“It is not that you are a horrible man, or an ill tempered one. We simply do not compliment each other,” she said.
Surprised to discover he was rather starting to enjoy himself, Henry reclined back in his chair and raised one eyebrow. “Is that so?” he said.
Margaret nodded vigorously. “Yes. Precisely so.”
Now it was Henry’s turn to play with his fork. He turned the utensil over and over in his hand, studying the silver handle as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world before he said, in a deceptively calm voice, “Where the bloody hell is all of my money?”
“Your… your money?” she squeaked.
“Yes. My money. The money I sent here every month since I left. The money that should have been going back into the estate to pay for its upkeep. Since the roof is all but falling down around us, I have to ask, darling, sweet wife. What have you been spending it on? Surely not clothes.”
“Your money?” Margaret repeated, leaving Henry to wonder if his wife was a bit daft.
“Yes,” he said, all thoughts as to the color of her hair banished as anger brought his blood to a rapid boil. “For the past year I have sent you a damn fortune! Yet I return to find three quarters of the staff dismissed, the gardens in complete disrepair, the fields empty of crops, and the house a mess. So let’s hear it, madam. Where has the money gone?”
“Eight months,” she said quietly.
“What?” Henry frowned, certain he had misunderstood her.
Margaret got to her feet. Leaning towards him, she spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard in the next town over. “Eight months, sixteen days, and nine hours. That is how long you have been gone. Not a year. Not quite yet.”
Henry rose out of his chair as well. “Of all the absurd, ridiculous things to keep track of that is most certainly the –”
“Time is all I have had to keep track of since you left!” she shouted, cutting him off mid sentence. “There never was any money, not since you ran off with my dowry, you old goat, and stranded me here next to penniless. The servants left when I could no longer pay them! You mock my clothes, but this is all I have to wear. I had to sell my dresses to pay for the staff that remains!”
“Did you just call me an old goat?” Henry asked.
Margaret gave a short, annoyed dip of her head.
“And are you meaning to tell me you have received no money since I left?” he said in a dangerous whisper.
Another nod, this one slightly more hesitant.
His head spinning, Henry sat down hard in his chair. It was true, he had taken the money provided by Margaret’s dowry with him before he left… But only to sink it into an overseas shipping operation that had returned his investment ten fold within the month.
One would think a Duke would not have to worry so over finances, however Henry was no ordinary Duke. His father, and his father before him, and his father before him had made certain of that with their gambling debts and need to spend money as if it were water. By the time he inherited Heathridge from his father upon his passing there had been less than a farthing left to the family name and enough debt to sink a small country.
Henry had managed to keep the rumors down to a bare minimum, but knowing the word would soon get out that Heathridge was falling into ruin, he had done what only a desperate man would be driven to do: he had gotten married.
Having always possessed a head for figures and a knack for turning one guinea into two, Henry knew if he could only find a way to get his hands on a large sum of money he would be able to restore honor to his family’s name and save Heathridge besides. Unfortunately for the new Duke, no creditor in England or any of her surrounding territories would lend him what he needed, thus the idea of marrying a wealthy heiress was born.
Now, however, staring across the table at his wife who had been no more than an unknowing pawn in his scheme, Henry felt an overpowering sense of guilt. It had been easy enough to think of Margaret as just another creditor when he had been away from her but now… Now he was forced to face the consequences of his actions.
Taking a deep breath, Henry prepared to tell Margaret the sad, sorry tale in its entirety.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Margaret, get out here this instant,” Henry growled.
“No,” she said, her voice muffled by the door between them.
Grasping the door handle Henry gave the door a solid shove with his shoulder. The blasted thing refused to move an inch. It was locked and – by the feel of it, for he had broken down his fair share of locked doors in his time and was not a weak man – had been braced with something quite heavy. His forehead thudded against the smooth wood as his eyes pinched shut in exasperation. “You are acting like a child.”
