A Ravishing Redhead (Wedded Women Quartet)

by Jillian Eaton

  Feeling oddly bereft, Margaret sat up herself and leaned against the bed’s wrought iron headboard. Her mind whirled, her thoughts a jumbled mess. Dazedly she bought her fingertips to her lips. They were already swollen, testament to the ravishment they had received. A ravishment she was rather disappointed had ended so soon.

  “Henry?” she said hesitantly when he continued to sit in silence.

  His eyes opened. He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “Yes?” he said after a moment’s pause.

  “Is that… Is that all then?”

  One eyebrow quirked. “Were you expecting more?”

  Margaret blushed and looked down. Her fingers fell away from her lips to twine absently in her lap as she considered what to say next. “Well,” she said finally, taking a deep breath. “I rather did enjoy myself. You are… You are quite adept at kissing. Not,” she said quickly as her cheeks turned bright pink, “that I am an expert judge on the matter. Quite the opposite, in fact. But if I were to judge, I would say that was a most excellent kiss and not at all overdone.”

  “Overdone?” said Henry in a strangled voice.

  She nodded. “And if you wished to kiss me again, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  “An excellent thing to know.”

  Silence hummed between them. This time it was a companionable kind of quiet that Margaret quite enjoyed. She took a moment to discreetly study her husband beneath her lashes, noting for the first time the way his nose curved faintly to the left as if it had been broken a long time ago and the tiny silver scar that traced down from the corner of his mouth. He was not as handsome when one studied him up close, she realized. His beauty faded away to reveal the rugged man underneath. A man she was coming to understand a little more. A proud man, who shouldered his problems without complaint. A foolish man, too, for not thinking she would help him if he had but told her the truth.

  “I forgive you,” she said impulsively.

  “What?” said Henry, looking up.

  “I said I forgive you. For marrying me for my dowry,” she explained. “It was not a kind thing to do, but I understand why you did it and I forgive you.”

  The hint of a smile captured his mouth, pulling it up to one side in a half smile that did funny things to her heart.

  “You are nothing like I thought you were,” he said.

  Margaret sat up a little straighter. “Oh? In what way?”

  Henry stretched out on his back and settled his head on Margaret’s lap. One booted foot swung off the side of the bed while the other tangled with her right leg, hooking around her ankle and holding it firmly in place. It was a decadent position, to be certain, but neither Henry nor Margaret thought to complain.

  “For one,” he began, his eyes flashing with amusement, “you are stubborn as an ass.”

  Margaret’s mouth dropped open. “Stubborn as an… Stubborn as an ass?” she cried, glowering down at him.

  “Yes, but much more beautiful.”

  “Well as long as I am prettier than a donkey,” she sniffed.

  “Much prettier. I have never seen hair the same shade as yours before. It reminds me of a tomato,” he decided. “A big fat tomato, ripe for the plucking.”

  “My hair reminds you of a fat tomato?” she repeated in amazement. “You, sir, are certainly not a poet.”

  “Far from it,” he agreed.

  “Henry?” said Margaret a few moments later, breaking the silence that had settled back over them, snug and comfortable as a blanket on a cold winter’s night.

  He looked up at her. “Yes?”

  Absently she twirled a lock of his hair around her finger, spinning the soft curl round and round as she said, “Perhaps, since we are, in fact, married we might try to get to know each other… That is, more then we do now.”

  Henry propped himself up on one elbow and smiled wryly. “We do not know each other at all.”

  Margaret nodded. “Precisely my point.”

  “And what pray tell,” he queried, arching one eyebrow, “brought on this sudden change of heart? One hour ago you were claiming we did not suit and throwing dinner plates at my head.”

  “I may have a bit of a temper,” she acknowledged stiffly. “But you got no less then you deserved, courting me under false pretenses and marrying me just to get at my dowry! They have names for men like you, you know.”

  “And what,” he said, gracing her with a slow, wolfish smile, “would those names be?”

