by Royal, Emily
The two women seemed as thick as thieves, and it was more than Dexter could have hoped for. He found himself regretting his estrangement from Daisy. Of all his sisters, she was the most like his wife in temperament.
As Pelham rattled on, Dexter watched his wife. All of a sudden, she stiffened. Hardly noticeable, but he’d learned to spot the signs of distress. He quickened the pace and caught up with her. Anne Pelham was describing her lapdog, most likely in an attempt to foist one of the smelly, yappy little creatures onto Meggie. But though Meggie nodded and responded, her attention was diverted. She was staring across the Serpentine.
A solitary man stood on the bank opposite, leaning against a tree, hands thrust into his pockets. He stared across the water toward the two women. His features were concealed in the shadow of the brim of his hat, but Dexter could make out a sly smile on his lips.
“Mrs. Pelham, I trust you’ll not bully my wife into taking one of your dogs,” he said.
Meggie jumped at his voice, and her gaze darted from Dexter to the man opposite the river.
“My dear?” he prompted.
“N-no, of course not,” she said.
“Mr. Hart, I must protest,” Mrs. Pelham said. “A lady needs a companion when her husband is absent, and who better than a dog? He is, after all, a better proposition for maintaining a happy marriage than a lover. Besides, I’ve already issued an invitation to take tea with me tomorrow and meet Lady Guinevere’s litter. You wouldn’t have me be so ungracious as to rescind my invitation, would you?”
Margaret colored and fixed her gaze on the ground.
“My dear,” Dexter said, “I have no objection if you’d like a dog or if you wished to visit Mrs. Pelham tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” She glanced across the water, then smiled, relief in her eyes. Dexter followed her gaze.
The man had gone.
Who was he, and why had he discomposed her so?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After spending the afternoon with Mrs. Pelham, who insisted she call her Anne, Meggie returned with a small bundle of fur in her arms. One puppy had stood out from the rest of the litter. Smaller and more subdued than its siblings, the little creature had lifted its gaze to her, a silent plea in its soft brown eyes.
And her heart was lost.
“Welcome home, ma’am,” the footman said, taking her shawl.
“Thank you, Charles.”
“We have a visitor,” he continued. “I took the liberty of placing him in the parlor.”
Him…
Her chest tightened, and she almost dropped the puppy as a wave of apprehension rippled through her.
“Here, ma’am, let me help you.” The footman reached for the dog. “Shall I find a basket for him while you see to your guest? I’m sure Mrs. Draper will be able to find a blanket or two.”
“My guest?” she squeaked, panic rising.
“I told him the master was not at home, ma’am, and he said he already knew that. He’s come to see you.”
Meggie swallowed her fear. If she must face her past, then at least Dexter wasn’t here to witness it. But could the servants be trusted not to gossip?
She pushed open the parlor door. A solitary figure occupied the wing-backed chair in a dark corner of the room. As she entered, he stood and turned.
A wave of relief rushed through her.
It wasn’t him.
He might be clad in a gentleman’s clothes, but he did not wear them well. He seemed to fidget in his suit as if he found it distasteful. But his most distinguishing feature was the black silk mask covering the upper portion of his face. Thick, dark hair framed his face, and she could discern two brown eyes behind the mask. She’d always thought brown eyes conveyed warmth, but a frost lingered in this man’s eyes. His mouth was set in a frown, made all the more acute for being the only visible feature, save his eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He clicked his heels together in the manner of a soldier standing to attention.
“I suppose I’m your brother-in-law.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Major Devon Hart, at your service.” His voice held a note of sarcasm.
“My husband never mentioned a brother,” she said.
He curled his mouth into a sneer. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Do you mean to insult my husband or me with that remark?” she asked.
“Neither.”
“Would you like tea, Major Hart?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then why are you here?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Dexter said I had to pay my respects to his bride.”
“And you chose to do so at a time when he was out?”
“Exactly.”
“May I ask why?”
“I can’t prevent you from asking.”
What a strange man he was! No wonder Dexter hadn’t mentioned him.
“The last thing I want is to be visited out of a sense of duty,” she said. “If you’d rather be elsewhere, I’ll gladly relieve you of any obligation you feel toward me.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I doubt you’ll want me to visit again.”
“Why not?”
“Because of this.”
He reached behind his head and lowered the mask, and she let out a low cry.
One side of his face was beautiful—strong, chiseled features, a square jaw, straight nose, and deep, chocolate-brown eyes that looked almost liquid in the light. But the other side…
A thick, jagged scar bisected one cheek, narrowly missing his right eye from just above the chin to his temple. The flesh around it was puckered where the wound had healed, distorting his features.
Were it not for the scar, he’d have been one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen.
