Page 123 of The Favourite

“Not at all,” she replied levelly. “I am grateful to you.”

The strange thing was, she sounded sincere. For some reason, that disquieted him most of all. “Grateful?” She nodded. “For what?”

“Oh, for everything, Alisander.”

Her use of his name affected him strangely. When had she last used it? Not for a while. “So, it’s Alisander again now, is it?” he remarked with a twist of his lips. Jane had the cheek to look mildly surprised by his words.

He ought to call her out. She was the one who had caused this upset. He had done nothing amiss, and so he should tell her. Still, something held him back from pushing her too far and shattering her newfound serenity.

He knew, of course, what had caused her sudden coolness; he was just pretending ignorance. Though why he was pretending to himself, he could not fathom. He tossed back the last of his honeyed ale, and though it should taste lingeringly sweet, it tasted to him, entirely bitter.

He had tried to caution her against mistaking physical intimacy with another kind, and now she was punishing him. It was disappointing but predictable. She was angry and wanted to make him suffer. And she had found a most effective way to do that. He pulled a face and plunked down his cup.

Of course, the best way for him to counter this would be to pretend indifference in return. He ought to tell her he was bored of her, to walk right out of this room, to tell her if she did not bolster her ideas, he would take a more interesting lover.

He ought to, but somehow, he knew full well he would not.

“Won’t you come and sit by the fire, my lord?” Jane asked. He glanced her way and saw her expression of polite concern. “The fire has not yet taken the chill out of the air, and it is bitter out.” A sudden, horrible thought occurred to him. Perhaps, after all, she was not pretending? “Alisander?” she repeated, seeing his sudden stare.

“Jane,” he said pulling himself together, “I want you to stop this. You are not good at playing games, so why bother trying?”

“Games?”

“It is patently obvious what you are doing, and I am not putting up with this anymore, I warn you.” When she glanced about the room, looking genuinely bewildered, Alisander felt a moment of panic. Jane was not a good actress. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded, slamming down his goblet. “You are not doing your part at all.”

“My part?” she echoed blankly.

Perhaps she thought she could mouth words of wifely solicitude toward him these days, and he would have to make do with that? “Yes, your part,” he said testily. “How am I to tease you if you won’t act annoyed or flustered or anything.”

Jane had just opened her mouth to respond when a knock sounded on the door, and Alisander realized her blessed friends must have arrived. With all the palace assembly areas closed, the courtiers had taken of late to hosting their own little gatherings in their more cramped quarters. It was Jane’s turn this afternoon.

He rolled his eyes, knowing she expected him to make himself scarce. Quite deliberately, he took a seat. Not even by the flicker of an eyelid, did she betray any displeasure at this. It was true, he had business elsewhere, but Lemarchier could wait. He was not in the mood to indulge his official duties when his marital accord lay in tatters at his feet.

Jane folded her letter and cleared her throat as Robert’s knock sounded on the door. “Come in!” she called out and Robert ushered in the young women with a paternal air. Alisander let his eye travel over them with displeasure. Gods, she had the whole gaggle of them, not just the usual two or three! Even that wretched Melvin girl was in attendance. He supposed they must all be starved of entertainment, what with the King having cast such a damper over everything.

Jane stood up and there were lots of curtseys and greetings and exclamations. With them all dressed in white, they seemed more like a flock of geese than ever. Alisander remained where he was, casting a jaundiced eye over proceedings. Finally, they were all settled, and Jane was handing round cups of ale and urging them to partake of the dishes of nuts and candied fruits.

As his sullenness had evinced no response in his wife, Alisander decided to switch his approach. Leaning forward in his seat, he exerted himself to fully charm the company at large, until he had them all, even the models of propriety like Constance Northcott, sat in the palm of his hand. Jane eased back into her seat with a vacant smile, as if this was all as it should be. Alisander narrowed his eyes at her.

His stories took a slight turn. Now he was regaling them with tales of the Lasconian Court and a few choice stories from the Queen’s girlhood, which showed her in a decidedly undignified light. He saved the best for last, which was an account of Princess Armenal tripping at her brother’s coronation and making a fool of herself.

He fancied Jane tensed for a fraction of a second, but it could have been a trick of the light. “We are all of us, clumsy on occasion,” she demurred as Patience and Emma giggled disloyally. “Especially in our youth.”

“I wasn’t,” he corrected her swiftly.

Jane did not even bridle. She just sat there politely as the rest of them tittered, her pale eyes so dull they looked nothing like topazes. It was infuriating.

“We cannot all be as elegant as you, my lord,” Emma Stanhope said gamely.

“Dear me, no,” he agreed. “I should not want that. How then would I stand out at this glittering court?”

“I think you would always stand out, Lord Bardulf,” Lucy Melvin said. Was it his imagination or was the inflection a little snide? It was so hard to tell. All the Melvins sounded like they had bunged up nasal passages.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “For one such as I, melting into the background is not an option. Some of us draw the eye quite naturally, and others of us”—his eyes flickered over Lucy a moment—“do not.” Osanna Spencer lifted her hand to cover her mouth. “You ladies will, no doubt, have observed by now,” he continued smoothly, “how poorly this current white garb becomes most men. Alas, it displays, quite shockingly, a scrawny calf or a knocked knee.”

“So many of them will not even attempt it,” Estrilda cut in. “I have been quite shocked! Even Earl Vawdrey has not donned anything but his habitual black!”

Alisander shook his head. “No, no, Lord Vawdrey would never sacrifice his air of mystery. Not after all this time he has spent so carefully cultivating it.” Quite unfairly, Alisander was currently nursing a grudge against Oswald, for he blamed him for the fact he and Jane were currently at odds.