Читаем A Dangerous Fortune (1994) полностью

He put on his robe. From his bedside drawer he took a gift-wrapped jeweler's box and slipped it into his pocket. Then he went into his wife's bedroom.

Nora's room was large but it always felt cramped. The windows, the mirrors and the bed were all draped with patterned silk; the floor was covered with rugs two and three deep; the chairs were piled with embroidered cushions; and every shelf and tabletop was crowded with framed pictures, china dolls, miniature porcelain boxes and other knickknacks. The predominant colors were her favorite pink and blue, but just about every other color was represented somewhere, in the wallpapers, bedclothes, curtains or upholstery.

Nora was sitting up in bed, surrounded by lace pillows, sipping tea. Hugh perched on the edge of the bed and said: "You were wonderful last night."

"I showed them all," she said, looking pleased with herself. "I danced with the Prince of Wales."

"He couldn't stop looking at your bosom," Hugh said. He reached over and caressed her breasts through the silk of her high-buttoned nightdress.

She pushed his hand aside irritably. "Hugh! Not now."

He felt hurt. "Why not now?"

"It's the second time this week."

"When we were first married we used to do it constantly."

"Exactly--when we were first married. A girl doesn't expect to have to do it every day forever."

Hugh frowned. He would have been perfectly happy to do it every day forever--wasn't that what marriage was all about? But he did not know what was normal. Perhaps he was overactive. "How often do you think we should do it, then?" he said uncertainly.

She looked pleased to have been asked, as if she had been waiting for an opportunity to clear this up. "Not more than once a week," she said firmly.

"Really?" His feeling of exultation went away and he suddenly felt very cast down. A week seemed an awfully long time. He stroked her thigh through the sheets. "Perhaps a little more than that."

"No!" she said, moving her leg.

Hugh was upset. Once upon a time she had seemed enthusiastic about lovemaking. It had been something they enjoyed together. How had it become a chore she performed for his benefit? Had she never really liked it, but just pretended? There was something dreadfully depressing about that idea.

He no longer felt like giving her his gift, but he had bought it and he did not want to take it back to the shop. "Well, anyway, I got you this, to commemorate your triumph at Maisie Greenbourne's ball," he said rather dolefully, and he gave her the box.