He stood, stiff and erect, facing her head-on as if challenging her to scream or throw him out. What must he have endured to learn such stoicism? How many insults would have been hurled in his direction in a world where appearance meant everything?
She blinked, and tears stung her eyes. His expression hardened.
“I don’t want your pity, madam.”
“What happened?”
“I was injured in a fight.”
“In a battle?”
“A street brawl, near the docks,” he said. “I encountered a group of men assaulting a prostitute and intervened. One of them slashed me with a broken gin bottle.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Nothing honorable, I’m afraid.”
“There’s honor in saving a life.”
“And what if I told you I’d gone there in search of a street whore?”
She flinched at the bitterness in his voice. “Does it matter?” she asked. “You put yourself in danger to help someone in need. That makes you a hero, whether it happened at Waterloo or in a brothel.”
She held out her hand. “You must stay for tea,” she said. “I usually take it at this hour, and I have so few friends that any new acquaintance is welcome.”
He stared at her hand as if trying to discern whether it was an illusion.
“Please?”
He nodded and took her hand. His skin was dry and rough—evidence, perhaps, of soldiering.
When he released her, she rang the bell for tea, then gestured for him to sit.
He picked up a book from the table beside the chair and read the cover.
“Mo Chridhe,” he said. His lips lifted into a smile. “Lilah’s poems. Are you reading them?”
“I am,” she said. “They’re extraordinary. I struggle to comprehend some of the words, but when you hear them in your head, it’s like they sing to you. I can’t wait to meet your sister. She must be very clever to write such work.”
“Little Lilah? Don’t tell her that, or you’ll never hear the end of it! Once you get her talking, the day is done, for she’ll never stop. But, she does write pretty verse.” He smiled, his focus shifting as if remembering happier times. “We used to exchange vers
es when we were children.”
“You write poetry also?” Meggie asked. “I had no idea what a talented family I’ve married into. You should be the talk of the town.”
The scowl resumed. “I’m nothing,” he said.
“I refuse to believe that,” she replied. “If you value yourself, then others will see your worth. I’ve only known you a few minutes, yet I can see there’s more to you than you care to reveal. In that way, you’re very much like my husband.”
“Like Dex?”
“Exactly,” she said. “He would have the world believe that he doesn’t care. And, in the world he inhabits most of the time, there’s no room for emotion. But when he comes home to me…” she smiled to herself, “…then, he reveals his heart.”
“Well!” he said. “You’re the last woman I’d have expected Dex to choose.”
For the second time, she found herself wanting to ask him whether he meant to insult her or her husband.
He rolled his eyes and sighed. “I meant no insult,” he said. “I don’t make pretty speeches. After all, what right do I have to understand beauty?”
“As much right as anyone else,” she said. “Perhaps—if it’s not too bold to suggest it—you might permit me to inspect your scar? I might be able to do something for it.”
His smile disappeared. “You find me repulsive? Do you offer your services in order to lessen the discomfort you feel when looking at me? I have the remedy for that, madam.” He reached for his mask, and she caught his hand.
“No, she said. “I only offer my help in order to lessen your pain. It matters not what others feel.”
He let out a bark of laughter.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“I never would have believed that the most heartless of all the Harts would find such a compassionate mate,” he said. “Did he court you with gentle words? I wish I’d been there to see it!”
“It wasn’t his decision,” she said, her cheeks warming. “He was tricked into a marriage he didn’t want. Did you not hear the gossip?”
“Where gossip’s concerned, I’m more the subject than a participant,” he said. He took her hand. “Forgive the incivility of a bitter old soldier. For all that Dex is an arse, he has one defining characteristic.”
“Which is?”
“Loyalty,” he said. “Stay true to him, and he’ll remain by your side until he draws his last breath.”
He kissed her hand. “But, on no account must you tell my brother I’ve said that. He’d be unbearable if he knew.”
“Knew what?” a new voice said.
Dexter stood in the doorway.
***
As soon as Dexter spoke, his brother turned to face him. It had been a long time since he’d seen Devon unmasked. The scar on his face was more extensive than he’d remembered.
Guilt needled at him. In a world where appearance ranked above loyalty, he’d abandoned the care of his brother in the pursuit of his goal to ally himself and Delilah with the nobility.
But what had caused him to stop short in astonishment was the fact that his younger brother was smiling. The man who’d not smiled or laughed in years.
Devon lifted his mask and set it in place.
“There’s no need to do that, brother,” Dexter said.
Devon ignored him. “Good day, sister,” he said. “I’ll leave you in your husband’s care.”
“Don’t go on my account,” Dexter said.
“You can’t order me about,” Devon replied. “Not like you did with Daisy, or how you tried and failed with Lilah. There’s only Thea left, now. Will you ruin her life as well?”
