examination stubbornly, dimly astonished that she was embarking on a public squabble with an ill-mannered, disheveled stranger.
“Did you scold me?” he said.
“I wish only to point out that being polite takes less time than complaining about being polite.”
Arabella now gripped her arm, in a most unlikely fashion, but Cassandra could not turn away from that intense, dark gaze.
His Grace chuckled. “She’s got you there,” he said.
“It is a matter of efficiency,” the man said. “Already you have wasted more of my time.”
“Had you greeted us politely, neither of us would be wasting this time.”
“Had I greeted you politely, you would have taken that as an invitation to blather on about balls and bonnets and I don’t know what. And what are you laughing at now, Dammerton?”
He swung back around and glared at the duke, who grinned amiably. A horrid suspicion began to dawn, what with the duke’s sly amusement, and Arabella’s sharp-fingered grip, and Miss Seaton’s wide eyes, and that strange fizzing sensation under Cassandra’s skin.
No, it was not possible.
“You two make an adorable couple,” the duke said.
The man snorted. “Spare me your matchmaking. I’m already married.”
“As am I,” Cassandra said automatically, her head beginning to float away, her eyes fixed on His Grace’s cravat pin so she wouldn’t have to look at the man. The dark, abrupt, ill-mannered man.
No. No. No.
“I realize you are both married.” The duke looked from one to the other. “But do you realize you are married to each other?”
No.
Cassandra closed her eyes. The clamor of the crowd withdrew to a great distance. Somewhere, someone played a French horn. It was too hot in here. Her gown was too small. But she was not inside, and she could not shut out the world, or the sunlight on her eyelids, or the man vibrating beside her.
Her husband.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, and found him studying her with a frown.
So. This was her husband. Mr. Joshua DeWitt. Of course it was. In hindsight, it was obvious, although she never imagined he would be in London, and he had been clean-shaven at their wedding, and hatless, and if he had worn that dreadful earring then, she had not looked at him long enough to notice. But even if she had forgotten his strong, bold features, she ought not have forgotten his manner, as dynamic as if lightning bounced around inside him.
Both having conducted their inspections, their eyes met briefly with a jolt of that lightning, and then he looked heavenward with a heavy sigh.
Cassandra became aware again of their audience, which had swelled markedly: Passersby were clearly fascinated by a group that included a scandalous duke, an intimidating marchioness, and a married couple who had never been seen together—and who had not even recognized each other.
Her quota of gossip may have doubled—but not in a way that she wanted.
She summoned up an amiable smile. “Of course we realize it, Your Grace,” she said. “One cannot be married for two years without being aware of it.” She flicked a pointed glance somewhere near her husband’s profile and leaned in confidentially. “Especially to a man such as this. One does tend to notice him.”
The duke looked back and forth between them. “You did not even acknowledge each other,” he pointed out.
Cassandra slipped her fingers into the crook of her husband’s elbow. He jerked, as if bitten, but she held on and he settled. She risked a glance at him: He was frowning at her hand on his sleeve as though it were some odd creature. She ignored him. Ignored the feel of his body beside hers. All that lightning. Oh dear, this man had bedded her. Briefly and uncomfortably, but his body and hers had…Oh dear. How did couples face each other over the breakfast table?
“We have already seen each other today,” Cassandra explained, lying with shocking ease. “We do not need to greet each other afresh every time. That, Your Grace, would be inefficient and we’re all aware of Mr. DeWitt’s love of efficiency.”
She gave his arm a little pat, smiled hard, and waited, breath held, for him to cooperate.
Then, to her relief, he patted her hand in turn.
“Well said, Mrs. DeWitt.” He punctuated his words with jabs of the roll of papers in his free hand. “I know who she is, she knows who I am, and we hardly need to remind each other of that at every point during the day.”
“You see, we are completely in tune with each other,” Cassandra lied. “The