Rakes and Radishes by Susanna Ives Page A

bird-witted fantasy that they were married, that she might reach up and straighten his coat like a fussy wife.
    “Do you think I am—that is, do you think I look pretty?” she asked, a fragile tremble in her voice.
    Stupid Kesseley! He’d forgotten to compliment her! Damn it! He would have to practice being a better husband.
    “You’re beautiful,” he said in a reverent voice.
    He tucked her hand snugly in the crook of his elbow and led her downstairs, hoping she didn’t feel his arm shaking.
    In the dining room, two gold multitiered candelabras flanked the long table. A spotless ironed white tablecloth covered the mahogany wood. Shiny silver was set in intricate formations around the china porcelain plates. Running down the center, the chef’s culinary creations steamed on silver platters. The extravagance reflected his father’s taste, and Kesseley felt a twinge of disgust. He quickly brushed away the dark emotion and thought of Henrietta. Tonight was her first night in London. He wanted it to be everything she’d imagined. He looked in her eyes to see if she approved.
    “It’s lovely,” she said in a soft whisper, squeezing his elbow. “Thank you.”
    Kesseley pulled back her chair. When she sat, his cheek brushed the soft skin of her neck, close enough to smell the rose perfume under her ear. She was like the biblical soft pasture. He could lie down in her until death and not want.
    “I believe we have a footman to do that job,” said a disapproving female voice. His mother stood in the doorway, dressed in a simple yet elegant pale gown, her fair hair swept away from her face. Her gaze moved disapprovingly from Henrietta to Kesseley, the unspoken question what have you done? blazing in her eyes.
    He rose and gave her cheek a curt, perfunctory kiss. “Mama, you look beautiful.”
    “Perhaps not as beautiful as some, it seems,” she replied.
    “Please,” he pleaded under his breath to her. He smiled at Henrietta as he returned to his seat.
    The footman came forward and poured the wine.
    “To London,” Kesseley toasted quickly, so Henrietta wouldn’t see his trembling hand.
    He started to take a sip when his mother added, “May you find the loving wife you deserve. Who has enough sense to appreciate you.”
    “Speaking of wives,” Mama said, no sooner had the glass left her lips. She pulled a letter from the cuff of her sleeve. “I received a note from Lady Winslow and the princess while I was dressing. They have discovered several more potential brides. All wealthy merchants’ daughters. One of them, an American, is quite beautiful. And a little musical genius, according to her Italian music master.”
    She flipped the letter over and read the back. “Also, there are several charming, accomplished young ladies who are not being presented, but are worth considering. One has recently returned from India with her nabob father. She speaks six languages and keeps a monkey. We can get a peek of her, they write, if we attend one of her father’s popular lectures on cartography at the Royal Academy.”
    Lady Kesseley’s gaze shifted in Henrietta’s direction. “How refreshing it is to be away from Norfolk. Here, there are so many well-bred and accomplished ladies to choose from.”
    Damn his mother! Could she not forgive and give Henrietta a second chance? Why did she want everyone to hurt as she had?
    Henrietta murmured a quiet assent as her eyes moistened. She grabbed her glass and held it to her mouth, but didn’t swallow. When she set the glass back down, the tears were gone.
    When they were alone, he would assure her that she was ten times more beautiful, more accomplished, more—well, more everything than the ladies in that letter.
    With his mother holding court at the opposite end of the table, dinner passed in miserable silence. Kesseley had lost his appetite, but felt obliged to eat the French chef’s creation. Henrietta kept her eyes on her plate, making interesting patterns with her