franklin, whom Trevor caught giving a quick little nod, and he let that go just now as the maid returned her gaze and nodded, bobbing a quick and sloppy curtsy.

And to all of them, moving his eyes from each to the next, "I appreciate that you are quite attached to the countess, as she is equally devoted to you. As such, I hope I can count on you to assist her ladyship in taking her proper and rightful place here at Hyndman Abbey and eventually in London as the Countess of Leven. She is to be addressed as my lady. You may keep to your informal luncheon here in the kitchens and even your three o'clock tea time en famille, but going forward, breakfast will be served precisely at nine and should be set for three people in the morning room. Is that understood?"

A chorus of "yes, milord" greeted him, being neither too eager nor occupied with disdain. He gave then a curt nod and turned on his heel to depart, hearing behind him, "I thought Franklin was your first name," this from the little maid, to which the butler's response was, "My given name is Alvertos."

The door swung closed behind Trevor just as the older footman intoned, "Makes sense, then, that you prefer Franklin."

Next, Trevor found Mr. Wendell in the steward's office at the rear of the house. He pushed open the door to find the man at his desk with several books opened before him, the topmost appearing to be a ledger of sorts. Trevor called upon a reserve of forbearance for the coming conversation. It was not in his best interest to sack the man as was his want, to literally remove the bounder from his home—not if he had intention of proving to Nicole that he was sorry for his behavior, that he deserved a chance to prove himself, that he wanted a real marriage.

If he had actually believed Nicole had been unfaithful—even to their thus far sham of a marriage—he'd have by now knocked this man on his ass.

Ian stood when he noticed his presence just inside the door, though Trevor hadn't bothered to knock.

He met the man's steady gaze, finding neither arrogance nor a challenge, which allowed Trevor to assume only protection as the motivation for his noteworthy response to Trevor at their first meeting yesterday morning, and not jealousy or possessiveness.

"Mr. Wendell, I am to understand my wife herself hired you for this position."

"She did," said the man, answering in a level tone as Trevor had begun.

"Had you experience before this assignment?"

"None, save for what was learned in reading."

"And aside from your particular affinity toward the countess, how are you finding your responsibility here at Hyndman Abbey?"

"The countess," he said, with no small amount of deliberate emphasis, "is of too kind a nature and often needs reminding that there are people in this world who will take advantage of that." Before Trevor could even raise a brow at the man's daring, he clarified—though the initial point hung there still, "But she's learning to deal with unscrupulous merchants and insincere tenants just the same, though luckily they be few and far between." He glanced down at the books on his desk. "In regard to the abbey, the books are a mess, neglected and error-riddled, my lord, but I am beginning to make sense of them. There is no waste here at the abbey, as you can see, but we have no directives from your men in London."

"Yes, my wife has said as much. I will look into that immediately." Trevor didn't like the man but could certainly appreciate the earnestness with which he approached his position, and this was a good thing indeed. "I'd like to start going over the estate with you. Hyndman Abbey is likely the property I know the least about. We shall take meetings over breakfast each morning, as I'm sure my wife will want to be included, and then ride about in the afternoons for a bit." At Ian's nod, given without even a hint of surprise, or any that was shown, Trevor said, "I'll be sending for my valet and I'll leave it to you to hire several more maids for the house and the kitchen and the scullery, and a few good stable hands. If you feel those boys are fit to be proper footmen, we'll leave off hiring more of them."

"They are young yet but anxious to please...the countess."

"Very good." And with an agreeable nod, Trevor left the office.

He indeed felt a lightness to his step afterward, considering he'd made much progress this day. He looked forward to this evening and dinner with his wife.

NICOLE HAD LEFT THE library only moments after Trevor had. She took the back stairs to her chamber and closed the door, her back sliding against it. It made no sense for her legs to give out now, but they did, bringing her down to the floor. With her knees drawn up and her elbows upon them, she dropped her face into her hands and cried.

Oh, this was not going well at all! How could her body betray her like that?

But oh my, his kiss! Had she actually forgotten how it felt? How it had made her feel? Obviously, or she'd not have agreed to his ridiculous little trick—and a trick it was! He apparently had not failed to recall how quickly, how very capably he could turn her to pudding in his arms.

Nicole lifted her face, staring around the pretty blue room she'd called her own since that first night almost a year ago. It was likely meant as only a guest room, one of many, but with its soft blue and ivory color scheme, in the subtle chintz wallpaper, the counterpane and bolster and pillows, and the long cotton draperies, she'd quickly chosen this room as hers, deciding it was by far her favorite room, so delicate and pretty compared to the other chambers, which were decorated in a more handsome, distinctly masculine fashion.

