Her wardrobe included dozens of morning gowns, day dresses, walking ensembles, riding habits, and evening gowns. The selection of tea gowns alone was endless. As the Duchess of Temberlay she would be expected to know the intricacies of fashion and good manners, even if her duke considered himself exempt.
And conversation . . . there would be questions about the wedding, about Temberlay, about her pedigree. How on earth was she to answer?
The footmen stationed outside her apartments swung the doors open as she approached, and she walked across the room to the window. She needed air, time to think of what she would say. She tugged at the sticky latch. Why wouldn’t it open?
“Do you plan to jump?”
Meg spun to find Temberlay seated in the wing chair by the fireplace, his legs crossed, his hands tented before his chest, his eyes as cold as ice. Her knees turned to water.
“I didn’t notice you there,” she managed.
He knew.
She put a hand to her throat. “I—” she began, but her explanation died on her lips as he got to his feet, and prowled silently across the carpet toward her with the lithe grace of a panther. She took an involuntary step backward.
He was still dressed for riding, hadn’t bothered to change. Today his coat was dark blue, his breeches buff, his top boots still coated with dust.
She was glad to see he didn’t have a riding crop.
Another step back and she was against the wall. He stopped and regarded her from a scant few feet away, his eyes gray chips of fury.
She forced herself to push away from the wall and stand on her own two feet, to look him in the eye. “I—” She cleared the frog from her throat. “I was hoping to see you today, Your Grace. I need to speak to you.”
“Ah, so it’s back to ‘Your Grace’ this morning, is it? Not Nicholas?” He slid an insolent gaze over her body. She curled her hands at her sides, resisted the urge to fold them across her breasts. “Why did you wish to see me? Do you wish to relive the delights of last night? I’ve a mind to do so myself.”
She felt hot blood fill her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze.
He came closer still. She could smell the wool of his coat, the slight tang of his horse, the now-familiar scent of his skin. He leaned in and blew softly in her ear. She flinched in surprise.
“There’s just one thing I’d like to know,” he whispered.
The timber of his voice vibrated through her, and she turned to meet his eyes, just inches from her own. “Yes?”
“When I come, and I feel inclined to cry out someone’s name, what in hell should I call you?”
Mortified, she would have turned away, but he grasped her chin, held her eyes with his own. “I can’t call you Rose, because you’re not Rose, are you? I hear that Rose is sweet, pretty, kind, and gentle. Her sister, however, is described as a redheaded hoyden.” He cast a disdainful glance over Meg’s careful coiffure. “That, I assume, would be you.”
The insult put steel into her spine. She pulled away, met his eyes boldly. “Marguerite,” she said bluntly.
He barked a laugh, spread his arms wide, and began to sing.
“Oh Maggie mine, with your sweet tits divine, you are a delight in the dark of the night, but oh what a sight in the light!”
Meg flushed to her hairline.
“There are more verses, if you’d like to hear them, each one cruder than the last,” he offered. She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me where my real bride is so we can end this charade.”
Meg’s anger flared like a torch. He wanted Rose now, after— “Sorry to disappoint, Your Grace, but I am your wife.”
He sneered. “I’ve sent for the contracts, the marriage license, even the Morning Post. I have no doubt my solicitors will prove otherwise. Within the week, this farce of a marriage will be annulled and all London will be laughing about the chit who tried to sneak into a duke’s bed to claim a fortune.”
Meg’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Do you think I have any less daring than you, my lady?”
Meg was far less certain of her position now. Shame heated her cheeks.
“And just where is your delectable blond sister? How intriguing to have the virginity of sisters!”
Meg raised her chin. “Rose ran away the day she was told she would have to marry you. She is sweet and gentle. Why would she want a man like you? You’re disgusting!”
“You weren’t so disgusted in bed last night, Maggie.”
“Don’t call me that!” she snapped.
“Why not? It suits you. Maggie has the sound of the gutter to it, perfect for a sneak thief and a harlot.”
“Get out,” she managed through gritted teeth. It came out as a croak instead of a roar.
“This is my house. You get out,” he shot back.
She blinked at him for a moment. She could feel tears stinging the back of her eyes, and she would not, could not, allow herself to cry in front of him. He had a right to be angry, but his insults stung, especially after he’d made her feel so—
She reminded herself she wasn’t Rose, wasn’t beautiful. What man wouldn’t be disappointed?
She turned on her heel and made for the door, opening it and slamming it behind her, ignoring the shocked footmen. Temberlay didn’t follow.
She hurried down the stairs, her head held high, unshed tears blurring her vision. She prayed Gardiner would not appear now.
She did not stop until she’d reached Bryant House, and the front door closed behind her. The heavy oak panels shut out the sound of London traffic, and sealed her inside the quiet sanctuary. She breathed in the familiar scent of beeswax polish and her mother’s perfume. Shame made her shiver, but she was safe.
For now.
Chapter 20
“Marguerite Lynton!” Nicholas growled as he looked at the marriage contract. The license also bore her name, as did the announcement in the Morning Post. Mr. Dodd also sent a lad running to the church to check the registry. She’d signed her own name in a clear, elegant hand.
