Forbidden

by Nicola Cornick

  “Let us hope the King has many more years in him, then,” she said.

  “I think that might be a vain hope.” It was Henry’s voice. Margery looked up to see that he and Lord Templemore had joined them. Her grandfather was settling himself in one of the wide armchairs near the fire, a brandy glass at his elbow and the inevitable spaniel at his feet.

  “Henry will help you try on the jewels,” Lord Templemore said.

  A little shiver ran through Margery at the thought of Henry placing the stones about her neck. She felt self-conscious enough without him near her. Already the skin of her neck and shoulders, uncovered by the modestly low bodice of her evening gown, felt strangely sensitized as though it was only awaiting his touch.

  “How singular,” she said. “I did not imagine you as a lady’s maid, Lord Wardeaux.”

  A spark of wicked amusement leapt into Henry’s eyes. “My experience is quite extensive,” he murmured.

  “That I do not doubt,” Margery snapped. “You shall not be extending it further at my expense, however.”

  Henry smiled. “I assure you, you will not find it an unpleasant experience. Shall we?” He gestured to the chair that Edith had placed in front of the mirror. Gritting her teeth, Margery sat as he took up a position behind her left shoulder. A tapestry panel embroidered with dragons in red and green stood to one side, partially screening the table from the room.

  “Try this.” Chessie was offering a pretty little silver tiara that sparkled with tiny rubies. Henry placed it gently on Margery’s head, his fingers entangling for one brief moment in her hair, loosening the pins. Margery’s scalp tingled. Little shivers skipped through her and her toes curled in her satin slippers. She felt hot and flustered. A strand of her fine honey-dark hair slid down her neck like a caress to feather over one bare shoulder, satin soft against her skin. She felt Henry’s fingers move again and another curl slid surreptitiously from its carefully arranged pins to tease her nape.

  Margery shifted on the chair, feeling a dangerous excitement squeeze all the air from her lungs. She knew that Henry was doing this on purpose and she was determined to resist this seduction of her senses but it was not easy. The combination of Henry’s touch and the caress of the jewels was a potent one.

  The room seemed too bright, hot and airless. Already she felt a little light-headed and she was achingly aware of Henry standing directly behind her, his body close to hers. She knew she was susceptible to him but she had had no idea that she would also find the trappings of luxury so seductive, that she would be bewitched by the sensual shift of silk against her skin and the heavy glitter of the priceless jewels. With each step she seemed to move further away from the life she had known and into a new world of lavish excess. And she liked it. She could feel it tempting her, drawing her in. She shivered voluptuously, closing her eyes.

  “Here is the matching ruby necklace.” Chessie had evidently seen nothing strange in her for she was smiling, holding out a delicate silver-and-ruby filigree necklace that Henry fastened about Margery’s throat. She felt the cool silver against her skin then she felt Henry’s hand slide down from her nape, down the exposed line of her spine, slow and sure, in a deliberate stroke that had her quivering.

  Chessie was saying something about the ruby necklace being too insipid but Margery could not concentrate on the words, could concentrate on nothing but the sly downward glide of Henry’s fingertips against her bare back. They reached the first button and paused, again very deliberately.

  Margery caught her breath on a gasp. Surely he was not going to undress her here and now, slide the buttons from their moorings and leave her exposed in her petticoats and drawers in front of everyone. But of course not. He was teasing her. His fingers moved on to brush against the top edge of her gown, over the tender line of her shoulder blade, and in a devastating flash of understanding Margery realized exactly what he was doing. He was seducing her in full view of the assembled company, reducing her to a state of desperate longing that she was finding it increasingly difficult to hide. And he had only just started. A heavy pulse started to beat in her blood, primitive and insistent.

  Her gaze flew up to meet Henry’s in the mirror. His was dark and impassive, completely unreadable. He unhooked the silver necklace and passed it back to Chessie, who exchanged it for a river of emeralds that flashed green fire. Chessie took the rubies away and Henry hung the emeralds gently about Margery’s throat in their place. Once again she felt his fingers, warm and strong, brush the nape of her neck as he fastened the clasp. Once again his eyes rose to meet hers in the glass, then his gaze dropped very purposefully to where the huge center stone of the necklace was cradled between her breasts.