“I know,” she replied cheerfully.
Henry’s eyes snapped open. The chit was incorrigible. He normally reserved the word for the rakehells and rascals he dealt with, but he found it fit Margaret quite well. She was as stubborn as any man he had ever come across. Not to mention unruly, hard headed, and impossible to manage. How his friends – and enemies – would roll with laughter if they could see him now. Locked out of his own bedroom by his wife. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was exactly what he would do if he were in her shoes, Henry was forced to admit with the tracings of a smile.
After he had told Margaret the truth behind the financial state of Heathridge and his reason for marrying her, she had thrown a plate at his head and run upstairs. In the span of a few minutes Henry had come to three conclusions: the first being his accountant, dead man walking that he was, had apparently been robbing him blind. Second, his wife had a rather excellent throwing arm. And third, she was really quite beautiful when she was angry.
So no, Henry did not blame Margaret for throwing fine china at his head. Still, it would not do to let her think she had the upper hand. The woman was like a lioness. Any sign of weakness and she would go in for the kill, teeth bared and claws unsheathed.
“Open the door now,” he demanded, kicking the unyielding wood in frustration.
“Or you will do what?” she taunted him.
“Or I will take my gun, go out to the field, and shoot that nag you call a horse.” The instant the words were out of his mouth Henry regretted them. Not only would he never do such a thing, but he knew how much Margaret cared for Poppy simply by the way the old mare’s coat was brushed to a sheen and she had been the first one up to the fence when he had turned out Finnegan, searching his pockets for the treats she expected to find. “That was out of hand. I apologize. Of course I would never –”
He did not have time to finish his apology for without warning the door flew towards him, knocking him soundly in the temple. Cursing, Henry stumbled back, trying to regain his balance. Before he had time to get his feet back under him, however, his arms were filled with kicking, shrieking female.
“Shoot my horse, will you?” Margaret raged at him while her tiny fists pummeled any part of his body she could reach.
“Margaret, stop! This is absurd. I said I was –” Henry’s words came out gargled when one lucky punch caught him right on his throat. He gasped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“Drag me off to London, will you?” she yelled, kicking at his shins with the pointy toes of her boots.
Hopping on one foot and clutching his neck, Henry managed to duck into a room behind him. It was a guest bedroom, neatly made up with a bed against one wall and a writing desk and chairs against the other. As Margaret continued to punch – good heavens, didn’t the woman know ladies never actually hit? Slapped, yes. A stiff right hook to the chin, no – and rail against him, Henry simply closed his arms around her slender body in a bear hug and swung her onto the bed.
The impact of hitting the hard mattress knocked the wind out of her lungs, and he took full advantage, pouncing atop her and grabbing her wrists before she regained her strength. “Margaret,” he said firmly. “It is time to quit now.”
She shook her h
ead from side to side, spreading gold fire across the white pillowcase. Her color was high; her eyes bright as blue diamonds glinting under the sun. With every angry breath she took her chest rose and fell, and Henry could not help but notice the way her breasts pushed up against his chest. Rather intrigued, he allowed himself to sink a bit closer to her as one hand slid down to tangle in the red curls of her hair. He wasn’t going to do anything. Of course not. He just wanted to see if she felt as soft as she –
“Oomph!” he grunted as her free arm swung up and caught him on the side of the head. Stars swam in front of his eyes and he rolled sideways onto his back. Throwing both arms across his face in surrender, he cried, “Enough, woman! Enough. You’ve done it. You’ve bested me. Leave off before you do permanent damage.”
She hadn’t meant to hit him. Appalled at herself and her wicked behavior, Margaret swung off the bed and began to pace back and forth across the room, head bent and hands clasped behind her back. She had never struck anyone in her life. Well, except for her younger brother Johnny, but the little rascal had definitely deserved it after he threw all her hair ribbons out the window. Then there had been Emily, the girl who had constantly taunted her about her red hair and freckles, which Margaret had been able to ignore until Emily threw a stone at her cat. And she mustn’t forget Thomas, young, over zealous Thomas who had cornered her at her first ball and tried to slip a hand right down her dress. Oh dear.