He shoved the documents away, and rubbed his eyes. She’d duped him completely, and he’d been too much of a fool to even notice.
“Everything is quite in order, Your Grace. All legal and binding, though you may wish to amend your will now you’re a married man,” Dodd advised.
Nicholas rose. “Thank you, Dodd, we’ll discuss that another time.”
He stared at Marguerite’s signature. He was certain he had heard Sebastian call her Rose.
There was no way of getting around the truth. It was his own fault. He’d been too busy playing the rake, trying to frighten her away, to give a damn. He was the one who should have been frightened. She was a bold, seductive, clever little liar.
The door of the library opened and Granddame entered. “There you are, Nicholas. I wish to speak to you. Will you ring for tea?” She settled herself on the settee and regarded him like a cat with a prized bird hidden between her sharp little teeth. He ignored her request.
“How did you get that woman’s name into the marriage contract without my knowing?” He kept his tone calm.
She swallowed the canary whole. “I had it changed a week before the ceremony. It was quite plain, written in bold, black ink if you’d cared enough to look.”
“You might have told me.”
She waved her hand. “Oh pooh. You should be glad things turned out as they did. Hector Bryant insisted I offer for the eldest girl, but I knew Marguerite would be a better match as soon as I met her. She’ll make a fine duchess.” She rose and pulled the bell herself. “Did you know Rose Lynton ran away rather than face the prospect of being tied to you for the rest of her life? I merely waited to see what the Lyntons would do. Marguerite solved the problem beautifully. I like her—she has fire and spirit. Tea, Gardiner, and don’t be all day about it,” she ordered when he appeared, and waited for the door to close behind him. “She said you were a magnific
ent lover.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Come now. That expression doesn’t suit a man of your reputation. I’ve heard the stories about you. There’s no part of you left that could be shocked by anything I might say. You must have found her worth the effort. Men need not go to the trouble of seducing their wives.”
He raised an eyebrow at her frankness and decided to match it. “She was a virgin, Granddame. What did you expect me to do?”
She pursed her lips. “Given your behavior at the wedding yesterday, I expected that you’d do what most men would do. I am pleased in this case—only in this case—that you are not most men.”
“You mean I’m not David,” he said.
She smoothed a hand over the black taffeta mourning gown. “No, you are not. If not for you, your brother would still be alive, but you are duke in his place. Marguerite is your last chance to redeem yourself, to honor your brother and your title. It’s time to grow up.”
He glared at the ducal ring he wore. So she’d heard all the stories, and it didn’t matter one whit to her that none of them were true. She wanted to believe the worst. She had never asked about his years at war, or how he spent his days now he was home. She saw him as she wanted to, a scapegoat for David’s failings. His blood made him suitable for bearing an heir, but otherwise she had no love for him.
He stared at her marble profile. It would destroy her if she knew her beloved David was the gambler, the liar, the wastrel. He could never be so cruel—as cruel as she was—and tell her. Nor would he give her another child to misshape into another David. He’d rather have the unhappiness, the title—all of it—end with him.
Gardiner arrived with the tea tray.
“Would you ask Her Grace to join us?” his grandmother asked.
“I’m afraid she’s gone out, Your Grace. She left some time ago, on foot.” Gardiner calmly poured the tea, apparently unaware of the tension in the room. Granddame’s face reddened dangerously as she pinned Nicholas with a malevolent glare.
“That will be all, Gardiner.” She waited until he’d left the room. “Damn you, what did you say to her?”
“I told her she was an imposter and invited her to leave.”
For once Granddame looked stunned. “You did what? You fool! Go and get her back this instant!”
He crossed the room and poured himself a drink. “She was eager enough to go, and I don’t particularly want her back.”
Granddame gaped at him. “Think of the scandal! Your wife has walked out on you, left you the very morning after the wedding. What will people think?”
“I suppose they’ll think I’m like most men after all.”
She thumped her stick on the carpet, glaring at him, but she was powerless to control him now, to force him to do her bidding. Nor would he allow it any longer. He would have to call upon his wife at some point, and soon, but he needed time to decide what he would say. It would do her good to cool her heels with her mama for a while.
“Go and get her back!” Granddame ordered again.
Nicholas left the drink untouched and strode to the door. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said, and left the room.
When he saw his duplicitous little wife again, the upper hand would belong to him.
Chapter 21
Hector watched Flora circle the rug in his sitting room like a caged lioness. She was twisting yet another lace handkerchief to shreds between angry fingers. He cast a sad glance at the remnants of three others that already lay on the carpet. Between the wedding ceremony and this unexpected turn of events, Meg’s marriage to Temberlay had cost a fortune in Belgian lace handkerchiefs.
It had taken only a single look at Meg as she stood in the entry hall to send Flora into a torrent of tears to rival Noah’s flood. She had been alternately crying and cursing Temberlay all afternoon. He’d been watching the clock, expecting—hoping—Temberlay would arrive to fetch his wife. He hadn’t come, and Meg was certain he would not.
