by Royal, Emily
“You’ll be better off in the country,” he continued. “You’re not suited to life in London.”
“I understand.”
She continued to eat, but her stricken expression threatened to melt his heart.
“You’ll enjoy the trappings of a wealthy wife if you have concerns in that quarter,” he said.
She stopped eating and pushed her plate away.
“You can learn the arts of being a lady in relative peace,” he said. “With no fear of ridicule.”
She set her mouth in a firm line.
“In fact, you’re at liberty to do everything you want,” he said. “On one condition.”
“Which is?” She spoke so softly, he almost believed he’d imagined it.
“You must keep yourself tidy,” he said.
“As in clean and presentable?”
“No…” he hesitated.
Damn it — naïve little creature! Why hadn’t some other woman explained it to her? Why did he have to speak of such matters?
“After what I discovered last night…in your chamber. About you…”
Understanding flooded her expression, and she sat back and folded her arms, her cheeks flaming.
“I would hear your promise,” he said.
“I’ve already said I’ll stand by my vows,” she replied. “Why demand I repeat what I’ve already said?”
“You cannot deny that you came to the marriage bed impure.”
“Can you deny any previous liaisons?” she asked. “With Elizabeth, perhaps? We should be judged on equal terms.”
“Men and women are judged differently,” he said. “And as for Elizabeth, whatever you think of her, she understands enough of the rules of society to know that she must remain—intact—before she marries. She is a maiden, still.”
“How do you know?”
He pushed his plate aside. “That’s not a subject on which a respectable married woman should speak.”
He picked up his napkin and dabbed the corners of his mouth, then rose from his seat.
“I have some business to tend to in my study,” he said, “and I wish not to be disturbed. But you are at liberty to explore the rest of the house if you so wish.”
Before she could respond, he gave her a stiff bow and left the room.
***
Meggie turned the page, her gaze following the lines of verse. She’d never read Byron before. Some of the phrases made her heart race. Such passion!
There had been so few books at Mrs. Preston’s school that any new book was a treasure.
And her husband had a library full of them. She closed the book and picked up another, tracing the gold lettering on the spine.
Mo Chridhe
A collection of verse
by
Delilah Hart.
Delilah Hart. It must be one of her husband’s sisters. Meggie smiled at the glimmer of hope. If he permitted his sister to employ her intellect, then he must believe a woman capable of more than simply submitting to the man who ruled her.
She heard a knock on the main doors.
Not another visitor! That was the fifth today. Why were so many people curious to see her? Was she a prize exhibit to be paraded along the street so that they could look down their nose at her?
Clutching the book, Meggie crossed the floor and peered out of the window.
A woman stood on the doorstep. Elegantly dressed in a purple coat with matching bonnet, she spoke to the footman, cradling a bundle of fur in her arms. She was small, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Meggie, but bore an air of elegance that gave her stature.
The woman lifted her gaze to the window. Meggie shrank behind the curtain, her heart racing with shame and embarrassment. Had she seen her? The voices stopped, and the door slammed. Meggie moved into the window and looked out again. The woman was walking away, but before she reached the end of the street, she stopped and turned.
She’d known Meggie was there.
Shortly after, the footman entered the parlor, brandishing a card on a silver tray.
“You had a visitor, ma’am,” he said, bowing. “I said you were not at home.”
“Thank you, Charles.”
She picked up the card and read the inscription.
Mrs. Harold Pelham.
The name was familiar. Meggie’s husband had mentioned a Mr. Pelham as one of his business associates. No doubt, the man’s wife wished to glimpse the unsuitable woman her husband’s banker had married.
Charles gave another bow and left. Meggie set the book aside. Heartfelt poetry may stir the emotions, but it threatened to exacerbate her melancholy. A historical volume full of dry, soulless facts was to be preferred. Or maybe a copy of Dr. Johnson’s dictionary to increase her vocabulary. She slipped out of the parlor and made her way to the library.
Voices came from within. Her husband and Mr. Peyton, the kind man from the wedding breakfast.
“Hart, you work too hard,” Peyton said. “Why don’t you take a vacation with your bride? The bank would be in safe hands with me.”
“I know that,” came the response, “but it’s best if my wife is settled in Hampshire as soon as possible.”
“Much as I loathe to admit it, I agree with you,” Peyton said. “It’s your move.”
“I know.” Meggie detected irritation in her husband’s voice. “Are you so eager to conclude the game?”
“Not particularly,” Mr. Peyton replied. “Damn it! It seems as if you’ve beaten me again.”
“You concede too easily, Peyton. That’s why so few businessmen are successful. They’re too willing to accept defeat.”
“Whereas you fight until the end?”
“Perhaps.”
“Will you apply the same principle to your marriage?” Mr. Peyton asked. “Or have you conceded defeat already?”
“I’ll not concede defeat until it’s an insurmountable certainty.”
The two men paused, then Peyton spoke once more. “Do you intend to resume your liaison with the honorable Elizabeth once your wife’s tucked away in Hampshire?”