  Margery could feel the cold, hard emerald against her warm skin. A shiver racked her and she felt the heat rise in her like a furnace. Soon she would be burning up.

  “You look quite delicious,” Henry murmured.

  Margery grabbed the matching eardrops, her fingers shaking a little as she tried to fasten them. She wondered that nobody could see the state she was in, ruffled, disturbed and thoroughly aroused. But no one was watching them. Her grandfather appeared to have fallen asleep before the fire with the spaniels at his feet, Lady Wardeaux and Lady Emily were still trying on a variety of coronets and bracelets, chattering together farther down the room, and Chessie, too, had been distracted by a splendid sapphire necklace that matched her eyes.

  Besides, the table was a little turned at an angle from the room and the mirror was wide and Henry’s body shielded her from sight. The dragon screen hid them from the side and suddenly it was as though they were alone. It felt strange but utterly compelling that in a room full of people she was only aware of Henry, of the dark, heavy heat now in his eyes and the sensual brush of his hands on her.

  “Let me help you with those,” Henry said, seeing her struggles with the eardrops. His voice was quite indifferent but his fingers brushed lightly up her throat to her earlobe, tugging it gently down so that it accepted the weight of the huge, heavy emerald stone. The clip snapped shut on Margery’s skin with a sharp bite that was half pleasure, half pain.

  Margery caught her breath on a tiny moan as a bolt of pure carnal desire shot through her to center between her thighs. Her nipples hardened instantly to tight peaks beneath the pink silk of her evening gown. She jerked on the chair. She could not help herself. Her gaze, shocked, sought Henry’s in the glass, but his head was bent as he took the other stone in the palm of his hand. He waited and Margery could feel anticipation tighten like a knot in her belly.

  “You will have to be very quiet.” Henry’s voice was a dark whisper.

  His hand came up. Margery felt a long ripple of arousal shimmer through her and the throb of sharp lust in the pit of her stomach. Henry’s fingers tugged her earlobe down. Margery’s body jolted again in response and then the clasp snapped shut and the delicious, painful sting of it pulsated through her. This time the carnal pleasure was sharper and deeper. The ache in her belly was a torment, demanding satisfaction. Her skin felt hot and damp, the dark green emerald flashing between her breasts as she took a shaken breath.

  The emeralds swung, huge and heavy in her ears, each tiny movement setting up an echo of sensual delight through her entire body. It was exquisite. It tortured her. She was both appalled and fascinated, wanting to run from the room but held in her seat by the fact that she was not sure her legs would be able to carry her as far as the door.

  Henry’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. His gaze was on her reflection, on the rise and fall of her breasts and the outline of her nipples so shamelessly hard beneath the thin silk. About her neck and between her breasts the opulent emeralds gleamed against her skin. Margery had never felt more aware of her body, of its heat and tightness, and of the sleek, taut pleasure bound up so fast inside her that it positively screamed for release.

  Henry bent down so that his lips brushed her ear and his breath stirred the stray curls at her nape. Margery almost moaned al
oud, remembering at the last moment to stifle the sound.

  “Some people find jewels extremely arousing,” Henry murmured, “and it seems you are more responsive to them than most.” His lips touched the curve of her neck and he bit down, very gently, against her bare skin. Margery squirmed, her nipples unbearably tight and hard, stimulated by the silken slide of her gown and the soft chemise beneath.

  “Who would have thought that such decadence would so excite you?” Henry’s tongue salved the sting of the bite and this time a tiny moan did escape Margery’s lips.

  “Here are the Templemore diamonds!” Lady Wardeaux’s voice sounded too loud, too triumphant, shattering the moment. Margery jumped. Henry’s expression changed, the sensual darkness in his eyes replaced by blank impassivity.

  Inside Margery was shaking. Suddenly the lights were too bright and the chatter too loud. She felt stripped bare, exposed. She could not understand how she could have behaved in so abandoned a fashion in a room full of people. She had been lost to all propriety, swept away by the sensual caress of the emeralds against her skin and the disturbing heat in Henry’s eyes.