  Biting her lip, Margaret did her best to ignore the little pitter patter of her heart. Damn the man, but he was quite charming when he wanted to be. “A rogue and a scoundrel,” she said, trying her hardest to appear stern.

  “Aye,” he admitted without batting an eyelash. “I am both of those and more. Still care to get to know each other?”

  “If I do, can I ride Finnegan?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You will let me eventually,” she predicted.

  Henry scowled. “You will never sit on that horse again, Margaret.”

  We shall see about that, she thought. Gently easing her legs from beneath Henry’s head she swung off the bed, stretched, and crossed to the doorway.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, sitting up with a frown.

  “To get something to eat from the kitchen. I am starved.”

  “Yes, well. I will see you in the morning. What time is breakfast usually served?” he asked.

  Only then did Margaret realize that for the first time she and Henry would be sleeping together under the same roof. For some inexplicable reason the very idea caused her cheeks to burn bright red. “Um,” she said, pausing half in and half out of the hall. “Half past seven, I believe.”

  “Half past seven?” Henry stood up and stretched his long arms high above his head, pulling the hem of his shirt free from the waistband of his breeches to reveal a hint of the coiled muscle that lay beneath. “That’s a rather ungodly hour, isn’t it?”

  “Then don’t get up!” Margaret snapped. The instant the words were out she clapped a hand to her mouth and darted out the door, stopping only long enough to kick it closed behind her. She made it halfway to her room before she had to stop and lean up against the wall. Laying the palms of her hands flat against the cool plaster she closed her eyes and drew in a deep, lingering breath to soothe her frazzled nerves.

  Well that had certainly not gone how she had predicted. Who would have thought her husband was so… so… so bloody charming? And witty. And kind. And a very, very excellent kisser.

  Again she touched her lips, tracing them with a fingertip as she remembered how it had felt to have the length of Henry’s body pushed snug against her own. To have his mouth on her mouth. His tongue dancing with her tongue. His hands… Her eyes flew open. Dear heavens, what was she thinking?

  Henry was a rogue of the worst sort! He had run off with her dowry.

  Something he has not only apologized for, but made up ten fold, said a sly little voice.

  He threatened to shoot Poppy!

  Only because you threw a plate at his head. Besides, he didn’t mean it. People say all sorts of things when they are angry… Don’t they, Margaret?

  He abandoned me!

  He left to earn you a fortune and thought you were living in the lap of luxury in his absence. Is it his fault his accountant is a lily livered snake?

  He only married me for my money.

  Margaret waited for the little voice to contradict her, but this time there was only silence. Troubled, she walked slowly to her room and locked the door behind her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As summer gave way to fall and the nights grew cooler, the days shorter and the leaves began to change their colors, the Duke and Duchess of Heathridge began a slow, fumbling courtship of sorts.

  With the mutual goal of restoring Heathridge to its former glory, the two worked closely side by side and soon fell into a comfortable routine.

  Margaret tended to the stables in the morning – something she
refused to give up, even when Henry hired not one but three grooms – while Henry poured through ledgers in his study. Each afternoon they chose a different room to scrub top to bottom, a task normally delegated to servants, but as Margaret pointed out “it was their bloody house” and for once Henry saw logic in her argument. In the evenings before dinner they always went for a long walk to discuss the tasks accomplished or simply drift along in silence, content with each other’s company.

  Slowly but surely Heathridge began to reclaim some of its former glory. The windows began to sparkle. New rugs and paintings arrived by the cart load. The fields were tilled. Under Margaret’s insistence two new paddocks were put in and a new, larger barn was well underway, all funded by the wealth Henry had accumulated from his business ventures abroad. Unfortunately, Heathridge’s coffers were not as deep as they should have been.

