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Huntley.”
    â€œCan he afford it?”
    â€œIt appears so. He is using his own funds. I implied we’d find him an easier seat if he doesn’t win Westborough. It’ll be a hard-fought election and it won’t come cheap. I’m pleased we do not have to pay the expenses this time.”
    The duke nodded his approval and Blake enjoyed the irony. He wished he could tell his superior father that he was, indeed, paying for Huntley’s election, with income from his estates by way of his son’s allowance and a little ungentlemanly extortion.
    So it went on, with little or no contribution from himself, till the long meal was over. His betrothed wife drank it in. She’d always been as drearily obsessed with politics as any proper Vanderlin. After a while she ventured a remark which was received with approval and encouragement.
    Blake had to admit avid interest added animation to her insipid beauty. He’d always known she was clever. Just like the rest of her family, even her sister, though Diana never flaunted her brains or Blake wouldn’t have considered marrying her. Just like his bloody brilliant cousin Sebastian, whom Diana had preferred.
    Almost since he could remember, Blakeney had wondered why he was the only stupid member of a family famous for superior intellect. Perhaps he’d be doing the Vanderlin line a favor by letting the dukedom go to his cousin. He didn’t think his bride would mind. In the carriage she’d made it clear she was far from forgiving his error. And she’d flinched in disgust when he touched her hand.
    He didn’t think Minerva would complain if he neglected to consummate the marriage. Hell, she’d likely be overjoyed if he never visited her bed.
    M inerva was used to the Duke of Hampton’s principal country seat. She’d grown up on a small estate next door. Vast as Mandeville House was, familiarity let her see the massive mansion in reduced perspective. The first sight of Vanderlin House had astounded her. She scarcely believed a family could own a house so large in the middle of London, where even couples as wealthy as the Chases and the Iverleys lived in relatively modest, though spacious, houses. The Piccadilly residence was large enough to house the population of a small town and, judging by the ever-present number of liveried servants, it did.
    When the duchess had offered to give the ball for her in Diana’s absence, she’d refused to be intimidated. But living in this gilded palace was another matter. Ridiculous.
    Every room was designed to impress and couldn’t have presented a greater contrast to her childhood home: shabby, cozy Wallop Hall with its low ceilings, cramped quarters, and dogs.
    Ridiculous, and a little alarming.
    Since the disaster in the library she’d steadily refused to look beyond the wedding ceremony when she became the Marchioness of Blakeney. Between that event and the rest of her life lay the consummation. She’d been curious about marital relations in an academic sort of way; it seemed the sort of thing a girl should know. But once she’d wormed the truth out of Celia (Diana having always very meanly declined to inform her until she was betrothed) she’d lost interest. Diana and Celia seemed to like it, but the business all sounded odd, messy, and possibly unpleasant.
    And not at all the sort of thing you wanted to do with someone you didn’t like.
    At the end of the meal the duchess led her to the drawing room she used every day, a high-ceiled room with plentiful gilt plasterwork, but modest compared to the series of reception rooms used for big entertainments. With a fire in the grate and the curtains drawn it was as close to cozy as any part of Vanderlin House Minerva had yet seen, and that wasn’t very close at all. The apartment was a perfect match for its mistress: handsome, elegant, and chilly.
    â€œI had thought,” the duchess said as they settled on