  She looked at him. He had strategically retreated behind the table, and innocent as she was, she knew exactly why. Male arousal was impossible to hide, particularly in such well-fitting evening trousers. It served him right. She felt glad that he was suffering, too.

  She stood up. Her legs felt a little shaky and she steadied herself by grabbing the edge of the table.

  “If you will excuse me….” Her voice sounded very odd. Suddenly everyone was looking at her, which was exactly the opposite of what she wanted.

  “I’m very tired,” she said, hoping she looked exhausted rather than aroused.

  Chessie hurried over to help her remove the emerald necklace. Margery pulled off the ear bobs and dropped them in the velvet case. The walk to the door seemed very long and once out in the hall, in the safety of the shadows, she stopped to draw a steadying breath. Her body still felt restless and on edge, quickened with desire. She slumped to sit on the bottom step of the grand stairs. In front of her on the wall was a huge portrait of her mother. Margery did not particularly like it because Lady Rose looked faintly supercilious, as she did in a great many of her portraits, so much so that Margery was beginning to suspect that she would not have liked her mother very much at all.

  She sighed and leaned her head against the newel post. If ever there was a warning to her to be careful in her affections, then Lady Rose embodied it. Her mother had loved unwisely and Margery had no intention of following in her footsteps.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Temperance Reversed: Quarrels

  HENRY SAT IN THE GOLD SALON and watched Margery hold court. It was the only way to describe it; every man of marriageable age in the neighborhood—and some who fancied themselves to be marriageable and frankly were not—was sitting in a rapt circle about her chair. It had not taken long for the richest heiress in England to attract the suitors.

  On Margery’s left was young Hugo Wentworth, the son of a merchant from Bristol who had bought himself a knighthood and a local manor. Hugo was barely out of Eton. On Margery’s right was Dr. Fox, the local physician. The squire Sir Reggie Radnor had also come to pay his respects.

  Radnor was not generally interested in anything that he could not shoot or hunt, but his terrifying mama had positively whipped him into the salon. Henry had heard that the Radnor pockets were to let and a rich marriage would set Reggie up to maim and kill many more feathered and furry creatures in the neighborhood.

  Holding the floor at present was the aged Lord Blunt, who had buried three wives already and was boasting loudly to Margery that he still had all his own teeth, a fact that she was pretending to find fascinating. Out in the cold on the window seat was another youth, barely out of the nursery, whose mama had tricked him out in his highest shirt points for the occasion. None of them were remotely credible as suitors for the Templemore heiress and Henry was not at all sure why the sight of them panting after Margery put him in such a bad humor.

  It was a fortnight since he had practically seduced Margery in the Red Saloon in front of everyone, a fortnight in which he had scrupulously kept out of her way as much for his own sanity as for her good. The swift and devastating descent into desire that night had taken him by surprise as much as it had her.

  He had spent most of his time in London at the Board of Ordnance, only returning because the earl had said that he had an urgent business proposition he wished to discuss with him.

  Henry needed his godfather’s investment in the Wardeaux estate, but he would have preferred not to return to Templemore to discuss the matter. As it was, his nights in London had been largely sleepless, and when he had dreamed it had often been of Margery. They were hot, explicit dreams that had left him hard and aching for her, and on one occasion spent, only to realize as he woke that her presence in his bed had been an illusion.

  And now he had come back and it was clear that Margery was avoiding him. For some reason, that simply made the awareness between them more scalding-hot and uncomfortable.

  He caught Chessie Alton’s eyes upon him. She smiled sympathetically. Henry shifted slightly. He did not want Chessie or indeed anyone else sympathizing with him. He doubted that she would, in fact, be sympathetic if she could read his thoughts. He was sitting here, sipping tea from a china cup and pressing the rector to a ginger biscuit, but all the time he was hearing Margery’s gasp of pleasure as the heavy weight of the ear bobs pulled on her flesh, and imagining stripping the clothes from her to leave her naked but for the Templemore emeralds.