  It did not take Henry long to discover the depths of his accountant’s betrayal. By all written accounts Peterson had been robbing the estate blind for years. Only recently had he grown bold enough to make obvious errors, such as taking all of the money Henry had been sending back to Margaret instead of siphoning it off little by little as he had from the late Duke. It was a betrayal of the highest order; one Henry had not yet decided how to deal with. He knew Peterson was in London, a fact that was substantiated by the number of bills that were piling up in Henry’s name.

  Did Peterson think him a fool? Or did he simply no longer care if he was caught? Perhaps, Henry thought darkly, the accountant merely thought him to be as ignorant and foolish as his father. If so, it was a mistake that would soon cost the man dearly.

  Crumpling the latest tally of figures totaling the losses Heathridge had sustained over the past year, Henry tossed the wad of paper over his shoulder in disgust and crossed the room to gaze out the window

  It was no accident he had chosen to make this particular room his study. It was the only one on the first floor of the estate that faced east, towards the stables. From here he had a clear view of the paddock and the barn and the horses, as well as the red haired vixen that tended them.

  A smile rose unbidden to his mouth as he recalled what had transpired out this very window yesterday afternoon.

  Three times the new gardener had thrown a fit over having his tulips devoured by the shaggy beast Margaret referred to fondly as a horse. Henry had watched from the safe confines of his study as the gardener went after the large draft mare with a broom after he discovered her snacking on the newly planted shrubbery. Like a mama bear protecting her cub Margaret had come flying out of no where, and although Henry had not heard the heated words exchanged between the two, he knew without needing to ask who had come out the victor.

  The woman was a puzzle. A puzzle he was thoroughly enjoying solving. She aroused him, annoyed him, and fascinated him – often within the span of just a few hours. Any sensible thought fled his head when she entered the room. She could provoke his temper with one saucy comment… and provoke his loins without speaking a word.

  Yet despite their teasing banter, flirtatious glances, and the undeniable heat that burned between them, every night Margaret went to her bedroom and Henry to his. Through the thin walls he would hear her turn the lock on her door and he would stay awake for hours, staring up at the ceiling as the scent of her lavender perfume lingered in the air, driving him a little bit closer to insanity every time he fell asleep with empty arms and an aching arousal.

  She had given him her laughter and her light, but there was still some part of her that she was holding back. Some part he could not touch.

  A timid knock sounded at the door, interrupting Henry’s thoughts. “Come in,” he said without turning around.

  One of the new maids, a young woman with mousy brown hair and a button nose, opened the door a few scant inches. “Your Grace?” she said.

  “Yes, what is it?” he asked after an impatient glance down at his pocket watch. How had he not noticed the time? It was a three quarters past eleven. He should have met Margaret in the front parlor almost an hour ago. Going to his desk he shrugged into a dark green jacket he had left on the chair and absently tightened his cravat. His wife hated anyone who was late for anything. She was not going to be very happy with him. Perhaps he should stop by the kitchen to get her a pastry, or pick a few flowers from the front garden, or even –

  “Your Grace?”

  Henry faced the maid, a faint scowl on his face. “What do you need?”

  Looking away, she mumbled something under her breath he couldn’t quite hear.

  “What? What did you say? Speak up… er… Angela, is it?” he asked. Margaret had agreed to hire a bevy of new house staff one the condition that he learn all of their names. It was an unusual request, but one Henry was doing his best to adhere to.

  Angela fiddled with the stiff collar of her uniform as she said, “You asked me to keep an eye on the Duchess, Your Grace, especially if she went out unattended and… well...”

  “And what?” he said sharply.

  Angela’s eyes filled with tears. “She took out that mean stallion, Your Grace. The one you said none of us was to ever touch. Petey tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen and there was a deer that jumped plain out of no where and Lady Margaret fell –”

  Henry did not wait for the maid to finish. Shoving past her, he sprinted for the stables.

  The last thing Margaret remembered was asking Finnegan quite nicely for a canter. Then there had been a flash of brown, a fearful whinny, and she had woken up on the ground with a crowd of people hovering over her.

