by Royal, Emily
Alderley’s eyes darkened at her flash of defiance. But if she were to be sold as chattel by virtue of being his daughter, then the devil take him if he expected her to address him by his title.
Wilkes released her, and she slumped back in her seat as the carriage swayed to and fro en route to the chapel.
For the past week, she’d been living in a cottage on the Alderley estate, hidden from the main house. Wilkes attended her daily. Her ‘personal footman,’ Alderley had described him. In reality, he was her gaoler, threatening her with punishment if she tried to flee—a punishment he’d carried out with relish.
Instinctively she pulled her sleeve down. The delicate lace cuffs on her bridal gown almost obscured the bruise on her wrist.
Alderley had made it plain that he’d have Mrs. Preston’s school burned to the ground if she defied him.
The carriage halted outside the chapel. Wilkes climbed out, pulling her with him, and led her to the chapel door.
“Give her to me, Wilkes,” Alderley said. “Remain by the door in case of trouble.”
He glanced at Meggie, and she lowered her gaze. What was the point in causing more trouble? It would only earn her another bruise.
Alderley took her wrist and squeezed the bones together.
“Remember what I said,” he hissed.
She nodded, and they set off down the aisle.
A lone woman sat in the front pew, dressed in a crimson gown, and matching wide-brimmed hat. It must be Meggie’s half-sister, the honorable Elizabeth. She glanced over her shoulder, a sneer on her face, then resumed her attention on the front of the chapel.
Four men stood at the end of the aisle, including the vicar, holding an open bible in his hand. Meggie recognized the man to his left as Alderley’s steward. The other two had their backs to her. As Alderley pulled her along, her feet tripping as she tried to keep up, one of them turned and looked at her.
He had an open, expressive face, framed with light blonde hair. Soft, brown eyes crinkled into a warm smile, and she could have wept with relief. Her fears had been unfounded. Friendly, welcoming, and kind—before her stood a man with whom she had a chance at happiness.
He nudged his companion, who turned and stared at her.
The second man stood half a head taller. Thick, dark hair framed angular features. Dark brows formed a slash across his face. His mouth, full and sensual, creased into a scowl. Cold blue eyes fixed on her, anger in their expression. She shivered as if all warmth had been sucked out of the air.
He looked as if he lived in perpetual shadow as if a thundercloud hung continually above him.
In short, he looked the very embodiment of the devil.
A cold slab of ice solidified in her stomach, and she caught her breath and stopped.
Alderley tightened his grip.
“Do not disgrace me, girl.”
The devil’s eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed into a frown. His jaw gave a tic as if he clenched his teeth. Meggie bit her lip to control her fear and resumed walking. He continued to stare at her, and her skin tingled as if his gaze burned. But she swallowed her concern and focused her attention on his companion. Surely, he was the groom. The devil did not seem the type of man who’d be bested in a game of cards.
Or in anything.
The angel made no move.
The vicar coughed, and the angel nodded and stepped aside, leaving her alone, standing beside the devil.
Dear god!
She had to crane her neck to see him. He had resumed his original position, body stiff, staring over the vicar’s head, as if the whole ceremony bored him.
But he was not bored. His body vibrated with anger—shoulders stiff, arms by his sides, hands fisted.
She didn’t know what was more frightening—the fury he harbored or his ability to suppress it almost to invisibility.
And in a matter of moments, she would belong to him.
Chapter Five
As the vicar droned on, Dexter glanced at his wife.
Such a miserable-looking creature! What the devil had she to complain about? She was being lifted from poverty and illegitimacy.
He was the one with cause to be miserable.
But it wasn’t her fault. She was just a pawn in Alderley’s game, to best his enemy and win back his fortune.
Curse it! Dexter had been so diligent at feigning boredom that he’d missed most of what had been said, including his bride’s name.
She was speaking now. Her voice was softer than he’d expected—unlike the throaty rasps of the women in the village he’d grown up in.