His goddaughter was calmly sipping tea and nibbling on raisin cake as if nothing at all was amiss, but there were two spots of vivid color in her cheeks, a sure sign that she was furious. She drew calm around her like a cloak when she was most upset. It came from the necessity of having to keep her mother and sisters from falling into hysterics when things went awry. Meg had arrived at the door flushed with anger that she tried her best to hide from her mother. She blushed every time Temberlay’s name was mentioned.
“Do sit down and have your tea, Mama. There’s nothing at all to worry about,” Meg soothed. “We can go home to Wycliffe tomorrow. I’d rather not be in London when the marriage is annulled. I have met no one at all, and no one has met me, so the scandal will blow over all the faster if I am not here.”
She set her cup back in the saucer with exquisite care, but Hector noticed that her hands shook slightly. Her control was cracking. Her jaw was set hard as she fought to control her emotions. He held his breath, wishing she would fly into a rage, or soak the room in a flood of tears to rival Flora’s. Either would do her a world of good.
“What exactly did Temberlay say?” he began, but Flora turned on her daughter.
“Go home? Annulment? We’ll be ruined!” Flora interrupted. Another handkerchief shrieked as she tore it in half.
The sodden lace landed on the toe of his boot, and Hector regarded it sadly. It would mean far more than ruin. The Lynton ladies would be back where they started, and Meg’s notoriety would make it difficult for her to find a job now. But this was hardly the time to bring that up. And there was the possibility that Meg might be with child. What then?
Flora was muttering insults upon the absent Temberlay as she paced. She was making him dizzy, and Hector caught her hand. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. We expected there’d be some anger—”
“He was most insulting,” Meg licked icing off her fingers. Her face flamed again.
How insulting?
“Even so, I think it best if we send a note telling Temberlay that you are here. We can put it all down to a case of bridal nerves.”
“I’m not in the least nervous,” Meg said sweetly. “There’s no need of a note. He’ll know exactly where I am. The footman who saw me leave will report to Gardiner, who will report to the dowager. Temberlay will no doubt have informed his solicitors by now where they can find me. Can I pour anyone more tea?”
Hector squeezed Flora’s hand to keep her from shrieking.
“We must hope it doesn’t come to that. Perhaps if an apology was made,” he suggested.
“Men like Temberlay never apologize!” Flora growled.
Hector looked at her patiently. “That’s not what I meant—” but Meg was already on her feet.
“Then why wait? Since I have nothing to pack, I see no reason why I cannot leave for Wycliffe immediately.”
Flora shook his arm. “Hector, do something!”
He blinked at her. “Such as? I could order my coachman to take Meg back to Hartley Place immediately, willing or not, or perhaps you’d prefer I find Temberlay and call him out.”
Flora looked at him thoughtfully. “On what charge?”
Irritation pooled between his eyes. Three short weeks ago, his home had been a sanctuary, blissfully free of feminine hysterics. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Flora, I meant it as a joke. It’s too late to do anything today. Meg can stay here tonight, and we’ll sort it out tomorrow.”
“Perhaps I don’t want it sorted out,” Meg grumbled, but he sent her a sharp look, and she subsided back into simmering silence.
Flora sat down, and looked at him. “I do hope you’re right, Hector.” Her hopeful expression suggested she thought he could fix anything, even this. The earnestness in her blue eyes almost made him believe it too.
He smiled reassuringly, praying it would deflect another noisy flood of tears. “Of course I am. Everything will be just fine.”
Even Meg looked half hopeful when he glanced at her, though she turned away quickly. Perhaps, with
a few apologies, and some delicate negotiations, things might work out after all.
Chapter 22
The next morning Flora sailed into the breakfast room waving a handful of paper. “Marguerite, this is dreadful! Look what I caught the maids giggling over in the kitchen.”
Meg looked. They were the latest scandal sheets. She braced herself and leafed through them. The first showed a caricature of Nicholas being dragged to the altar by a buxom bride—herself, presumably—while a crowd of London beauties sobbed in the background. Nicholas was watching them with lascivious eyes. “Fear not, ladies, I’ll be back to play tomorrow” read the caption.
The second scandal sheet showed Nicholas clad in the shocking green coat with a half-naked woman under each arm, while his bride cried in the background, and her mama, who looked surprisingly like Flora, chased him down the street with a cleaver in her hand.
“I’ve never handled an axe in my life!” Flora said. “And I would never wear such a hideous gown!”
Aside from those details, Meg felt her gut tighten at the cruelty and remarkable accuracy of the drawings. The artist portrayed her predicament almost as if he’d been present, like a fly on the wall.
Or a bedbug.
She ground her heel into the carpet as if the vermin was lurking under the table. Still, there was nothing she could do about any of it. She would go back to the country, and Temberlay would go back to his women.
Her mother was watching her, waiting for a reaction. Meg forced herself to pick up her fork and eat, as if it didn’t matter to her in the least. She swallowed something that might have been sawdust, since it only added to the lump in her throat. She forced a smile. “There’s no point in getting upset, since there’s nothing we can do about it,” she said soothingly.
She made herself glance casually at the last cheaply printed page on the table as she set her fork down.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. This caricature was cruel beyond measure. How could anyone have known to draw such a thing unless—?
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