Stopping at the window, Margaret pulled aside the curtain and stared blindly out at the front drive. She was a horrible person. A terrible, awful, wretched person to have hit so many people. What would her mother say?
“Margaret?”
She spun back towards the bed at the sound of Henry’s muffled voice. He was sprawled across the mattress, his large frame covering nearly inch of it. His face was still hidden by his arms, so she couldn’t read his expression, but if the drawn out suffering in his tone was any indication she had hurt the poor man unbearably.
“Yes?” she asked, taking a few steps towards him.
“You have a wicked right hook.”
“Yes,” she confessed, hanging her head. “I know.”
Henry propped himself up on his elbows and swiveled his head to face her. To her disbelief, the man was actually grinning. Grinning, as if they had been discussing the weather instead of engaging in all out fisticuffs!
“Come here,” he coaxed, crooking a finger.
Hesitantly she shuffled forward and paused just beyond arms reach. She didn’t trust that boyish smile he was wearing. Surely he was furious with her. She had all but assaulted him, for heaven sakes! Then why was he beaming ear to ear like a fool? “What is it?” she asked suspiciously.
Henry raked a hand through his hair and cupped the back of his neck. “Come closer,” he said.
“So you can have at me?” One red eyebrow shot up. “I think not!”
“Have at you?” he queried, raising one eyebrow of his own. “Why Margaret, whatever do you mean?” His lips curved into something that was neither a smile nor a grin, but a combination of the two with a little devilish smirk mixed it. They did something funny to her belly, those lips. It felt like she had swallowed butterflies. Leaping, dancing, pirouetting butterflies. It was not an entirely uncomfortable sensation.
“Beat me,” she explained. “You will beat me for hurting you.”
“Hurting me?” Henry scoffed. “I don’t have so much as a bruise, madam. At least not one you can see.”
She nodded sagely. “I have injured your ribs, haven’t I? I thought as much. I am terribly sorry, Henry. It is just when I lose my temper I tend to go a bit –”
“You didn’t injure my bloody ribs,” he growled. “You’ve struck a blow to my pride, woman. And if you think what happened here today will ever leave the confines of this room, you had best think again!”
“Of course not,” said Margaret automatically. Taking one more step towards the edge of the bed, her eyes narrowed as they swept across his body. Perhaps she hadn’t struck him as hard as she thought she had. Feeling slightly better, she began to draw back, but before she could blink, let alone react, Henry had one arm curled around her waist and was pulling her on top of him.
She landed with a squeal on his chest and instantly tried to wiggle away, but Henry’s arms were like bands of iron and in one swift move that left her breathless he had flipped her beneath him and her wrists pinned on either side of her head, rendering her immobile. “Unhand me!” she demanded, even as her heart quickened its beat and the butterflies in her belly went wild.
“No,” said Henry, looking rather pleased with himself. “Not until you pay your penance.”
“Penance? Penance for what?”
“For injuring me,” he said.
Margaret bit down on her bottom lip. “You said you weren’t hurt,” she whispered, not quite able to meet his gaze.
“My body wasn’t, but my pride was, and a man’s pride, Margaret, is a very sensitive thing.” Releasing one of her wrists, he gently cupped her chin and lifted it until she had no choice but to stare directly into his burning green eyes. “What shall your penance be for committing such a grave crime?”
“I do not…” Her voice caught. She licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry, and tried again. “I do not know. A… a gift, perhaps?”
“A gift would be nice,” he said, nodding slowly. “But a token would be better.”
Her eyebrows knitted together. “A… a token? I fear I do not understand.”