The vicar resumed his speech, and Dexter glanced at her. She seemed to have withdrawn into herself as if she were trying to disappear. Were she capable of that, Dexter’s problems would be solved, and he could return to London with Oliver and enjoy a night’s hard drinking.
She clutched the posy in front of her, knuckles white as her fingers curled round the stems. Not the expensive hothouse orchids Elizabeth had always demanded, but a simple array of wildflowers and grasses procured from a hedgerow. She lifted her hand and caressed one of the blooms, her fingertips tracing an outline of one of the petals.
An almost unnoticeable gesture, but one which conveyed tenderness. Had Dexter possessed a heart, the simple act might have touched it.
But he didn’t. Hearts were for weaklings.
She lowered her hand again, and he glimpsed a darkening bruise on her wrist, not entirely concealed by the lace of her cuff. He cleared his throat, and her body stiffened. She moved the posy to hide the mark.
The chapel fell silent, and then the vicar closed his bible with a snap.
“Are we done?” Dexter asked.
The vicar nodded.
“Thank God. Then we can leave.”
He reached for his bride’s hand, then drew back, remembering the bruise.
“Follow me,” he growled.
He retraced his steps along the aisle, not bothering to look back. Soft footsteps followed him. At least she understood her vow of obedience. And the greater the distance he put between himself and the Alderleys, the better. With luck, he need never see Elizabeth or her father again.
Alderley stepped out of his pew and blocked Dexter’s path.
“Where are you going, Hart?” he asked.
“I’m anxious to return to London.”
“You must grace us with your presence at the hall,” Alderley replied, “for the wedding breakfast. My home is at your disposal—at least, for the next hour.”
“For what purpose?”
“Honor,” Alderley said. He lowered his voice. “Did you not demand it of me as part of our arrangement? I would not have you claim that I broke my word.”
“You sound reluctant, Father-in-law,” Dexter said.
Alderley flinched at the address, and Dexter smiled inwardly at the man’s discomfort. Alderley may have foisted his by-blow on him, but he’d forever suffer the indignation of their being related by marriage.
“Say what you like of me, Hart,” Alderley said, “but let it not be said that I was ungracious in victory.”
“Victory?”
Alderley’s lips thinned into a spiteful smile. “We both know you’ve secured the poor end of the bargain.”
Dexter’s bride said nothing. How could she display such stoicism? Or, perhaps, she’d weathered enough insults at Alderley’s hands to be rendered immune. Her fingers curled round her posy, and she moved closer to Dexter until their bodies almost touched.
He caught his breath at the onset of an instinctive need to protect her. What had she suffered at Alderley’s hands, that she sought comfort from a stranger—the man she had looked at with such fear in her eyes?
But the last thing he wanted was a weak, needy woman clinging to his coattails.
He glanced toward Oliver, who frowned, his eyes conveying disapproval. His bride—what the devil was her name?—would have been better off with Oliver, for he had something Dexter did not possess.
A heart.
But it was too late, now.
“Very well, Alderley,” he said. “I would be delighted to accept your invitation.”
***
The walls of the drawing room were smothered with portraits. Everywhere Meggie looked, a grim face stared back at her with haughty disapproval. Alderley’s ancestors.
And hers. The blood of these reptiles ran through her veins.
Reptiles…
She giggled to herself, drained her glass, and set it aside. Almost immediately, a footman was upon her, sweeping aside the glass with a disapproving glare.
She pulled a face, then took a full glass from his tray and crossed the floor to inspect the ugliest of the portraits. A wrinkled face filled the frame, his skin a gray pallor, reminiscent of the lizards in Mrs. Preston’s zoological textbooks. Pale eyes with yellowing whites stared down at her. The wrinkles around the nose gave the impression as if a bad smell lingered in the room. She read the inscription, carved into a metal plate at the base of the portrait.
Phineas Ignatius, fifteenth Viscount Alderley.
