Lady Windermere's Lover Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Miranda Neville
mind.”
“If you believe that your only value to me is as Damian’s bride, then you don’t know your own worth and he is a bigger fool than I thought for leaving you alone so long, and letting you think you mean nothing to him.”
I know I mean nothing to him . She was too proud to say it aloud. Instead she soothed her vanity by defending her neglectful spouse. “He was called abroad and did his duty, for which I respect him.” Her hand convulsed on the gilt handle of her lorgnette.
“And of course he fulfills his duty to you by frequent letters, attentive to your needs.”
To that there was no answer.
Long fingers enveloped her clenched fist. “If you will let me,” he whispered, “you will find me neglectful in nothing.”
He chose his words well. Neglected was precisely how she had felt for so long, long before she met Windermere. Her husband had merely raised hopes that finally she would have someone to call her own, and dashed them. She ignored a shiver of yearning, withdrew from Julian’s touch, and raised the glasses to her nose. Her throat was tight. “Not now.”
“Why not now? Admit that you are tempted. Why else did you come out with me tonight?”
As his wicked voice stroked her like a sable brush, she determinedly surveyed the faces and figures in the boxes opposite. There were a few she knew, but very few. Despite her rank, she was not of the ton . The niece of a Birmingham merchant, abandoned by her brand-new husband, had no entrée to the more rarefied households of Mayfair. If her only recourse had been to the faintly disreputable company of Caro Townsend and her set, including Julian Fortescue, it was Windermere’s fault. Through the lorgnette she saw the Countess of Ashfield, a pillar of London society with the eyesight of an eagle, glaring back at her. Another box was filled with drunken bucks; luckily they were on the bottom tier or the occupants of the pit below would be in dire danger of being hit by flying glasses and vomit. The next box was also a trifle crowded: The owner had decided to cram his wife and six young ladies into the narrow space. By contrast, the very elegant lady next door had but a single gentleman in attendance.
She inhaled so hard her chest hurt. She would recognize that gentleman from a mile’s distance, with or without the benefit of magnifying lenses.
She didn’t know him as well as she knew the man at her side, but on the other hand, unlike Julian, he had shared her bed. He was her lawfully wedded husband. Back in London after more than a year’s absence, he had not sought the company of his wife. Instead he was tête-à-tête in a box at Drury Lane with another woman.
Every muscle rigid, she lowered the lorgnette to her lap with exaggerated care.
“What is it?” Julian asked.
“Who is the lady in red in the box closest to the pit door?”
“Lady Belinda Radcliffe, wife of the undersecretary for foreign affairs. Windermere has known her for a long time, through her husband.” She heard pity in his voice and felt his hand on her shoulder, like comfort, not seduction.
“Did you know Windermere was back in London?”
“I heard a rumor. But when you agreed to come out with me tonight I thought I must be wrong.”
Cynthia blinked hard and didn’t trust herself to speak through thickening tears. Instead she tilted her head to press her cheek against Julian’s hand. Across the theater she saw Windermere’s gaze linger on them for a few seconds, then he turned back to the beautiful Lady Belinda.
If she were honest with herself, she had hoped he would see her, or at least hear a report that she hadn’t been waiting at home like a meek Quaker for her spouse’s return. When imagining his reaction to seeing her transformed into a fashionable lady—and escorted by a duke, this particular duke—she hadn’t expected indifference. Expectations confounded again, she thought wryly through her distress.
“I heard that rumor too,” she managed
“If you believe that your only value to me is as Damian’s bride, then you don’t know your own worth and he is a bigger fool than I thought for leaving you alone so long, and letting you think you mean nothing to him.”
I know I mean nothing to him . She was too proud to say it aloud. Instead she soothed her vanity by defending her neglectful spouse. “He was called abroad and did his duty, for which I respect him.” Her hand convulsed on the gilt handle of her lorgnette.
“And of course he fulfills his duty to you by frequent letters, attentive to your needs.”
To that there was no answer.
Long fingers enveloped her clenched fist. “If you will let me,” he whispered, “you will find me neglectful in nothing.”
He chose his words well. Neglected was precisely how she had felt for so long, long before she met Windermere. Her husband had merely raised hopes that finally she would have someone to call her own, and dashed them. She ignored a shiver of yearning, withdrew from Julian’s touch, and raised the glasses to her nose. Her throat was tight. “Not now.”
“Why not now? Admit that you are tempted. Why else did you come out with me tonight?”
As his wicked voice stroked her like a sable brush, she determinedly surveyed the faces and figures in the boxes opposite. There were a few she knew, but very few. Despite her rank, she was not of the ton . The niece of a Birmingham merchant, abandoned by her brand-new husband, had no entrée to the more rarefied households of Mayfair. If her only recourse had been to the faintly disreputable company of Caro Townsend and her set, including Julian Fortescue, it was Windermere’s fault. Through the lorgnette she saw the Countess of Ashfield, a pillar of London society with the eyesight of an eagle, glaring back at her. Another box was filled with drunken bucks; luckily they were on the bottom tier or the occupants of the pit below would be in dire danger of being hit by flying glasses and vomit. The next box was also a trifle crowded: The owner had decided to cram his wife and six young ladies into the narrow space. By contrast, the very elegant lady next door had but a single gentleman in attendance.
She inhaled so hard her chest hurt. She would recognize that gentleman from a mile’s distance, with or without the benefit of magnifying lenses.
She didn’t know him as well as she knew the man at her side, but on the other hand, unlike Julian, he had shared her bed. He was her lawfully wedded husband. Back in London after more than a year’s absence, he had not sought the company of his wife. Instead he was tête-à-tête in a box at Drury Lane with another woman.
Every muscle rigid, she lowered the lorgnette to her lap with exaggerated care.
“What is it?” Julian asked.
“Who is the lady in red in the box closest to the pit door?”
“Lady Belinda Radcliffe, wife of the undersecretary for foreign affairs. Windermere has known her for a long time, through her husband.” She heard pity in his voice and felt his hand on her shoulder, like comfort, not seduction.
“Did you know Windermere was back in London?”
“I heard a rumor. But when you agreed to come out with me tonight I thought I must be wrong.”
Cynthia blinked hard and didn’t trust herself to speak through thickening tears. Instead she tilted her head to press her cheek against Julian’s hand. Across the theater she saw Windermere’s gaze linger on them for a few seconds, then he turned back to the beautiful Lady Belinda.
If she were honest with herself, she had hoped he would see her, or at least hear a report that she hadn’t been waiting at home like a meek Quaker for her spouse’s return. When imagining his reaction to seeing her transformed into a fashionable lady—and escorted by a duke, this particular duke—she hadn’t expected indifference. Expectations confounded again, she thought wryly through her distress.
“I heard that rumor too,” she managed