It was a good thing, indeed, that she enjoyed this room, for it might become her refuge if her husband did for certain plan to stay. And, "we're going to do things my way"—what could that possibly mean? She hoped this was stated only in regard to her very cozy routine with the servants, as she believed this could easily be gotten around.

She lowered her arms and let her shoulders slump, pushing out a heavy sigh. Unbidden— she certainly didn't want to be recalling anything from the last few minutes in the library with Trevor! —the picture of his hungry gaze came before her. Truly, he had stared at her as if he might have consumed her, body and soul, if she but allowed it. As if she and her very treacherous body had a choice!

She shook her head in disgust with herself. And here she'd thought she might be able to be so unaffected by his presence that she might carry on with her daily routine as if he were not here at all. How insufferably pitiful I am!

Nicole rose from the floor and flopped herself across the wide bed.

The truth of the matter was this: she wanted Trevor to love her, but she was afraid that she might, as she'd done before, mistake passion for love. And she wanted to love Trevor, but she was afraid that this big ugly thing—their wedding day—lay powerfully and resentfully between them.

She had heard of the expression ‘emotionally exhausted' but had never understood the phrase before this moment. She grasped it completely just now and as her tears dried upon her cheeks, she fell off into a rather deep slumber.

Nicole was wakened only an hour later by a nervous but excited Lorelei.

"Oh, miss—I mean Lady Leven—you must wake!" The little maid shook Nicole's shoulder gently and she rolled over to see Lorelei pull open both doors of the wardrobe. "We've to get you ready for—oh, no! Where are your fine silks?" Lorelei turned her startled gaze to Nicole, who now was sitting up on the side of the bed. "There are only these two."

"I took them to Mrs. Lemmon," Nicole explained groggily, wakeful enough now to wonder why Lorelei was here. She hadn't ever had need of her assistance before. "There's no need for them here. She will make some serviceable gowns for me instead."

Now Lorelei appeared truly panicked. "But, miss, I mean milady!" —this, with exasperation— "the earl says you are to dress for dinner. He specifically said silk!"

It was beginning to make sense to Nicole. "Do not fret, Lorelei. ‘Tis just the earl and me to dine. The muslins will be fine."

"I have never seen muslin at a dinner, milady. At least we have these two."

Nicole shrugged and rinsed her face in the basin Lorelei had brought up. She dabbed the towel against her skin and then allowed the maid to help her remove the cotton gown, hardly able to not recognize the young woman's excitement.

"It's my first time dressing a lady," Lorelei confided and slid the chosen blue silk over Nicole's head and arms. It fell down to the floor, and Nicole glanced down at the buttons at her chest. Lorelei had already moved over to the dressing table, pulling pins and brushes and combs from the drawer.

"We should—" Nicole began.

"We must hurry, milady. We have less than an hour and I've never actually fixed a proper lady's hair—I've only ever practiced on my sisters."

"Lorelei," Nicole called her attention. "We have plenty of time." And she giggled a bit here, "We even have enough time to dress me properly." She held out her arms to show that the gown was on backwards.

Lorelei's pretty eyes widened. "Egads."

They laughed together then and Lorelei did settle down. The gown was righted, and the buttons closed appropriately at her back and then Nicole sat down upon the stool in front of the mirror at her dressing table.

Lorelei began to unbraid and brush out Nicole's long hair.

"When I lived in London, my maid was Amelia. She worked my hair every day," Nicole said, "but it didn't always conform to her intentions. Ofttimes, she'd spend thirty minutes on a certain style only to have us both decide that it was unbecoming, or unlikely to hold, or just outright awful, and she'd end up just whipping it into a neat chignon—or as neat as my hair would allow—and that would be that."

"Oh, but I've wanted to get my hands on your hair since first I saw it," Lorelei promised her. "I have many ideas."

"But only one at a time, I hope." Nicole made a face at her friend in the mirror.

Lorelei giggled. "Yes, miss—ugh, I mean milady."

"Is that also a directive from the earl? The ‘my lady' bit?"

"It is. He came to the kitchen and scolded all of us—" she caught Nicole's frown in the mirror and was quick to make clear, "not at all mean-like, milady, just reminded us of our roles. I'll admit, I was rather afraid of him when he came, but I think he just pretends at the lordly stuff mostly, but is really nice, as you are."

While they might be friendly, Nicole hadn't any intention of discussing her marriage, or lack thereof, with the girl. It was her own humiliation and she'd prefer to keep it that way. Likewise, she imagined that Lorelei now guessed it wasn't her place to inquire where her ladyship's husband had been for the past year.