  He shifted again. The room felt hot. Margery was wearing a pretty gown of jonquil-yellow with a scalloped neck that only hinted at the curves beneath. The very demureness of it was strangely enticing. Henry rubbed the back of his neck, wondering yet again if Margery’s forbidden state was working some inverse attraction upon him. His body felt on the edge of arousal.

  He stared at the yellow ribbon threaded through Margery’s gleaming golden-brown hair and wanted to grab it and pull it, pull the matching ribbons on the dress as well until she was unlaced and unwrapped, warm and willing under his hands. How galling it was to be so undone by such an innocent and how much more self-control he would need to find each day he remained at Templemore.

  “Of course the Radnors were lords of the manor here when the Templemores were still herding sheep,” Henry heard the Dowager Lady Radnor say sotto voce to Mrs. Wentworth. “But one must be civil to rich upstarts.”

  Reggie Radnor was being more than civil to Margery, Henry thought. He had managed to possess himself of one of her hands and was running his tongue over her knuckles in what he no doubt thought was a rakishly seductive move. Henry felt revolted. Margery, smiling grimly, wiped the back of her hand against her skirts.

  “Dearest Lady Marguerite,” Reggie said. “I am so delighted to make your acquaintance. Enchanté! Which means—”

  “Please do not explain your compliments, Sir Reggie,” Margery said. “It quite spoils their impact.”

  “Alas, dear Marguerite is looking a little peaky today,” Lady Wardeaux whispered in Henry’s ear.

  “Her money is still looking frightfully attractive, however,” Henry said, as Lord Blunt maneuvered his chair even closer to Margery.

  He was not jealous. He was not possessive. Such emotions were irrational.

  “Fetching little filly, ain’t you!” Blunt said, staring down the front of Margery’s gown. “I used to go wenching with your papa.”

  “How charming, Lord Blunt,” Margery said. “I have often wanted to learn more about him, but now I am not so sure.”

  The door opened. Henry stiffened. Barnard was ushering in three gentlemen who were of a very different complexion from the rustic gentry of the shire. One was a dandy in an embroidered silk waistcoat and high shirt points, the second was a sporting gentleman and the third was a Byronic-looking youth wearing black and a rather intense expression. They brou
ght with them an indefinable air of fashionable society. Henry saw the other gentlemen in the room shift and bristle at the invasion of the ton.

  “The Marquis of Bryson, Lord Stephen Kestrel, Lord Fane,” Barnard announced, with the air of a man who at last had something important to say. Henry stood up.

  “Bryson.” He offered his hand to the elegant peer who was making his way into the room. “London lost its charm for you?”

  “Visiting m’sister,” The Marquis said with a bland smile. “How do you do, Wardeaux?”

  “I thought Lady Belton lived in Devon,” Henry said.

  “This is on my way,” Bryson said vaguely. He nodded to Henry and moved across to the sofa where with utter ruthlessness he displaced Sir Reggie from Margery’s side, took her hand and held it between both of his in a manner that made Henry want to punch him.

  “I hear there is to be an assembly in Faringdon tomorrow night, Lady Marguerite,” Lord Fane put in eagerly. “I do hope you will be gracing it with your presence.”

  Suddenly the room seemed to have woken from its rather sleepy pleasantries and was full of chatter and masculine laughter. Lord Stephen Kestrel, gracefully acceding to Bryson’s claim on Margery, had taken a chair beside Chessie, perhaps thinking he might get to the heiress through her companion. Or perhaps Margery was not his objective at all. Henry noted that Chessie blushed and smiled at Lord Stephen, and Lord Stephen in turn seemed extremely pleased to see her. Kestrel was a good man, Henry thought. He was glad he was not dangling after Margery because, unlike Bryson, there was nothing about him to object to at all.

  Lord Fane was hanging on the back of Margery’s chair and hanging on her every word. Rather cunningly he was claiming to be a distant cousin to her and therefore to have a prior claim on her attention.

  “I knew this would happen!” Lady Wardeaux hissed in Henry’s ear. “The gentlemen of the ton simply could not wait for Marguerite to return to London so they have come courting here. She will be wed in a trice! Henry, do something!”