The French Maid by Sabrina Jeffries

The French Maid
    Sabrina Jeffries
     
    When Lady Eleanor Ruskin first agreed to marry Lord Langston, prime-minister-in-the-making, her mother warned her that Henry’s true mistress was England and always would be. Eleanor laughed and remarked, “Then he’d best dismiss his mistress, for I shall not share him.”
    Now, after a year of marriage, she recognized Mama’s wisdom … and her own foolishness. A man like Henry didn’t relinquish his duty for something as trivial as a wife. The most she could hope for was to help him perform it.
    A pity she was quite horribly in love with him.
    Eleanor glanced over to where her handsome husband dipped his spoon into his dish of sorbet with the same economy of movement she’d admired when she first met him. Henry knew how to squeeze fifty activities out of an hour and had taught her to do the same. But despite joining him in his various public appearances, reform activities, and political meetings, she felt shut out of his life. Indeed, this was the first evening in two weeks that they’d dined together at home.
    Did he remember that their wedding anniversary was two days away? Knowing Henry, she doubted it. Her birthday had come and gone with nary a notice. She’d made excuses for him, swallowed her disappointment, and marched forward like a good little soldier. Marching was becoming her most accomplished skill.
    He caught her gaze on him and cast her that toothy smile that never failed to melt her, even if he did bestow it on everyone who moved into his orbit. “You did very well today at the hospital dedication. The directors all congratulated me on having found a wife with such devotion and intelligence.”
    “Not to mention astounding beauty,” she murmured, remembering how drab she had appeared beside the other wives, with her unmanageable hair and her plain looks.
    That remark sailed over Henry’s head. She didn’t know which was worse—that Henry didn’t notice her lack of beauty and fashion sense or that he didn’t care. After all, he hadn’t married her for her appearance but her connections, for Papa’s position as Home Secretary and Mama’s stellar blood lines.
    “By the way, I have a surprise for you,” he said.
    She brightened. “You did remember!”
    He looked perplexed. “Remember? What was I supposed to remember?”
    An acute pain settled in her belly. She ignored it and pasted a smile on her face. “Nothing. What’s the surprise?”
    “Now that your lady’s maid has gone off to get married, I’ve hired you a replacement—Babette something or other. She’s French and comes highly recommended by Lord Waveney. He said she’d surprise us with her uncanny abilities—whatever that means—but assured me she is capable. She’ll begin first thing in the morning.”
    Eleanor could scarcely maintain her countenance. “You hired some Frenchwoman without consulting me? Without giving me a chance even to meet her?”
    Her annoyance scarcely registered with Henry. “We’re both so busy these days that when Lord Waveney mentioned this woman I didn’t think you’d mind if I seized the opportunity.”
    She bit back a retort. “No, of course not.” What Henry called seizing the opportunity, she called presumptuous interference, but she generally balked at explaining that to him. He wouldn’t listen to her anyway. Why should he? At thirty, he’d captured the respect and admiration of not only her but half the powerful men and women in England. At twenty-eight, she couldn’t even capture his attention, much less his respect and admiration.
    It came as no surprise when he dropped his napkin on the table and stood. “I’ve a long proposal by Fox and Grenville to look over tonight, so I’d best get to it. You can amuse yourself, can’t you?”
    Oh, yes, I’m a veritable genius at it , she thought, but bit back the harsh words. Now he would lock himself in his study—to which no one, even she, had a key—and would work until very late. His