At ten minutes before seven, Nicole walked into the drawing room, where she assumed she was to meet the earl before dinner.

Her husband awaited her, lounging in the blue damask side chair, not the lord's ornate arm chair. He stood when she entered and offered a respectable bow. Nicole managed to sketch a brief curtsy without causing damage to her precarious coiffure.

Franklin approached them, his bent form only reaching to the earl's chest. He offered up a tray with two glasses on it, first to Nicole, who carefully chose one and waited for the earl to take the other. Trevor then stepped to the side and swung his arm to indicate that Nicole should sit. She did so, moving carefully as to not upset her hair.

"Is there something wrong with your neck? You seem to be... stiff," he said, and she could just sense his concerned frown.

Nicole moved her eyes, though barely her head, around the room, and saw that Franklin was still the only other person present, his hands tucked behind his back, which seemed to straighten him a bit.

"This is Lorelei's first attempt to manage my hair. It's not going to hold, I fear. And it's not her fault—Amelia had worked with it for years and struggled so often she had taken to calling it rather unladylike names." She glanced down her nose at her drink, forgoing actually lowering her head lest the entire mass of it fall forward. "I'm hoping it makes it through dinner, until she attends me later. I don't want her to consider her first endeavor a failure."

"It has some—er—great height. Is there something... in there?" He'd moved closer to inspect it. He lifted his hand.

"Don't touch it." She jerked away, though managed to tilt her head not at all. "It might topple."

She heard Trevor chuckle and saw him sit down across from her, in the chair he'd employed only moments ago.

There was some silence then, not uncomfortable.

"What had you—"

"What brought you—"

They'd spoken at once, and Nicole melted back into her chair, biting her bottom lip until he tipped his head, allowing that she should proceed. "What brought you into the village today?"

"Letters to post, and some trivial business matters," he answered. "Nothing of import. And what had you been reading so animatedly when I came upon you in the bookstore?"

"Animatedly?"

"My dear, your hand was fisted, and your brow furrowed to such an extent, I pitied the character whose thoughts or words or actions had instigated such rapt furor."

"That dreadful Mr. Darcy," she said, recalling exactly which passage had wrought so disagreeable a mien. "Or rather, when he was dreadful."

"Ah, yes, he prevailed, did he not? Won the hand of the fair Miss Bennet if I recall."

"Lord Leven, are you supposing I am to believe that you've actually read Miss Austen's novel?"

"Not at all, but you may suppose that I once suffered a dinner partner who spent all of the blessed seven courses, giving a full account of Miss Austen's story, to such effect that even if I had been inclined to have purchased the fiction, I might have saved myself the time and monies, for the lady in question not only offered a complete and thorough chapter by chapter recounting, but then also her own review of the manuscript, that I felt I was indeed on rather intimate terms with the entire Bennet clan and Mr. Darcy as well."

Nicole couldn't help herself but laughed out loud at this picture, of the powerful and some might say unapproachable Earl of Leven having been trapped by politeness and forced to endure possibly several hours' worth of a retelling of Pride and Prejudice. "Could you not claim illness?" She asked through her laughter. "Or possibly some remembrance of a prior engagement, to have vacated your position at her side?"

"Possibly, but the dinner was at my own home."

Franklin stepped forward and announced that dinner was to be served now. Trevor stood and offered his hand to Nicole, who rose carefully and allowed her husband to lead her to the smaller of the two dining rooms. Trevor released her hand when they'd reached one end of the table, where Henry stood behind that chair. While Trevor made his way to the head of the table, where stood Charlie, Nicole turned and winked at Henry, standing so seriously at attention. The boy smiled at her but only quickly before Trevor faced Nicole again, indicating with a nod that she should sit. Charlie and Henry moved at the same time, pushing their chairs in as they sat. The boys disappeared then, and Franklin moved about the table, refilling first Nicole's glass and then the earls before taking up a sentinel position near the sideboard. The boys returned shortly, each carrying a circular tray, conveying the first course of soup to the lord and lady.

Nicole had only enjoyed one taste off the side of the spoon of Abby's fabulous pea soup when a long curling tress flashed before her eyes, falling away from the main structure and dangling down across one side of her face. While she stared at it, she was aware that Trevor's spoon was arrested halfway to his mouth, though his jaw still gaped. And his lips twitched.

"Do not sit there laughing at me," she said, noticing the pin still held at the end of the fallen lock. "Come and fix this."

"Me?"

Believing no help coming from his end, she picked up the offending tress, which drooped nearly into her soup and lifted it out and up, attempting to guess where she might reattach it.

"Oh, what a hobble! She will be crushed if I return with it in shambles."

