“So it is. It’s a bit different with people than farm animals or stray dogs,” he intoned, as if the subject were boring rather than humiliating.
“Is it?”
“If one chooses for it to be,” he stated. “I made a promise to Mrs. Dove-Lyon and I think, as it pertains to our union, I should make you aware of it.”
Meg sipped her wine. “And what promise is that, my lord?”
“Leo,” he corrected. “It’s the only one of my many names that I can abide. People say Amberley and I start looking for my father.”
“Leo, then,” she acknowledged. She was fairly certain he was hedging on purpose just to set her on edge. “Your promise?”
“Fidelity, Meg… I vowed to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, that despite the rather unorthodox nature of our marriage and any agreements that might exist around it, for a period of one year, I would do everything in my power to be a good and faithful husband to you.”
Her heart began to do that funny staccato beat that only seemed to occur in his presence. Idly, she wondered if he could hear it, for it surely had never beat so loudly in such a quiet room. “I assume you gave her this promise before we negotiated our own bargain? The one where you would not demand your husbandly rights… at least not immediately.”
He smiled, but his eyes narrowed, his gaze brimming with a kind of sensual promise that even someone as hopelessly ignorant as she was would be unlikely to miss it. Then he raised his glass in a mocking salute and sipped his wine. “I did. But, Wife, I’m not especially concerned about how long it takes to get you into my bed. I’d rather focus my efforts on what will be required of me to keep you there.”
Meg simply blinked at him. If there was an appropriate response to such a statement, she had no notion of what it was. After a long moment of silence, she lifted her glass to her lips and took another sip of her wine.
“I see you’re not taking the bait,” he said.
“Is that what you’re doing? Baiting me with innuendo and double entendres when you know I’m hopelessly ignorant in such matters and only made uncomfortable by such statements?”
Leo leaned forward and began selecting choice bits of meat and cheese from the prepared serving platter along with fruits and a chunk of generously buttered bread. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Meg?”
“You are certainly attempting to,” she observed.
“Perhaps I am… but it’s only fair. You’ve made me quite uncomfortable since the moment I first set eyes on you. You are remarkably beautiful.”
“Passably pretty,” she corrected. “But wealthy enough for it not to matter.”
“Whoever told you that was either blind or stupid. I’m neither,” he stated simply. “No doubt when we are in society, and I am watching all the idiots of the ton fawn over you, you will have a chance to learn for yourself the truth of my words.”
“Why would that make you uncomfortable? Surely it must have been a relief to discover you would not be bound to someone so ugly you couldn’t bear the sight of her.”
“Desire, particularly when one cannot act upon it, presents its own sort of discomfort. Tell me, Meg, have you given thought to the sort of liberties I might ask of you until such time as you decide to become my wife in truth?”
“I haven’t,” she lied. It wasn’t a complete lie, after all. She didn’t know what liberties he would take, but she certainly had spent a good part of the day wondering about such things.
“I thought we might begin with a kiss,” he said. “It ought to be simple enough. Have you been kissed before?”
“Of course I have!” If one counted fumbling attempts by her repulsive cousin whenever he managed to pin her in the corridor. Despite the special care she’d taken, he’d succeeded on a few occasions. The last one, she’d managed to land her knee rather spectacularly in a very sensitive portion of his anatomy.
“By someone other than Neville?”
Her triumphant smirk faded. “Does it matter?”
He laughed outright at that question. “If there was any doubt as to your innocence, that question certainly puts the proverbial nail in the coffin! Yes, Margaret, there is quite a difference. And with your permission, I would demonstrate.”
He was asking permission. It was such an odd thing that she truly didn’t know what to make of it. “And if I decline?”
“Then I shall ask you again tomorrow night. And the night after, until you agree. I am both persistent and patient. And we have time,” he said.
Under those terms, it seemed almost petty to refuse. “I suppose it would be all right then,” she agreed hesitantly.
The words had no sooner escaped her than he was rising to his feet. Taking her hands, he pulled her to her feet as well, until they stood facing one another with scant inches separating them. Far taller than most women, Meg had to tilt her head back the tiniest bit to meet his gaze. And as soon as she did so, his lips descended on hers.
It wasn’t cruel and crushing. His hands didn’t grasp and pinch at her. Instead, they stroked gently over her arms even as his lips settled with a firm and gentle press over hers. Even as his arms encircled her, pulling her closer to him still, she knew that she could get away. That she could push him away if she chose to. But she did not. Curiosity raged within her, along with a sense of anticipation that she didn’t quite understand. It felt as if a hundred butterflies were diving and soaring in her stomach. Even her pulse fluttered wildly.
Despite her best intentions and several years’ experience avoiding such proximity to any man, Meg found herself leaning into the kiss, pressing closer to him. Of their own volition, her hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding to the nape of his neck. His dark hair was crisp against her fingers and she wanted to run her fingers through it, to test the texture of it, but something halted her, some sense of caution remained in her.
