Harry suddenly realized that until lately he had never particularly enjoyed dancing. It had simply been one more necessary accomplishment a man was obliged to learn in order to go about in society. But with Augusta, it was different.
So much was different with Augusta.
"Harry, you are a beast to tease me. How much did you overhear?" Augusta looked up at him through her lashes, a deep rosy blush staining her cheeks. The lights of the chandelier danced on her pretty paste necklace.
"A great deal, and all of it most interesting. Are you perhaps intending to write a book on the subject of managing a husband?" Harry inquired.
"I only wish I had a talent for writing," she grumbled. "Everyone else around me appears to be producing a manuscript of some sort. Only think of how practical a book on husband management would be, Harry."
"I do not doubt the practicality of your subject, madam, but I have serious reservations about your qualifications for writing about it."
The gleam of rebellion shone immediately in her lovely eyes. "I would have you know, sir, that I have learned a great deal in the course of the few weeks we have been married."
"Not nearly enough to write a book," Harry told her in his most pedantic tone. "No, not nearly enough. Judging from what I overheard, there are several glaring errors in your theories and vast confusion in your logic. But never fear, it will be my pleasure to continue your instruction until such time as you have got it right, even if it takes years and years of effort on my part."
She stared up at him, clearly uncertain how to take his outrageous comment. And then, to Harry's surprise, she tipped back her head and laughed with delight. "That is most gracious of you, my lord. I vow, few other teachers would have such patience with their students."
"Ah, my sweet, I am a very patient man. About most things." Pleasure shot through him and his hand tightened against the small of her back. He wished he could drag her upstairs to the bedchamber right now, this very minute. He longed to turn the laughter into passion and then change it back again.
"Speaking of educators," Augusta said, catching her breath as Harry drew her into a particularly daring whirl, "have you noticed how well your aunt is getting along with my uncle? They have been inseparable since they met."
Harry glanced across the room to where Clarissa, resplendent in a claret-red gown and a matching toque, was once more holding forth on the subject of teaching history to young ladies. Sir Thomas was listening intently and nodded appreciatively. Harry thought the gleam in the older man's eyes had a distinctly nonacademic sparkle.
"I do believe you have managed to unite two kindred spirits, my dear," Harry said, smiling down at Augusta.
"Yes, I rather thought they would suit each other. Now, if only my other little project will come to fruition, I shall be quite satisfied with this house party."
"Other little project? What else are you working on, madam?"
"I have a feeling you will learn all about it soon enough, my lord." Augusta gave him a distinctly superior sort of smile.
"Augusta, if you are plotting something, I would have you tell me about it at once. The thought of you carrying out another one of your rash schemes is quite alarming."
"Rest assured this scheme is quite harmless, sir."
"Nothing you attempt is ever quite harmless."
"How very gratifying of you to say so, my lord."
Harry groaned and swung her out through the open French doors onto the terrace.
"Harry? Where are we going?"
"I must talk to you, my dear, and now is as good a time as any." He stopped dancing, although the last strains of the music were still drifting through the doors.
"What is it, Graystone? Is something wrong?"
"No, no, there is nothing wrong," he assured her gently. He took her hand and led her deeper into the shadowed garden. He was not looking forward to what he had to say next. "It is just that I have decided to accompany Sheldrake back to London in the morning and I wanted to let you know tonight."
"Go back to London in the morning? Without me?" Augusta's voice rose with sudden outrage. "Whatever do you mean by that, Graystone? You cannot be intending to abandon me here in the country. We have only been married less than a month."
He had known this was going to be difficult. "I have been talking to Sheldrake about that poem of your brother's. We have drawn up a plan of action that might enable us to track down some members of the Saber Club."
"I knew it had something to do with that damn poem. I just knew it. Did you tell him Richard wrote that verse?" Her eyes widened in anger and pain. "Harry, you swore to me you would not do so. You gave me your word."
"Damnation, Augusta, I assure you I have kept my word. Sheldrake does not know who wrote that poem or how I obtained it. He is accustomed to working for me and he knows better than to pry when I tell him a subject is closed."
"He is accustomed to working for you?" she gasped. "Are you telling me that Peter Sheldrake was one of your intelligence agents?"
Harry winced, wishing he had waited until later to bring up the subject. The trouble with that notion was that if she had started shouting at him in the privacy of her bedchamber, all the guests in the neighboring rooms would have overheard. He had chosen the garden as the best site for what he had known would be a heated discussion.
"Yes, and I would very much appreciate it if you would keep your voice down, madam. There may be others out here in the garden. Furthermore, this is a private matter. I do not want it bandied about that Sheldrake once worked for me. Is that quite clear?"
"Yes, of course." She glowered at him. "Do you swear to me you did not tell him where you got the verse?"
"I have already given you my word on that matter, madam, and I do not care for your obvious lack of faith in my honor," he said coldly.
"You do not care for it? How very unfortunate for you, my lord. But it seems to me we are even on that score. You do not appear to have a great deal of faith in my honor, either. You are forever hovering about like Nemesis."
"Like what?" He was startled, in spite of himself. Sometimes his wife was more perceptive than she realized.
"You heard me. Like Nemesis. It's as if you're waiting for me to display some indication of a lack of virtue. I feel I must always worry about someday having to prove myself."
"Augusta, that is not true."
"Not true? Then why do I find myself living constantly with the notion that I am being watched for indications of impropriety? Why is it that every time I go into the picture gallery and see my predecessors, I grow uneasy for fear of being seen in the same light? Why do I feel like Pompeia waiting for Caesar to denounce her because she was not quite above suspicion even though there was no real evidence against her?"
Harry stared at his wife, shocked at the rage and anguish in her voice. He caught hold of her bare shoulders. "Augusta, I had no idea you were thinking such thoughts."
"How could I think otherwise? You go on incessantly about the cut of my gowns. You chide me for riding without a groom. You make me afraid that I will set a bad example for your daughter—"
"That is quite enough, Augusta. You have allowed your imagination to run wild. This is what comes of reading all those novels, my dear. I did warn you about their influence. Now, you will calm yourself at once. You are on the verge of hysteria."
"No." Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she took a deep, shuddering breath. "No, I am not on the verge of hysteria. I am not so missish as to have a fit of the vapors or lose my self-control in such a fashion over such a trivial matter. I am quite all right, Harry. It is just that I am very angry."