The time with his wife was worth every cent.

“What a tiresome man your brother-in-law is,” he said, finding his hat and putting it back on.

“Do you think so?” Tess said, grasping at the conversational tidbit so eagerly that he had to hide a grin. “I admit that I find him tedious in conversation myself.” She stood up and walked to the front of the box, avoiding his eyes. He thought he caught a glimpse of something in her eyes—hurt? Mortification?

So he strolled up and stood just behind her and for a moment—a blissful moment—allowed himself to press against her delicious little bottom.

“Lucius!” she said in a stifled voice.

He stepped away and had to readjust his breeches for the fifteenth time. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “I want you to know that I am on the edge of losing my control as a gentleman and throwing you onto that couch. And I can’t do that. Of course.”

She looked up at him quickly. The question was replaced by a smile; she reached up and adjusted his neckcloth.

It was such a wifely gesture that Lucius’s normally inscrutable eyes—had Tess been looking at them, rather than fussing with his neckcloth—held an expression quite alien to their normal expression.

If forced to catalog it, Lucius would have called it desire. Oh, perhaps a stronger version—naked longing, perhaps. Proprietary. She was his wife.

Stronger than that?

Surely not.

He was kissing her when Draven Maitland opened the door to the box. It was all most shocking; kissing, in the open window.

“You might have been seen by any passing jockey,” Imogen remarked, after the two husbands had taken themselves off to the stables. Draven was not the sort to stand around in a box when he could be brushing shoulders with the legs and finding out how the betting was weighing a favorite.

“I think the jockeys have better things to do,” Tess said, suppressing a little grin.

Imogen looked at her sharply. “I see that you and Felton are behaving in a quite newlywed fashion.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tess asked.

Her sister laughed. “You know precisely what I mean, Tess. Draven didn’t say anything, but I’m certain that he felt as keenly as I did the shame of finding you two kissing behind a closed door, for all the world like a housemaid with the first footman.”

“That is an unkind assessment,” Tess said, a flush rising into her cheeks.

Imogen’s eyes flashed. “If the shoe fits…You didn’t get all that color in your cheeks from jostling amongst the legs and fielders in the stables, as Draven and I were doing. No, you were up here in your plush little birdcage, allowing yourself to be mauled by your rich husband. I wonder at you, Tess.”

Tess looked at her. “And I at you, Imogen.”

“At least I married for love,” she snapped.

Tess could feel fury rising in her bosom. There was no one in the world who could make her as angry as her own sisters, and Imogen was doing an excellent job of deliberately provoking her. “Now you have gone from being unkind to coarse! In case you were unaware of the fact, I married quickly partly to quell the scandal caused by your marriage.”

“Lady Griselda seems quite unperturbed by my sudden marriage,” Imogen retorted, straightening her bonnet. “She tells me that marriage by special license is quite envied. Isn’t this an utterly divine bonnet? Lady Clarice gave it to me; she had only worn it two or three times and didn’t care for it. Of course, you will never have to wear a hand-me-down again.” This time there was pure spite in her tone.

“My understanding is that Lucius saved you from the scandal of a Gretna Green marriage,” Tess said. “In fact, that he gave Lord Maitland the money to buy a special license.”

Imogen waved her hand airily. “Naturally Draven does not carry hundreds of pounds with him at any given time. He’s not a merchant, you know.”

Tess’s heart was beating so fast she could hear it in her ears. “Neither is Lucius. And I’m sorry if you find my choice of husband disagreeable.”

“Oh, I don’t! But it’s sad to marry for love, and then have to watch one’s sisters making matches based on a man’s pocketbook.”

“I didn’t marry Lucius for that reason,” Tess said, keeping her voice controlled with a severe effort.

“I know,” Imogen said, “I heard about Mayne.” For the first time there was a flash of genuine sympathy in her eyes. “I’m sorry about that, Tess.”

Tess couldn’t even think what Imogen was talking about, and then remembered that she had been jilted by the earl.

“I don’t mean to be so beastly,” Imogen continued. “I can’t think why I could be mean to you, of all people, for marrying under those circumstances. It’s utterly loathsome of me!” She looked so dismayed that Tess felt her anger wane.

“It’s all right,” she said, giving Imogen a quick hug. “I didn’t marry for love, and Lucius is terrifyingly rich. It’s all true.”

“Yes, I am quite lucky to have avoided that, aren’t I?” Imogen said, and that savage little undertone was back in her voice.

Another group of horses pounded by their stand. “I must pay attention,” Imogen said walking to the front of the box and sitting down. “Blue Peter will be up any moment. Lucius has all his hopes riding on him.”

“What is he like?” Tess said, settling into a chair next to Imogen. She felt that an interlude of talking about horseflesh would be soothing for both of them.

“Blue Peter? You wouldn’t like him,” Imogen said.

“Is he unpleasant?”

“Very,” Imogen said with feeling. “He tries to bite everything that comes within his reach, and he’s too strong in the neck and shoulders. He’ll be unridable soon. The boys are nervous and don’t want to train him. The other day a ragamuffin threw a ginger-nut at him, and he almost kicked the fence down between himself and the boy.”

“What a shame,” Tess said. “How sad. How old is he?”

“That’s it; he’s only a yearling. Imagine what he’ll be like as a two-year-old. But Draven loves the animal. He won’t hear of his being cut.” She was silent for a moment.

“Papa would have said he’s too young to race. Perhaps the strain is too much for him.”

“Papa had many antiquated ideas; Draven researches these things quite, quite carefully. They’ve been racing yearlings in England for years. Draven is far more educated than Papa ever was about these matters.”

“I cannot see how a Cambridge degree would help him distinguish the effect on a horse of racing in its first year,” Tess objected.

“Trust me,” Imogen said loftily, “Draven is an entirely different sort of horseman from our father. For one thing, Papa never won, did he?”

Tess bit her lip. To her, the similarities between their father and Draven Maitland were obvious, and extended to the fact that Maitland had never (to the best of her knowledge) won a large cup, or indeed, managed to support himself without considerable help from his mother.

There was another howl; the race was already over.

“I missed that one entirely,” Tess remarked, wishing that Lucius would return. There was something wrong with Imogen, and she wasn’t certain how to talk to her about it. If only Annabel were here! Annabel was so good at finding out secrets.