And then the kiss deepened. His tongue caressed the seam of her lips with gentle strokes that elicited a soft gasp from her. It might as well have been an invitation. Because then he swept inside, bold and conquering. He commanded and she relented. No. She surrendered. Entirely and without question, she gave herself up to the kiss. He’d said it would be different. He hadn’t told her that it would rock the very foundation of who she was, that it would make her question everything she thought she knew of herself. He hadn’t told her that a single kiss could incite so much temptation within her.
Never given to strong emotions or feelings, always circumspect, always polite and measured, Meg had thought herself incapable of feeling anything so passionately. Clearly, she had been very, very wrong. With every skilled and seductive sweep of his tongue against hers, with every stroke of his hands over her shoulders, her back, down to the curve of her waist, he proved that fact again and again. He kissed her until she was mindless, as if she were something precious or decadent that should be savored. With every movement of his lips on hers, with every gently seductive sweep of his tongue, she felt herself falling. And when he finally stopped, when he retreated from her with one more gentle nip at her lower lip, she shivered.
“And now you know,” he said, his own breathing ragged and his eyes glittering with something she couldn’t name.
“What do I know?” she asked, some of the challenge in her question abated by the trembling of her voice.
“What it means to be truly kissed… goodnight, Wife.”
Meg watched him turn and walk away, moving with a slow, measured gait toward his own chamber, his walking stick in hand. He didn’t appear to lean too heavily on it. She’d thought it an affectation, but now she was unsure.
Sinking onto the chair once more, she reached for the wine glass that had been placed there. Quickly, she downed the contents. When it failed to settle her nerves, she reached for the half-filled glass he’d left behind and drained it as well. Still reeling, she rose once more and retreated to her own chamber.
Chapter Four
Roger Snead looked at his son with contempt as he entered the breakfast room. Neville wasn’t simply hung
over. He was still bloody drunk. Sir William had given up the ghost the night before, breathing his last just before the clock struck twelve. He’d done so without ever revealing where he’d sent Margaret to. They were scrambling now. They could take possession of the house as he would be her guardian, but her absence could complicate matters greatly.
“We can’t bloody well find her if you’re too foxed to sit a horse!” Roger bellowed.
“Stop shouting. My head aches,” Neville said, sinking down into the chair and propping his booted feet on the table before him. “What do we care if she’s gone? We can find another girl with a fortune.”
“Yes, of course, we can!” Roger sneered, disgusted with the boy. “You’re known as a dissolute rogue throughout society. You didn’t even manage to finish university and you’ve squandered nearly everything we have on gaming and whores! What man, in his right mind, would ever permit you to court his daughter? Who would permit you in the same room with one of them?”
“One who has an ugly daughter,” Neville replied with a smirk.
Angry, Roger smacked his son’s booted feet from the table. “We’ve been siphoning funds from this estate for over a year and we’ve sold off some of the ridiculous artifacts that Ashby collected. If she marries someone else who has the sense to examine the books, we’ll both wind up in the gaol! We might be gentlemen, but we don’t have the protection of a title. We could face prison, transport or even hanging, you dolt.”
“So go fetch the bitch and I’ll marry her,” Neville groused.
“And if she’s already married? If the reason Ashby sent her away was to put her permanently out of our reach?” Roger demanded.
Neville sat up then. “You think someone else has had her first?”
Roger cursed. “I’m trying to save our arses and you’re obsessing over who gets to bed her first!”
“I like virgins,” Neville said. “The more terrified they are the better.”
“God, if I’d had another son to carry on the name, I’d have tossed you to the wolves myself,” Roger said. “Get yourself cleaned up. We’ve a funeral to plan. Margaret may have made off prior to his death, but she won’t miss the opportunity to weep over his rotting corpse. We’ve got to manage this situation.”
Neville rose and walked from the room, stopping long enough to kick the dog that lounged under the table waiting for scraps. Roger shook his head, disgusted by his progeny. If the law permitted it, he’d simply have wed the girl himself. Maybe then, he could have produced an heir worth something. But it was forbidden by law and so he was forced to depend on his miscreant son. If she’d managed to get herself married, they’d simply eliminate her newfound husband to make way for Neville. Once the deed was done and another generation of Sneads had been produced, then both Neville and Margaret would be easily disposed of. It was the only way to ensure Neville didn’t burn through another fortune.
Meg was in the small morning room, staring out the window to the back gardens, barren with winter. She’d intended to write letters to her few acquaintances and friends informing them of her hasty nuptials. The truth was, she lacked the ability to focus. What could she offer them, really, other than some vague reassurance that she’d wed a man of good family. In whose company she’d spent only a few hours. Who’s kissed her like he was the very devil luring her to the ways of sin. No, she most certainly could not tell her few friends that. A brief knock on the door offered a reprieve from the task. As she looked up, the butler entered, his expression pinched and tight.
“There is a caller for you, your ladyship. A Mrs. Dove-Lyon is here to see you,” he said, obviously disapproving.
“Show her in, please,” Meg insisted. Mrs. Dove-Lyon might not be fashionable. She might not even be respectable. But she was kind, and that meant the world to her.
