Fact one. He had made love to Margery. He had wanted her from the first moment he had seen her in Mrs. Tong’s brothel and his determination to resist her had simply not been strong enough. Instead, his self-control had snapped and his desire had led inexorably to this moment when he had taken what he wanted.
He could not understand this driving hunger for her. It was as inexplicable to him as it was compelling. He had tried damned hard to resist that need, but tonight he had failed. He had failed in his self-control and he had failed to act as a gentleman. He could continue to reproach himself for his actions, but it was done now. The important thing was to take responsibility and put matters right.
He reached for his shirt, pulling it absentmindedly over his head. Facts. He forced himself to concentrate, shutting down the emotion again.
Fact two. Making love to Margery had been rapturous, the most exquisitely pleasurable experience of his life. Margery had responded to him in ways he could not have imagined in his wildest fantasies. She had been as generous and open in giving herself as she was in all other aspects of her life.
Henry shifted uncomfortably, aware that the need he had for Margery still felt disturbingly powerful. In fact, it felt even more intense than it had before they had made love, as though the mere taste of what he wanted had reinforced his need. This was not a lust that had burned itself out in the taking. Instead, it had come back, more forceful, more dangerous.
Once again he felt the need to hold and possess. It was mystifying to him.
The third fact was that someone would know that Margery had been in his chamber that night. She had run from him stark naked, and even if there had been no obvious witnesses—and for all he knew, the corridors might have been packed with servants and family members—someone would have seen her because in a house like Templemore it was impossible to keep secrets. There would be rumors. Margery’s reputation would be compromised and it was entirely his fault.
He threw himself down on the bed, then stood up again almost immediately as Margery’s scent invaded his senses with its sweetness and warmth. He went back to the half-open window where the cool night air soothed his mind.
Fact four. Margery might have conceived his child tonight. It was unlikely but not impossible. He rested his hands on the cold stone of the window embrasure. There was only one way forward and he had known it from the start. He would marry Margery. There would be those who called him a fortune hunter but that was of no importance anymore. The only thing that mattered was that he put this situation right and bring order out of this chaos. Marriage was the only way.
The decision calmed him. It was the honorable course to take. It also felt like the right thing to do, right because it was meant to be. Such a notion was fanciful but he could not shift it, so instead he tried to ignore it. He told himself that if he married Margery he could make love to her again and slake this disturbing hunger he had for her. His body was already hardening again at the thought of having her in his bed. He wanted to feel her beneath him, to claim her and possess her. If he married her, she would be his before the whole world and his to claim in the hot darkness of the night, as well.
He walked over to the bowl of water on the chest and splashed water on his face again, trying to wash away the dark and complicated emotions he could still feel inside. He could not quite understand what disturbed him, for the issue was very simple. He had made a mistake; now, he was going to put it right. He had a duty to wed Margery. Duty, responsibility… The words had always comforted him in the past, devoid as they were of emotion and pain. But now they seemed to have lost their power.
It was as though he no longer quite believed in them.
* * *
MARGERY HAD NEVER previously thought of breakfast as an interminable meal, but on this particular morning it seemed to go on for several centuries. She had no appetite. The bread tasted of sawdust, the footmen seemed to be moving in excruciating slow motion and she could not concentrate on the conversation, even though it was of the most mundane type, centering on the weather.
She had wanted to cry off from breakfast that morning and hide like a coward in her room. She had not slept a wink and her feelings felt so bruised and battered that she was afraid it might show on her face.
Yet when she had finally forced herself from her bed and dressed in a bright blue muslin gown, she had glanced in the mirror and seen that she looked exactly the same as she did the day before. She was bemused at how she could feel so different inside, as though all her awareness and perceptions had changed, and yet to all intents and purposes, look no different.
Sex was a curious business. It had turned her heart and her mind inside out, it had taught her things about her body that she could never have believed. And it had left no outward sign that her life was changed.
She looked up from pushing a piece of bread roll about her plate and saw that Henry’s eyes were fixed on her. She felt a wayward quiver of awareness mixed with a flutter of fierce apprehension in her stomach. She knew Henry was only waiting for the right moment to get her alone and confront her, and she knew exactly what he was going to say.
He was going to propose marriage to her and she was going to refuse him.
The meal was over at last. Lady Wardeaux was chattering about taking the carriage and visiting Mrs. Bunn and Miss Fox in the village. Her words washed over Margery in a confused litany that made little sense. Lady Emily was laying out the tarot cards in the midst of the breakfast crumbs. She looked at the cards then up at Margery’s face with a strange, myopic expression. Margery blushed. It was ridiculous to believe that the cards knew what she had done and yet she felt guilty. Hot, guilty and embarrassed in case anyone had seen her running half-naked from Henry’s chamber the night before, and what a disaster it would be if they had. She did not want to think about that.
��Lady Marguerite.” Henry was waiting for her by the door. There was no avoiding him. “May we speak?”