Meggie’s great grandfather. Perhaps he turned in his grave at the notion of his grandson’s bastard staining the shades of Alderley Hall.
His lips had a bluish tinge, and to Meggie, it looked as if at any moment, a long reptilian tongue would leap out and snatch a fly.
And Meggie was that fly—viewed by the rest of the party as nothing more than a minor irritation. Not even her new husband wanted anything to do with her. After he’d steered her into Alderley Hall, a possessive hand on the small of her back, he’d removed his hand as if she might burn him, then abandoned her to talk to the vicar.
She took a mouthful of champagne. The bubbles burst on her tongue, warming her throat and softening her senses. Though she struggled to focus, the ache in her wrist and heart lessened with each glass until she felt the uncontrollable urge to laugh and cry at the same time.
“Enjoying the champagne?” a female voice spoke in clear-cut tones.
Up close, the honorable Elizabeth was even more elegant. Her hair shone with a rich luster and had been fashioned into a mass of elegant curls that must have taken her maid hours to perfect.
In comparison, Meggie was a grubby urchin.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and lowered her gaze to the half-empty glass in Meggie’s hand.
“Well? Do you have nothing to say?”
Meggie dipped into a curtsey, and Elizabeth gave her a cold smile. “At least you recognize our difference in rank,” she said. “Let me give you a little friendly advice. When a young woman has supped on gin and ditchwater all her life, it’s most unseemly to demonstrate the kind of enthusiasm for quality champagne that can only be equaled by a toper.”
Meggie shook her head. What was wrong with these people that they spoke in riddles all the time? Was unintelligible speech a trait of the upper classes?
From the cold smile twisting on Elizabeth’s lips, it was plain that she had issued an insult.
“Finest quality?” Meggie said. “I’m sure piss tastes better.”
Elizabeth’s lips thinned, and her eyes hardened, their pale blue the color of ice.
“Let me give you some more advice, my dear,” she said, lowering her voice. “As a friend, I feel it only kind to warn you. Prepare yourself for a painful introduction to the marriage bed.”
Meggie’s hand shook. “A-a what?”
Elizabeth smiled. “He’s like a bull,” she said. “A bride will bleed like a pig on her wedding night, and you’ll be no exception—assuming, of course, that he can stomach the notion of touching you.”
At that moment, Alderley’s steward approached them to issue his congratulations. Elizabeth gave him a haughty smile, waiting until he was out of earshot before resuming.
“My Dexter has a voracious appetite,” she continued. “But marriage is not as lucrative an enterprise as whoring, my dear. Dexter is a miser when it comes to parting with his cash. And a wife is expected to spread her legs for free.”
Meggie drew in a sharp breath and lifted her glass, but Elizabeth snatched it away.
“I think you’ve had enough of that.”
“Who are you to say whether I’ve had too much?” Meggie asked. “You’re…”
“I’m someone far above you in station,” Elizabeth interrupted, her words coming out in a snarl. “And I’ll be there to service Dexter when he tires of you.”
“Elizabeth!” a voice spoke sharply.
Meggie turned and came face to face with Alderley.
“Papa,” Elizabeth said, her cultured tone of voice returning. “I was just wishing my sister all the happiness she deserves.”
“Quite so,” he said. “But you mustn’t neglect the other guests.” He frowned at Meggie as if he believed her mere presence would taint Elizabeth.
Meggie drained her glass and curtseyed. “Let me take my leave instead.”
Before they could respond, she moved away, pausing only to place her empty glass on a tray brandished by the footman who’d glared at her before. She set it down with a clang and gave him a sweet smile when he flinched.
Let him flinch! Let them all cringe at her presence! She had never felt so bold. But her boldness came hand in hand with dizziness. The room had grown overly hot, and she moved toward the window where, at least, the air was cooler.
Nausea rippling through her, she focused her attention on the view from the window. But the manicured lawn surrounded by hedges clipped into ugly, angular shapes only served to emphasize her inferiority.