A moment later, Mrs. Dove-Lyon entered and Meg knew instantly that she’d come bearing bad news. “He’s gone isn’t he?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon seated herself on one of the Heppelwhite chairs. “Indeed, my dear, he is. I received a letter brought by courier this morning. The very same courier I sent to inform him that your marriage had taken place. He knew, my dear, that you were settled and safe. My courier was with him, delivering the news, when he passed. He was a very, very good man.”
“He was,” Meg agreed. She didn’t weep. The truth was, she had no tears to shed. So many had been shed already. For the past year, she’d lived each day slowly saying goodbye to the man who’d been her father in every way that mattered. Of course, the tears would come eventually. They always did. But for the moment, she simply felt numb. “Thank you for coming by to inform me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all that you’ve done.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon rose then. “I won’t keep you, my dear, and force you to attend to social niceties under these horrid circumstances. I assume that you and Amberley shall be heading to the country immediately to attend the service?”
The door opened and her husband entered then. “Service?”
“Sir William passed away last night. A courier brought word and I wished to let the viscountess know before she heard the news from… a less sympathetic source,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
Leo’s expression shifted. It wasn’t precisely sympathy. It appeared almost secretive. “We shall leave as soon as the servants can get our bags packed.”
“I’ve no need to pack,” Meg said. “I left so many things behind when I came to London that it hardly makes any sense to simply cart the few things I have with me back again.”
“Right then,” Leo stated. “Half an hour. I’ll have the carriage readied.”
“What about Julia and Louisa?” Meg asked.
“They have a governess who will stay and tend them. Come, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and I’ll see you out.”
Alone once more, Meg crossed to the window and stared out at the barren gardens. Grief would come, but anger… it was already present. She’d left him alone, deserted him on his deathbed, and all because of the avarice and greed of Roger Snead. Just thinking his name enraged her so that her fists were clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.
“You’ll pay for all that you’ve cost me,” she murmured.
Nearly forty-five minutes later, they were in the carriage heading south out of the city toward Horsham and Sheridan Hall. They’d likely have to take a room for the night somewhere along the way due to their late start, but they would reach Sheridan Hall early the following day. But the unbearable silence in the carriage would make for a very long journey. Glancing across the small space, Leo noted the tension in her. It was clear that she was hurting, that she was struggling. And so he asked her a question that he wasn’t even certain he wished for her to answer.
“What was he like?” he asked not because he wished to know more about the man who had wrecked him, but because he wanted her to speak of anything. The silence only seemed to amplify her sadness until it filled the small space.
“My stepfather?” Meg asked softly.
“Yes,” Leo said. He hoped that the man had redeemed himself later in his life for the crimes he’d committed a decade earlier. “Since I’ll be attending his funeral, I feel I should know something about the man other than his name… and his ability to carry out a covert plan from his deathbed.”
A sad smile curved her lips. “He was devoted to his family. He loved my mother fiercely. I don’t even remember my own father, truthfully, but I never felt the lack. He accepted me as his own, loved me as fiercely as if I had been. And I do not think a day will dawn where I shall not miss him.”
There wasn’t, aside from his half-sisters who barely knew him thanks to his stepmother, a single person in his life whom he felt that way about. Oh, Armstrong was a damned good friend, but it wasn’t the same. If he were to die, no doubt his friends, few in number as they were, would mourn him for a bit and then blithely move on. The simple truth was that he had very little impact on the lives of the people around him. And that spoke to a very uncomforta
ble truth—for the majority of his life, he’d lived it solely for himself with little thought for others. He’d spent the last decade hating William Ashby for destroying his leg, for destroying his career, for leaving him with a permanent reminder of the most intense pain he’d ever experienced. It was impossible to reconcile the image she painted with the man he knew. It also stung to realize that William Ashby had made far better and impactful use of his time than Leo himself had.
“How old were you when he and your mother married?” Leo asked.
“Oh, goodness. I don’t really know… he’s there in my earliest memories. I didn’t even really learn that he wasn’t actually my father until I was a girl of about seven. One of the village girls teased me about it and I ran home crying,” she said, smiling sadly at the memory. “But he didn’t lie. He told me the whole truth of it. That my own father had died before I was born and that not long after, my stepfather met my mother and became utterly smitten with her.”
“When you were seven?” It didn’t add up. How could Ashby have been marrying her mother when he was cavorting through Italy buying antiques when he could and stealing them when he could not?
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon mentioned that Sir William was a well-traveled gentleman,” he lied.
Meg’s eyes widened. “If he was, it was long before he and my mother were married. He certainly never mentioned it to me. He was always very much a homebody. He disliked crowds and people, truthfully. He was very quiet… shouting and arguments would upset him terribly,” she said with a soft laugh. “I was forever at war with the local boys who insisted I couldn’t do what they did because I was a girl.”
A reluctant smile crept across his face. “I presume you mean that figuratively rather than literally.”
“On the contrary, I had blackened eyes and bloodied noses with the best of them when I was a wild hoyden running about the place… and then I’d rush home and wait for my scolding. More often than not, it was a gentle reproof and a great deal of laughter from Sir William. He always knew what to say.”
Fall of the Lyon: The Lyon's Den Page 4