“Certainly, Lord Wardeaux,” Margery said. Her voice sounded a little squeaky. She feigned a bright smile but suspected that it had not come out quite right when she saw Chessie looking at her with a mixture of puzzlement and concern.
“Shall we use the library?” she asked. “I am sure we may be undisturbed there.”
Now Lady Wardeaux was looking both intrigued and speculative. She opened her mouth to comment but Henry seized Margery’s arm and hustled her from the room, his imperative touch making it clear that he could not care less if they met in the library or the cowshed as long as they were undisturbed.
He opened the door for her and ushered her inside, closed the door and stood leaning back against it. He looked so stern and unyielding that Margery’s heart did a wayward skip. She was not sure that she could go through with this if Henry was going to be so terrifyingly autocratic. It quite unnerved her. She folded her hands in front of her and tried to look assured rather than defensive.
He crossed the room and took her hands in his, demolishing all her good intentions in one fell swoop. Her heart did a positive somersault.
“You are well?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Margery said. “Was it likely that I would be well this morning?”
Henry looked taken aback. Margery wondered whether the women he habitually slept with assured him the following morning that they felt absolutely marvelous. Probably they did, since they would all be sophisticated widows or elegant courtesans who would have been well able to cope with a night of unbridled passion uncomplicated by any emotion other than lust.
“Please do not misunderstand me,” she added, anxious to be scrupulously truthful. “It was not that I did not enjoy—” She stopped. Henry raised a brow. He was still holding her hands and she imagined he could feel her pulse racing against his fingers. “I mean,” she said desperately, “that it in some ways it was quite delightful—”
“Indeed?” Henry murmured.
“But not the type of activity that I should probably have been indulging i
n,” Margery finished in a rush.
“Probably not,” Henry agreed. A smile that was positively wicked curled his lips. “But I am relieved that you found it…ah…delightful was the word I think you used. That might predispose you to wish to do it again.”
“Which is nothing to the purpose,” Margery said hastily. She was starting to feel very hot. Matters were not working out at all as she had planned them. For a start she had not anticipated that simply seeing Henry alone and talking about what had happened between them would make her feel so stirred up, as though she wanted to grab him by his pristine neck cloth and kiss the life out of him. The fact that he looked so severe, so buttoned up, seemed only to make it worse because she knew now just what depths of passion and decidedly improper behavior lurked beneath that so-proper exterior. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Concentrate.
“I wanted to ask you…” Henry said.
Oh, dear, here it comes.
Margery opened her eyes. Henry paused, looking at her. For a moment she thought he looked nervous. She had never seen him look nervous once in the whole of their acquaintance. It made her feel ridiculously tender toward him and that, of course, was dangerous because she loved him and she had to remember that he most certainly did not love her.
“I would like to ask for your hand in marriage, Lady Marguerite,” Henry said, very formally. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
It was impossible not to feel affected by that. It was tempting, so very tempting. If he had loved her, Margery would not have hesitated for a second. But he did not. Suddenly she remembered the coolness in his eyes the previous night and the complete absence of emotion. She almost shivered. She could see herself, a vision in her wedding gown, floating up the aisle on her grandfather’s arm and Henry turning to watch her with the same detached indifference. It chilled her to the soul.
It was also enough to strengthen her resolve, because she had so much love to give but she would wither and die if she received nothing in return. Not even the hottest lust could compensate for the lack of love. She might have little worldly experience, but that she knew.
“Thank you, Lord Wardeaux,” Margery said. “I am honored by your proposal but I fear I must decline.”
She saw the stupefaction in Henry’s eyes and realized that he had not for a moment imagined that she might refuse him. Under other circumstances it might have been amusing to see his confidence take such a knock. Now, though, she simply felt miserable. She saw him master his surprise, saw the way that he controlled his immediate reaction, which had been to demand rather than request an explanation. When he spoke his tone was still easy and smooth but she could feel the tension beneath it.
“Might I enquire as to why?”
“I have no plans to wed.”
Henry raised his brows in patent disbelief. “Only last week you were speaking of marrying Reggie Radnor.”
“That was different.”
“I should hope so. You have not slept with him.”
Margery blushed. “That is none of your affair.”
Henry stepped close to her. “On the contrary,” he said. “It is entirely my affair. Do you think that I do not know you were a virgin?” Then, as she took a breath, he leaned closer. His cheek brushed hers, his fingers touched the nape of her neck, and the warmth of his touch and the scent of his skin assailed her simultaneously. She felt dizzy with longing.
“Please do not tell me,” he said, very softly, “that I was not the first.”
Her face flaming, Margery backed away. “Whether you were the first or the tenth is not the material point, Lord Wardeaux. I do not wish to wed you.”
There was a silence. It felt uncomfortable. Margery gritted her teeth and waited it out. It was foreign to her nature to keep quiet but somehow she managed it. She wanted love. She needed love. She could not compromise on something so huge and important. Even so, it hurt to refuse him. It hurt more than she had ever imagined.
