The Widow's Auction by Sabrina Jeffries Page A

it.”
    He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he swirled his wine. “Which is why I’d rather stick to keeping a mistress. Are you sure you won’t fill the position?”
    â€œCertainly not!”
    At this hint of the real Lady Kingsley, he couldn’t help laughing. “Such a disappointment. You’ll force me to seek out one of those bits of muslin who cavort through the theaters.”
    She stared down at her plate. “You could look for a wife who might support your aims.”
    Like her. It was an intriguing thought, one he’d had before. But he’d always been stopped by two things–her overly fastidious moral sense and her adoration of her late husband. While the first was obviously in question, the second still rankled. He didn’t fancy following an act like Henry Lamberton.
    And even if he could, he could never get past her dislike of him. Even if at the moment that dislike seemed decidedly absent.
    â€œI haven’t had much luck finding a wife who’d ‘support my aims,’ ” he replied. “In my experience, most women of good society would rather entertain callers and redecorate their town houses.” All except Lady Kingsley, that is.
    She cut her meat with precise little jabs. “Isn’t that what you’d. . . um. . . want of your wife? Someone who’d tend the home fires while you’re out doing something with your money and your title? Someone who’d stay behind the scenes to make you look good?”
    â€œGood God, no. . . er. . . Bella.” Bloody hell, he’d almost called her Lady Kingsley and given himself away. It was easy to think of her as the alluring Bella when she was melting in his arms, but not so easy when she started talking like the officious viscountess. “Such a soft-brained creature sounds deadly dull.” He shot her a perplexed look. “Why would you assume I’d want that sort of wife?”
    Swallowing, she concentrated on dicing her potato into bits. “Men with political aspirations usually prefer it.”
    He pounced on her slip. “And what makes you think I have political aspirations?”
    Her head shot up, her face showing panic. “I-I. . . isn’t that why you serve on all those boards and such? What other reason would a marquess have for doing so?”
    Still smarting from her earlier allegations, he snapped, “Can’t a man with political aspirations also have a social conscience? And be interested in politics precisely because of that conscience?” He leaned back and glared at her, daring her to repeat her unfair assertions from this morning.
    But she mostly seemed surprised by his statement. “Well. . . I. . . yes, I suppose so.”
    He relaxed. “That’s why I’d prefer a wife who’d participate in activities where she felt useful–either to me or to others. If that turned out to be working for reform at my side, I’d welcome it.”
    Suddenly it occurred to him that he might use this conversation to coax her into revealing her true identity. “Besides, there are times when a woman’s fine instincts and knowledge of domestic life can be a real asset, especially on charitable boards.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œTake, for example, a governing board I serve on for a boys’ school.” He drank some wine, gazing at her over the rim of the glass, but she wouldn’t look at him. “With coal prices being what they are and our budget limited, we were having trouble heating the two large halls the boys slept in. It took a woman on the board to figure out that we were attacking the problem from the wrong angle. Instead of heating the rooms, she said, we needed to heat the beds.”
    Bella seemed to have developed an inordinate interest in her cucumber salad, given the way she dredged the slices back and forth through the