  “What happened?” she asked weakly.

  “That nasty beast spilled you off, he did!” said one of the new stable lads shrilly. Holding his cap in his hands he twisted it like he was ringing out an old rag. “It was a deer, m’lady. Spooked ‘em and you went through the air like a sack o’potatoes.”

  Margaret rather felt like a sack of potatoes. Gingerly pulling herself into a sitting position, she probed at the source of the pounding in her head. When her fingers came away sticky with blood she paled, but refused to panic. Her body felt horribly sore, although nothing was broken since she could wiggle all of her extremities. If she came away from the fall with nothing more than a bump on the head then she would consider herself lucky indeed. “Petey, be a dear and go fetch a pale of cold water from the kitchen. Fresh and clean, if you please. And has anyone seen Finnegan? I don’t want him to run in the road. Poor thing, it wasn’t his fault. I believe a deer spook—”

  “MARGARET? MARGARET! WHERE ARE YOU?”

  Oh dear. It was Henry and he didn’t sound at all pleased, which meant someone must have told him what had happened. Margaret narrowed her eyes at the servants hovering over her and they all had the good grace to look the other way. “Cowards,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Angela went to fetch the Master,” said one of the cook maids who had seen the fall happen from inside the kitchen. “It was her fault.”

  Hissing out a breath in frustration, Margaret waved her hand. “Get on, the lot of you, unless you want to be yelled at as well.”

  They scurried away like mice, leaving Margaret to face her irate husband alone. Grimacing, she tried to stand but dizziness overtook her and she decided the grass was not such a bad place to sit after all. Crossing her legs at the ankle and resting her hands behind her, Margaret waited for Henry to reach her. It was not a long wait.

  He came charging around the side of the barn like a bull, his hands clenched into fists and his nostrils flared. She could tell the instant he spotted her because his upper lip curled into a snarl of rage and he quickened his step until he came to a halt directly in front of her and just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed to angry green slits. Waiting.

  “Hello,” she said meekly.

  Silence.

  “I waited for you in the parlor for over an hour, you know. It is quite rude to keep someone waiting. They get ideas in their head, ideas they can’t help,” she said defen
sively, shading her eyes against the sun with the side of her hand so she could see him clearly.

  Silence.

  “Everything would have been fine if the deer hadn’t jumped out of the brush. It caught us both by surprise, you see, and Finnegan didn’t intend any harm.”

  Without saying a word Henry spun on his heel and started walking away towards the stables. Alarmed, Margaret scrambled to her feet and hobbled after him, calling out his name, but he ignored her. Halfway to the barn he abruptly changed directions. As he stalked past her going the other way Margaret reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Wait,” she cried. “Where are you going?”

  “To get a gun,” he bit out, wrenching free of her grasp.

  “To – to shoot me for riding Finnegan?” she asked incredulously.

  “No, to shoot the damn horse.”

  “Henry,” she gasped. “I told you it wasn’t his fault. It was mine, for riding him in the first place. I never should have –”

  “No, you should not have!” he shouted, whirling around to face her. “But you did, because you are you and you cannot help yourself. Well, I will not have it, do you hear me?”

  “You will not have what?” Margaret asked, utterly bewildered.

  “I will not have you risking your bloody life!” In two strides he had crossed the distance that separated them and taken her by the arms. He gave her two quick shakes, and she felt her head spin, but it was nothing compared to the flips her heart was doing. “When that maid came to tell me you had fallen off I thought –”

  “What maid?” Margaret interrupted.

  “What?”

  “What maid, Henry? Her name, if you would.”

  His jaw clenched. “For the love of – Angela, her name was Angela!”

  “Very good.” Margaret nodded. “You may continue.”

  “So help me God I am going to kill you,” he vowed darkly.

  “No,” said Margaret, suppressing a smile. “You’re not. Now do go on with why you think shooting your horse is a good idea. First, however, may we sit down? I am feeling quite dizzy.”