“A gently bred young woman,” Henry said, an edge to his voice now, “does not give herself to a man as you did with me last night and then refuse to marry him, unless she has very good reason. So I ask again—” His tone hardened further still. “Why are you refusing me?”
Margery clutched at the straw offered. “I am not a gently bred woman,” she said quickly. “I do not behave as a lady would. I do not see marriage as a necessity.”
This was getting more and more difficult. She could see that he did not believe her and he had every reason not to do so. In London she had told him point blank that she was a virgin and would never accept carte blanche. He knew she was not wanton; she had had every opportunity to make a different life for herself through selling her body and had never chosen to do so.
His eyes searched her face and it felt like a physical touch.
“That’s nonsense and you know it,” Henry said. “You are in every way a lady. Don’t demean yourself so.”
Tears prickled Margery’s eyes. He sounded so angry, as though he would confront anyone who dared to suggest she was anything less than a gentlewoman.
He was waiting for her to say something else, to explain. She could feel his frustration and his bafflement. She could not bear it. She turned away, and to her inexpressible relief Henry moved away, too, but only as far as the rug before the hearth where he paced as though he would wear a path in it.
“You have thought of the scandal, I assume,” he said, after a moment. “It is inevitable that someone would have seen you leave my rooms last night. Your reputation is ruined.”
Margery felt a flicker of fear deep down. She had thought of that in the long hours of the night. Templemore’s endless dark corridors could contain any number of gossiping servants. She knew exactly what it was like to live and work in a house like this. There were no secrets.
“That’s impossible,” she said, denying facts she knew to be true since she would rather not accept them. “There was no one about. No one saw me.”
Henry shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “You, of all people, should know that servants see everything. Someone will know. The scandal of it would kill your grandfather for sure.”
“That’s blackmail!” Margery said.
Henry shrugged. “Call it what you will. It is fact.”
Margery stared at him. “I won’t do it,” she said stubbornly. “I will not marry you.” She could see his reasoning all too plainly and it lit her with despair. He saw their situation—he saw her—as his responsibility. He had to protect her, do his duty, because he had made such a profound mistake in taking her virginity. He was a man of honor and that very fact made her heart turn over with misery because she admired him for his principles. They made her regret all the more fiercely that he could not love her, because to have the love of a man like that would be wonderful.
Henry came back to her side in one swift stride. He pulled her around to look at him. She sensed the puzzlement in him and the frustration.
“I do not understand why you are refusing me.”
The pain twisted in Margery. She was refusing him because she loved him and because without his love the match was so unequal that she could not bear it. She remembered Chessie saying once that she had tried to change Fitz after marriage and tried to make him love her, to no avail. She remembered her mother, another Templemore woman, who had loved unwisely and lost everything. Her stomach dropped with desolation.
“Last night,” Henry said. “You wanted me then. You responded to me then.” His lips brushed her cheek, touched the corner of her mouth. It was instantly disarming. She could feel her body weakening and melting into warmth. She felt a fierce longing for his touch, his kiss, and jerked herself away. She could not bear for Henry to seduce her into agreement. She was all too likely to surrender, and embarrassingly quickly.
“Lust,” she said. She forced the word out between dry lips. “You said it yourself before, my lord. We have a certain attraction to one another. Last night—
” She swallowed hard. “It was most enjoyable, but scarcely sufficient to base a life upon. So…” She forced another shrug, making certain that she was sounding as hard and uncaring as she could. “It is best not to compound our mistake with the greater one of marriage.”
She withdrew her hands from his and turned away from him. The distance yawned between then and with every word she pushed him farther away.
“I understand that you have business at Wardeaux,” she said. “We have kept you from it for far too long. And as my grandfather plans our return to London in a few days, I think we shall not see much of each other.”
For a moment she thought Henry was going to refuse to accept his dismissal. Her body was clenched tight with the tension as she waited. The ticking of the ugly clock on the mantel filled her ears as she waited for him to go, waited for him to leave her.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. Margery held her breath. She wanted to hear him to say that he loved her but she knew he would not. He would not say it because it was not true.
“Send for me if you need me,” Henry said. “I will always come to you.” And although they had not been the words Margery had wanted to hear, she felt the tears close her throat. The door shut behind him. He had gone. She did not know why she wanted to cry. She had done the right thing. She knew it. But it did not seem to help.
* * *
HENRY RODE SO HARD it took only a couple of hours to reach Wardeaux. His luggage, his valet, everything else he had left in the dust to follow when they could. He wanted to be alone. He would have been filthy company anyway. He was angry and frustrated. It had never once occurred to him that Margery would refuse his suit and he was not prepared to accept her decision.
By now, the sun was up and the air was warm. The old Elizabethan manor of Wardeaux Court looked timeless and peaceful and very much like home, nestled in the curve of the river, its mullioned windows reflecting the light. Henry left Diabolo in his stall with a bag of oats and a trough of water, and walked down to the river where it ran narrow and deep through the water meadows, and all the time he was thinking of Margery.
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