“I hardly think that’s any of your business.”
“Oh, but it is. Any man with your voracious appetite would starve if deprived of bedsport for too long. And you’ll not want for partners. Lady Cavenham was asking after your health last night.”
“Perhaps she’s concerned I’ll catch cold.”
Mr. Peyton laughed. “Hardly! An inquiry about one’s health is her calling card, saying she’s available. What I cannot understand is how, after one meeting, she believes you can service her better than I.”
“You’re welcome to her.”
“How are you so skilled in the bedroom?” Mr. Peyton asked.
“Women are easy to read.”
“I find them an enigma, myself. For example, how can you tell whether a woman will welcome your attention?”
“By her reaction, Peyton.” Meggie’s skin tightened as her husband deepened his voice. Her blood warmed at the memory of his whispered words when he’d caressed her so intimately last night.
“A woman will speak with her body if she’s ready,” he said. “Her skin will flush, a soft pink to advertise the soft pinkness elsewhere. Her lips will part, just a little as if to welcome you in. When her thighs part just as eagerly, then she’s ready.”
“And then?” Peyton’s voice came out in a strain.
“Then, you listen. Each sigh, each little mewl, will speak of her need. When her body cries for you—then, and only then—you take her.”
Meggie’s pulse throbbed deep inside with a wicked heat. She lifted her hands to her throat, where her skin was hot and flushed, just as her husband had described.
“What then?” Peyton asked.
“Then, if you have any sense, you leave. You return to your bed and leave her wanting.”
“You’re serious?”
“Perfectly. For a woman, nothing will surpass the first time you bed her. The memory of it will remain with her and be
come the bit and bridle with which you can control her.”
Her husband’s cold words doused Meggie’s desire, and she stepped back, ashamed at her body’s reaction, both last night and now.
“Perhaps you should teach me,” Peyton said.
“So you can conquer Lady Cavenham?” Meggie’s husband let out a laugh. “Nothing will dampen a woman’s desire more than the knowledge that her lover is a greenhorn.”
“And you’re more experienced than most.”
“Only through experience can one gain sufficient prowess. Both in business—and the art of seduction—it’s a matter of knowing what your prospective partner desires the most and giving them enough of a taste to leave them craving more. With business, the needs vary a little, but with seduction—women all want the same thing.”
“And what about the seducer?” Mr. Peyton asked. “Is he in danger of being ensnared himself?”
“A successful businessman is not hampered by emotions. To succeed at seduction, one must adopt the same principle.”
“What about love?”
“A man who falls in love is a fool.”
“On that note, I think I’ll be going,” Peyton said. Meggie heard a chair scrape, and she darted back into the parlor.
Footsteps passed by as her husband saw Mr. Peyton out. She heard mumbled voices, then the footsteps faded into the distance.
She crept out and ventured toward the library. It was empty. A decanter stood on the edge of the desk, next to two empty glasses.
A chessboard had been set up on the desk, the pieces scattered about as if a game was in progress. She studied the pieces. White had the advantage, with two castles and a bishop surrounding the black king. With a single move, white would checkmate black by bringing the queen into play.
She picked up the white queen and studied it. Carved from wood, the piece was more functional than decorative, but beauty was always to be found in simplicity. The most powerful piece on the board, players guarded the queen jealously, often at the expense of the lesser pieces.
Sighing, she replaced the queen and picked up a pawn—an overlooked piece that players often sacrificed on a whim for no real gain, to be cast aside on the edge of the board and forgotten.
Like a bastard daughter.
Or an unwanted wife.
A splintering crash came from outside, followed by a curse.
“Damn!”
She opened the door to see her husband holding pieces of a vase, the remainder of which lay at his feet. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Fetching a book,” she replied. “What have you done?”
“What do you think?” he asked, irritation in his voice. He dropped the shards. “Hated the bloody thing anyway. It contained the remains of the seventh Count Von Hirschtein.”
“And you didn’t like him?”
“Rumor has it he murdered both his wives.”
“Then, a fitting end for him might be to get swept up and discarded with the rest of the rubbish,” she said.
His mouth twitched into a smile.
“It seems as if the count has effected one last injury,” Meggie said, nodding toward his hand where a patch of red had appeared. He lifted his hand and blanched.
A long gash covered his palm.
Charles appeared from a side door. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“What the devil does it look like!” he roared, an edge of panic in his voice. “Do you think I’ve been playing…”
“Charles,” Meggie interrupted her husband. “Would you be so good at to fetch a bandage or some strips of linen and some honey, if there’s any in the house?
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Ask Mrs. Draper if you’re unsure,” she said. “We’ll be in the library. And I’ll need some alcohol.” She glanced at her husband. “Preferably something the master places little value on.”
Charles gave a bow and disappeared.
Meggie gestured toward her husband. “Will you come into the library?”
He remained still.
“Please?”
He sighed. “I can deal with it myself, Margaret.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I’m sure you’d not want any more of your blood mingling with the ashes of a murderer.”