“Mrs. Hart,” a male voice said.
Ignoring it, she watched a pheasant stride across the lawn, trailing a long tail of brown feathers, the iridescence on its glossy blue-green head resembling an exotic jewel. A large dog bounded onto the lawn, and the bird launched itself off the ground with a series of squawks and flapping of wings.
If only Meggie could do the same and launch her ungainly, inelegant person through this very window and away from these people.
A hand touched her elbow, and she jumped and gave a low cry.
It was the angel from the chapel.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Mrs. Hart.
No longer was she Meggie, or even Margaret Alder. She had lost her name as well as her freedom. She was now defined by the man who owned her, Dexter Hart.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I find it strange to find myself…” she gestured to herself, “…to find…”
“…that you must be addressed by a name which, until a sennight ago, you’d never heard of?”
Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “N-no, of course not.”
“There’s no need for apologies,” he said. A gentle hand touched her arm, and he smiled. “Those of us able to direct our lives often fail to appreciate that others are not so fortunate. I understand the fear you must feel.”
“I’m not afraid, sir.”
He smiled, and she blushed. His direct gaze seemed to penetrate her thoughts and recognize the lie. “Then you’re braver than most, in having conquered it.”
He gave a deep bow and clicked his heels together. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “Oliver Peyton, at your service.”
She held out her hand. “Mr. Peyton.”
He took it and lifted it to his lips. “A pleasure, madam,” he said. “May I take the liberty of giving you some advice regarding the state of fear?”
“Please do.”
“Knowledge,” he said, “is the most effective cure for fear.”
“I have knowledge enough,” she said. “Just because I’m beneath everyone here, including the footmen, doesn’t mean I lack education.”
He smiled. “Intelligence and knowledge don’t always walk hand in hand,” he said. “An excellent Latin scholar may know nothing of modern languages. He—or she—may quake with fear when faced with the French tongue, lest his ignorance of it is exposed to the world.”
“And
on what topic do you consider me lacking in knowledge?”
“On my friend.” He nodded toward the groom, who was deep in conversation with Alderley, while Elizabeth watched from a distance, a dark scowl on her face.
“Let me increase your level of knowledge as far as I can,” Mr. Peyton continued. “My friend listens more than he speaks. He lives in a difficult world and has to be hard to thrive within it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “Do you wish to make me afraid?”
“Quite the opposite,” he replied. “Don’t take much notice of his demeanor. He may be uncompromising, but he’s not a cruel man. He’s straight and true, and I know of none fairer, nor as honorable.”
“And do fairness and honor lead to happiness?” she asked, her husband’s words about victory and bargains ringing in her head. “A quest for fairness is little more than a thirst for retribution. Honor is no better, for it’s a concept used to justify vengeance.”
He smiled. “You’re not what I imagined you to be, Mrs. Hart.”
“What did you imagine?” Meggie asked, her temples throbbing with the onset of a headache. “A guttersnipe? Or a harlot?”
The conversation stopped, and she looked round to see her new husband staring directly at her, his expression dark. Behind him, Elizabeth watched her, a cold smile on her thin lips.
Mr. Peyton was wrong. No amount of knowledge would conquer her fear. Her husband loathed her and desired another.
Mr. Peyton touched her arm in a gentle gesture. “Are you well, Mrs. Hart?”
“I have a headache.”
“Perhaps you indulged in a little too much champagne,” he said. “I loathe the stuff. Overpriced, harsh on the palate, and guaranteed to elicit the most shocking pains behind the eyes. But society raves over it. By convincing each other of its prestige, viscounts and earls perpetuate the myth that only the best people drink the best champagne. The wine merchants must be laughing at their stupidity—laughing as they drive to their banks with their profits.”
“Banks such as my husband’s?”
He smiled. “The very same.”
She continued to watch as Elizabeth approached the groom and curled her fingers round his arm.
“Pay no attention to her,” Mr. Peyton said.