“One token of affection,” Henry whispered low in her ear, dipping his head until she could feel his lips move against her skin. “And your penance shall be served.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Margaret trembled. Had she known this would be his price for striking him, she never would have raised her fist… Or would she? Heat was sliding through her body, dark, damp, traitorous heat that burned with the fire of a hundred suns. Was this what it felt like to want? Was this what it felt like to desire?
“Wh-what token of affection would you like?” she said, gasping when his teeth grazed her earlobe, lingered, and nipped. Dazedly she realized he was no longer holding her prisoner. Had released both her wrists a long time ago, in fact. She considered escaping and running for the hills, but before the idea had time to blossom she plucked it ruthlessly by the roots and tossed it away. Why shouldn’t she indulge in a bit of passion? She was a married woman, for heaven sakes. And still a virgin, a little voice mockingly reminded her.
“Oh, do shut up,” she snapped.
“What?” Henry asked, frowning down at her.
“Not you.” Belatedly realizing that did not clear up the confusion whatsoever, Margaret gave a frustrated shake of her head. “I was just recalling that I was a… oh, never mind!”
Henry captured a long curl of her fiery hair and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. Staring at it in rapt fascination, he said in a voice so husky it sent shivers racing through her, “A kiss shall restore my bruised pride, I think. Yes, a kiss should do it. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Nothing more?” Margaret said before she could stop herself. Chagrined, she pinched her eyes shut as her cheeks suffused with color. “Forget I said that,” she muttered.
Henry chuckled. Releasing her hair, he traced the curve of her cheek with his fingertips as his other hand dipped lower to span her waist. Everywhere he touched her she felt her skin grow hot, even through her clothing. Part of her wished he would hurry up and kiss her already… but the other part, the new, exciting part, yearned for him to draw out this moment into eternity. She opened her eyes and her breath caught when she saw the intense concentration on the Duke’s face. His jaw was clenched, his mouth tightly set. If she didn’t know better she would think he was in pain.
“I believe I have changed my mind,” he said.
“A-about the k-kiss?” she asked shakily.
“No, not the kiss. I have changed my mind about your choice of dress. I now find your a
ttire to be quite…” He paused. The hand encompassing her waist shifted down. Margaret forgot to breathe. Clever fingers tugged her shirt free from the waistband of her breeches and pulled it up, stopping just shy of her breasts. She squeezed her eyes shut again. The mattress squeaked as he shifted, moving lower. “Delectable,” he murmured against the smooth skin of her stomach.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, I feel quite faint. Do that again.”
Another chuckle, this one as wicked as they came. Henry nibbled, licked, and kissed his way across her ribcage. Margaret mewled like a kitten. He ended above her belly button and when his tongue swirled inside the tiny crevice she couldn’t help but buck her hips off the bed and clutch his thick, luxurious hair in her hands.
With a low growl he shot up the length of her body. His hands framed her face and for an instant she was caught in the depths of his brilliant green eyes before he lowered his head and his mouth sought hers in a possessive kiss that robbed the very breath from her lungs.
Margaret had never been kissed so rashly. So dominantly. So… so utterly wickedly. His tongue forced her lips apart and slipped into the dark recesses of her mouth, boldly stroking. On a gasp he broke away only to suckle at her jaw, the curve of her neck, the delicate skin of her earlobe.
Helpless, Margaret clung to his broad shoulders and let him do as he wished. If this was to be her penance for hurting his pride then she would gladly fight with him every day of the week and twice on Sundays.
Henry sought her mouth again and she relinquished it readily, arching into his kiss with a desperate need that surprised them both. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to illicit a purr from the depths of her throat. She raked her nails down his back and he groaned, trembling beneath her touch. She wanted… more. Something she could not name. In quiet desperation her hands swept lower, to the hard curve of Henry’s hips. And then as suddenly as the kiss had begun it ended when Henry pulled away from her and sat back, his eyes pinched tightly shut and his breathing ragged.
A Ravishing Redhead (Wedded Women Quartet) Page 3