A smile played on his lips again, and he followed her into the library.
Chapter Ten
Dexter sat at his wife’s direction while she inspected his hand with silent, detached professionalism. Unlike most ladies, she came to the fore at the sight of blood, rather than fainting in a fit of hysterics. Elizabeth would have swooned, throwing herself into his arms in an attempt to elicit chivalry—even though he was the most unchivalrous man in London.
When Charles appeared, brandishing a tray laden with a small pile of linen, a jar of honey, and a decanter, she took it and bobbed a curtsey. The footman raised his eyebrow, but more out of surprise than contempt. She flushed and lowered her gaze.
Dexter dismissed the footman, but he hadn’t the heart to admonish his wife for her faux pas. He made a mental note to instruct Mrs. Draper to warn Charles not to gossip about his wife’s unladylike demeanor.
“May I?” she asked.
At his nod, she knelt at his feet and set the tray on the floor. Then she reached for his hand. Gentle fingers uncurled his, and he grimaced at the sight of the red liquid pooling in his palm. He closed his eyes, but the memory was too strong—the stream of red at his feet and the pain across his back, which burned like a flame.
“Husband?”
He opened his eyes to see her staring up at him, concern in her expression. Her eyes, which he’d thought an unremarkable brown, bore the warm, comforting hue of chocolate, punctuated by golden flecks that reminded him of the sun.
For a brief moment, another memory flashed past him—a different woman at his feet, taking him in her mouth to exert her sexual power over him. But rather than lust, he felt only shame at the memory when faced with the purity of his wife’s expression.
Would he never be free from Elizabeth?
“Get on with it,” he growled.
The light in his wife’s eyes died. She reached for the decanter and tipped it up, soaking a piece of linen. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.
Whisky—disgusting stuff. Fit for cleaning the silverware, and little else.
“Hold still,” she said. “This might hurt.”
“I know that.”
She pressed the soaked linen against his palm. A sharp sting caught him unawares as if a knife were being drawn across his hand.
“God’s teeth, woman!” he roared. “Did you have to do that?”
“It’s necessary to prevent putrefaction.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a doctor.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she continued to clean the wound, then dropped the blood-soaked bandage on the tray. He turned his head away and swallowed. When he looked back, he saw she watched him, understanding in her eyes. Yet she said nothing of his weakness. She dipped her fingers into the honey and smeared it over his palm.
“To aid healing,” she said, anticipating his question. “It forms a barrier over the wound.”
“It’ll make my hand taste sweet if nothing else.”
She smiled and picked up another strip of linen, then bound his hand, finishing with a neat knot.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.
“At Mrs. Preston’s.”
“Who the devil is Mrs. Preston?” Shame at his weakness at the sight of his own blood fueled the harsh tone to his voice. She frowned, and for a moment, he glimpsed, once again, the fire in her eyes.
“She runs the school.”
“What school?”
“The school at Blackwood Heath,” she said. “The one my father threatened with ruination if I didn’t marry you.”
She stood, rolling up the rest of the bandages, and moved toward the desk where she set the tray n
ext to the chessboard.
He lifted his bandaged hand. “Thank you,” he said.
She gave a tight smile, then gestured to the chessboard. “This is beautiful.”
“Don’t touch the pieces,” he said.
“I wouldn’t move them without your leave,” she replied, an edge of irritation in her voice. “I presume you’re playing a game with someone.”
“Have you heard of chess?”
She nodded.
“Do you know how the pieces move?”
A smile curled at the corner of her mouth. “A little.”
“Shall I show you?” he asked. “I can teach you the basics, but the game of chess itself is somewhat complex.”
“Oh?”
He could swear he heard amusement in her voice.
“It’s a game of tactics and strategy,” he said. “Not something most women would be able to understand.”
Her smile disappeared. “You think women lack understanding?”
“Most women of my acquaintance believe themselves to be masters of manipulation,” he said. “But they lack the foresight or understanding to form a strategy for success.”
“Perhaps that’s a function of your choice of female acquaintances rather than a general rule applicable to the whole of my sex.”
For such an ignorant creature, her level of perception unnerved him.
“Perhaps it is,” he said, “but it needn’t concern you. You’re leaving for Hampshire tomorrow.”
“I thought we were leaving the day after?”
“I’m staying here,” he said. “I have business to attend.”
“You’re not coming?”
“You needn’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be safe on the road. I have a private coach and will instruct my men to watch over you at all times.”
“And you want me gone?”
He averted his gaze before she could assault his heart with those pleading eyes of hers.
She sighed. “May I ask you a question?”
“That depends on the question.”
“Had you married Elizabeth, would you have sent her away?”
“No,” he sighed. “But Elizabeth is not…”
“A bastard?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t use such language.”
“But it’s true, is it not?”
“By taking names to yourself, you give them credibility,” he said. “You are my wife, and as such, should command respect. Who you were before that is of no consequence. Nevertheless, it would be better for both of us if you retired to the country, and I remained here.”
