Page 9 of Cold November Rake

"No, not 'give her a child,'" Sutton continued. "I believe her exact words were, 'I am here to supply you with one.' Supply. Can you believe that?"

"Yes, yes, very unreasonable," Marie answered in a bored tone, not bothering to look away from her reflection.

Sutton raised his head and glared at the back of her head. He had come for commiseration; instead, he was being ignored. "You do not sound at all sympathetic to my plight."

Marie finally turned in her chair, the cloth still in her hand, one brow arched high. "I am absolutely sympathetic. Oh, poor Lord Sutton. Your gorgeous young wife has come all the way from the country estate where you banished her, to demand marital relations. Oh, how will you ever escape such evil treatment? Oh, and by the way, she does not care what other escapades you get up to in the meantime, just so long as you spend long, passionate nights buried deep inside her... warm embrace."

Sutton rolled his eyes and let his head drop back against the cushion. "Of course, to you it might seem like heaven⁠—"

"And it does not to you?"

"Have you not listened to anything I said?"

"Not only have I listened, I have heard the story a million times and am praying never to hear it again." She ticked it off on her fingers. "She betrayed you, she ran away, she disappeared for seven years, and she had the audacity to come back. That is all very good and well, or rather very bad and unwell. But she is your wife."

"And?"

He reached for the glass of brandy balanced on the little table beside him and found it empty. He picked it up anyway and turned it between his fingers, because it gave his hands something to do.

She shrugged. "Well, this is how I see it. Divorce is an impossible endeavor. You could try it, but would you want to risk the reputation of your title and your father's? If you do, then you would have to remarry and risk the reputation of your potential wife and your children. Or you can accept that your wife is not the same young girl she was seven years ago and try to make something of your marriage. It is a lifelong commitment, I hear. And even if it is not a love match, and you will not have the passion the Tyrones have, you might as well aim for an amicable arrangement like your parents'. Supply your wife and the title with the heir and the spare, and then part ways and live your life enjoying your time with"—she paused and flourished her hands—"opera singers."

"Supplying the heir and the spare," he said, pushing himself up on one elbow. "You speak as though it is an errand of five minutes at the market. My parents did not manage a spare in thirty years. What makes you think I'll manage it quicker? What if she keeps birthing girls? Will I ever be free of my wife's bed?"

It was Marie's turn to roll her eyes. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and theatrically threw back her head. "Oh, the torment."

Sutton shifted, turning to face Marie again. "You do not think it a torment to lie with a person you have no interest in lying with?"

She laughed outright.

"You know damn well I know what a torment that can be." She narrowed her eyes at him. "However, I would confidently state that for you it won't be a torment. In fact, I am ready to wager that you do want your wife. Carnally. Desperately."

"What gave you such a ridiculous idea?" he asked irritably, setting his glass down on the little table with a sharp clack.

"Because every time you talk about her, your eyes light up," she said easily, then tapped a finger to the corner of her lips. "And you have a little drool in the corner of your mouth."

Instinct took over before his dignity could stop him, and Sutton wiped at the corner of his mouth with a knuckle. The moment he did it, he knew he had lost the argument.

Because Marie was right. He did want his wife. From the first moment he'd laid eyes on her, through the seven years of not seeing her, and even more now that she had returned, her figure more filled in, her features mature, her breasts...

He should not be thinking of her breasts.

He had to check if he was actually drooling this time.

Marie burst into a ringing, melodic laugh that bounced off the crowded walls.

"Very funny," he muttered, heat creeping up his neck as he sat up and straightened his cravat.

Sutton smoothed his beard.

"You missed your true calling, Marie. You ought to have been a court jester."

"And you ought to be an actor, given the performance of indifference you are staging." She tossed her cloth onto the vanity and rose in a rustle of silk, gathering her cloak from its hook. "Come along, my sullen lord. Escort me home before you sour all the brandy in the building."

He took up his hat and his walking stick from beside the settee and offered his elbow.

They walked through the theater's dim back corridors, past the stagehands and the smell of tallow and old paint, and out into the night.

Sutton whistled to his driver, and, when he had his attention, instructed him to wait by Marie's house.