her tastes, that it would meet with her approval.
Indeed, when she turned around at the sound of his approach, she wore a small frown of disorientation. “Who put these books here?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? The study probably became too crammed and the staff used the shelf to house the overflow.”
“I see.” She set back the book of Sappho’s poems that had been in her hand. “And what are you doing here?”
“I thought it would not be amiss to exchange a cordial greeting the morning after our wedding night—and to sacrifice a few drops of my blood to the sheets to preserve your reputation.”
“I already did that.”
“Did you?”
“Go look for yourself.”
He reentered her bedroom, lifted the covers, and grimaced at the drops of blood smeared onto the sheets. “It would look like this only if your hymen had been broken with a knife.”
She appeared in the doorway. “What do you mean?”
“When a hymen is disposed of by a cock, as it usually is, there is never just blood on the sheets.”
“There is nothing I can do about that.”
“I suppose I must do something about it, contribute my share to the stains.”
The corners of her lips turned down in distaste. “Suit yourself. I am going out.”
“Where are you going at this early hour?”
“To call on my family. They would like to know that married life has not disagreed too terribly with me—and I will lie accordingly.”
Something in her demeanor made him ask, “And then?”
She barely glanced at him, speaking to the doorjamb. “And then I plan to meet with Mr. Martin. At the offices of Fitzhugh and Company, preferably. At his home, if necessary.”
He felt as if he’d been slapped. “To finish what you didn’t have time for yesterday?”
“Mr. Martin will be worried about me. He will be blaming himself. I’d like to assure him that I am fine, public marriage notwithstanding.”
“He ought to blame himself. If he’d kept to his word, you would not be in your current predicament.”
“And if he did not, it was only because I convinced him otherwise.”
“Why do you keep taking responsibility for his actions?”
“I care about him and will therefore do my utmost to ensure his happiness, a concept I am sure is entirely alien to you.”
“One that is no less alien to Mr. Martin. What has he ever done for your happiness? And think carefully before you answer. His acquiescence to your wishes—and he acquiesces to everyone’s wishes—does not constitute effort on his part.”
He was glad to see a flicker of doubt in her eyes, but when she spoke again, her tone was as firm as ever. “I will decide whether Mr. Martin has done enough for me.”
“And I will decide,” he heard himself say, “whether a woman who arranges to see the man who compromised her isn’t too stupid and morally adrift to meet my daughter, let alone be an influence in her life.”
Hastings sat slumped in Fitz’s study, his hand over his eyes.
Fitz, thank goodness, drank his coffee and left Hastings alone.
For about a quarter hour or so.
“All right, David, enough moping,” said Fitz, setting down his coffee cup.
Reluctantly, Hastings removed his hand from his face and sat up straighter. “I haven’t formally congratulated you, have I, Fitz, on making the right choice in your marriage and being blessedly happy as a result?”
Fitz smiled. “Thank you. Although, looking back, it wasn’t just one choice, but the accumulation of many choices.”
Hastings sighed. “I’m afraid the same can be said about Helena and me, years of less than stellar conduct on my part, continuing to this very moment.”
“My wife would have you confess your love at the earliest opportunity and be done with it. But if you are reluctant to do that—and something tells me you are—then it might not be a bad idea to simply stop antagonizing Helena.
“I know she makes you lose your mind, but at our age, that is no longer a good enough excuse. If you want her admiration, you cannot keep aiming for her abhorrence. Let her ignore you. Give her time. Show her that you are more than merely an assemblage of insults and innuendos in bespoke boots.”
Hastings chuckled despite himself. “You are right, of course. And I needed the chastening.”
“Patience, my friend,” said Fitz. “Rome wasn’t built in—”
A knock came.
“Yes?” answered Fitz.
Cobble, Fitz’s butler, bowed slightly. “Sir, Mr. Andrew Martin to see you, sir. Are you at home to him?”
My poor girl,” said Venetia, Duchess of Lexington, standing at the window of her drawing room and watching Helena’s