Trevor set down his napkin on the table next to his soup and walked the length of the table. At her side, he accepted the loosed lock of hair and wondered aloud what might be done with it. "Shall I just squish it into the bulk of it? How does this pin work—oh, I see." Nicole felt some pressure against the left side of her head, but only closed her eyes at the nearness of him, his waist just at eye level should she turn. "Voilà, and there you have it," he said then, and she opened her eyes to find him standing there still. She sensed his hand hovering near her exposed neck. She breathed slowly, her coiffure forgotten.

The door from the kitchens swung open again, and they were reminded that they were not alone; Franklin had remained at his position even before the footmen returned now with items to add to the first course. Trevor retook his seat just as Charlie and Henry set down individual dishes of lamb cotelletes and artichokes in cream sauce beside each of them.

The boys remained now, only standing stiffly, side by side, several paces away from the table. Nicole concentrated on the food, slightly unnerved at the thought of making conversation with her husband under the sure scrutiny of Franklin and now the boys as well.

The earl seemed less troubled by the very idea.

"I had a visit from your grandmother some weeks ago," he said casually.

Nicole nearly spit out the spoonful of soup she'd just sipped.

"A visit?" She wondered, recalling her grandmother's extreme distaste of what she perceived as, a completely unacceptable arrangement that must end now or by the saints, I'll have him flayed alive. "Or, trial by fire?"

Trevor's lips quirked. "An amazing woman, with some very critical opinions on certain matters."

That was an understatement, she knew well and good, and as confirmed by the gleam in his eye. But for their audience, she might have inquired if this, then, was what had finally brought him round to Lesser House. Instead, she only commented, "We saw grandmother only this past Christmas."

"A remarkable woman," he said. "Truly, I will look forward to meeting her again."

Quiet then, while they enjoyed the fare and considered other topics of conversation, though Nicole sadly recalled that there had been a time when words between them flowed quite effortlessly.

"I've sent for Timsby, my valet," he said shortly.

"Good Lord, how long are you staying?" That just fell out of her mouth. Nicole clamped her lips and stole a glance at the footmen, who were doing a superb job of pretending they had no sense of hearing. "I only meant... you must have so many affairs that require your attention in London."

Trevor's dark eyes showed a restrained indulgence as he met her gaze, and he said, quite pointedly, "There are many affairs here that require my attention, first and foremost."

Nicole tried to ignore this, but his eyes upon her so piercing and heated just now, brought a flush to her cheeks and a swift recollection of his kiss only hours ago.

She pushed her soup bowl away and ignored the lamb and artichokes, sitting back in her chair to signify this course was finished. Henry thankfully understood the cue and swept in to remove these dishes. Charlie's eyes darted to Franklin—the earl was still attending the dishes before him—and Franklin nodded an assent, which then had Charlie likewise clearing the bowl and plates before the earl, his cheeks pinkened and his eyes upon only the table. Trevor was left holding still his soup spoon as all else before him was confiscated.

He set the spoon down and looked up at Nicole, just met her eyes steadily, but then continued to stare and soon with a growing intensity that she felt suddenly quite exposed. He continued to regard her, and she wondered if he were recalling their earlier kiss. Earlier kiss? No, that language was entirely too tame to describe what had transpired between them earlier. And he was doing it again, now with his eyes, caressing her, holding her captive, forcing her breath to rush in and out that her lips parted to give her ease.

The footmen returned, and Nicole remembered where she was and closed her mouth and made to rearrange the remaining silverware in front of her. Henry was at her side then and placed several dishes before her, but she hadn't any idea what they were. She'd witnessed and had been the recipient of several gazes from Trevor, both before and after they had married. She had glimpsed his watchful gaze and his laughing one and last year had several times observed his protective and angry glances, but she knew she had never perceived so hungry a gaze as she had just now. She felt naked and vulnerable and heated all at once. With a pretense of composure, she lifted a fork and feigned interest in the plates before her.

Having a sense about her that she needed some suitable bit of conversation that would rankle him, effectively reminding her of his mercurial moods—not one of her favorite things about Trevor—Nicole said casually, "I hope you shan't mind muslin gowns at dinner. I will have exhausted my supply of silks in a matter of days."

"What has become of your trousseau?" Her husband asked then, lifting his eyes from her bosom, where this silk showed more of a décolletage than her daytime muslins did.

"I gave them away," she announced. This was very helpful, she believed, knowing he would denounce this, and tell her the Countess of Leven did not simply give things away, to the neglect of her own person. He would be angry, and it would put her on better footing with him.

But Trevor only said, "We shall have to purchase others, I suppose."