“Dev…”
“Save your breath,” Devon said. “I’m not interested. But let me say this, you’ve driven all of us away. Don’t make the same mistake with your wife.”
He bowed to Meggie. “Ma’am.”
After Devon had left, Dexter took his wife’s hands. “I trust he did nothing to upset you.”
“No,” she said. “I like him. I should like to know him better, and…” she hesitated, “…the rest of your family.”
“You’ll see Dorothea when she returns from visiting Delilah in Scotland,” he said. “Lilah herself, I expect, at some point in the future.”
“And Daisy?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
As if to lessen the blow of his outburst, he gave her a lopsided grin. “Let us speak of better things. What the devil is that furball sitting in cook’s vegetable basket in the front hallway?”
“I saw Anne Pelham today.”
“And she furnished you with a little friend. Does he have a name?”
“Titan,” she said. “I thought it appropriate given his size.”
He let out a laugh, lifted her hand, and kissed it. The pug was the smallest dog he’d ever seen.
“An excellent name!” he said. “Come, let us help him to settle in before dinner.”
His brother might still hate him, but he’d spoken the truth. Dexter had let his family down, but he had been given the opportunity to atone by caring for his wife. And he was right on another matter. Dexter would be loyal to anyone who stayed true.
And he knew of nobody more honest than his wife.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Titan!”
The puppy turned its head to stare at Meggie, then resumed sniffing the bush. She tugged at the leash, and he whined in protest.
“Don’t give me those eyes,” she scolded. “They won’t melt my heart this time.”
The animal whirled his tail. She could never be angry with him for long—not even when she’d found one of Dexter’s neckties in his basket, ripped to shreds.
Titan had taken a liking to Dexter, following him everywhere when he was at home. She smiled to herself at how her husband had finally relented and let Titan sit on his lap. But he refused to carry the dog when they walked together in the park, arguing that was one step removed from donning Meggie’s evening gown and adorning himself in pearls.
Her gown had arrived that morning from Mrs. Dupont’s. Pale orange silk with crimson trimmings and matching headdress, it was the most elegant thing she’d ever owned. Dexter had insisted she try it on, then lifted the skirt and made love to her.
She hadn’t imagined how deliciously decadent it would feel, indulging in pleasure, fully clothed. And now, each time she wore the dress, she’d be reminded of the feel of him inside her. Afterward, he’d lowered her skirts, set her on her feet, and called for Francine to assist her as if nothing had happened. Meggie had stood demurely while her maid helped her out of the dress, seemingly ignoring the fact that the faint aroma of arousal lingered in the chamber.
She had never imagined he’d be so attentive in the bedroom—or that she would come to crave his attention.
A gust of wind whipped her handkerchief out of her fingers, and she raced ahead to catch it, the dog trotting after her. It landed on the grass, and as she stooped to pick it up, a pair of booted feet appeared. The smell of cologne tickled her nostrils, and a hand grasped the handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“The pleasure’s all mine, Megs.”
She looked up into a familiar pair of gray eyes, and her heart somersaulted in her chest.
“Georgie!”
So, it had been him in the park the other day.
Fate had been kind to him. Instead of a footman’s livery, he wore a tailored suit. In the years since she’d seen him, he’d grown more muscular, his athletic form evident beneath the material of his finely cut jacket. He had always been handsome. Today, he was nothing short of breathtaking.
But she was no longer the lovesick young girl who had believed his honeyed promises.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Is that how you greet an old friend, Megs? Or must I address you as Mrs. Hart, now you’ve risen from the gutter?”
“An old friend?” she cried. “You seduced me,
then disappeared without so much as a backward glance! Did you come to London in search of easy prey?”
“No, Megs,” he said. “Unlike you, I’ve not fucked my way to the top.”
She flinched at his crude expression.
“I was Lord Blessingham’s valet,” he said.
“Was?”
“The old codger died on me, but I’ll find another position soon. I don’t suppose your husband is looking for a new valet?”
“No,” she said, “he’s very happy with the present incumbent.”
“Is he happy with you, Megs?”
Her skin crawled at his familiar address, recalling the memory of the last time he’d used it.
“I hear he’s a changed man,” he continued. “Your influence, when on your back, is to be commended. Perhaps it can be utilized in other ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he a generous husband? Of course, he’ll expect to bed his wife for free, but I’m sure with a little inventiveness, he’d part with a little extra cash. A whore can charge what she likes if she’s prepared to degrade herself.”
She grimaced, though his turn of phrase was oddly familiar. Where had she heard it before?
“A man of my stature has considerable expenses to maintain his upkeep while he seeks a new position,” he continued. “I’m merely asking for a little help.”
“I cannot secure you another position,” she said, “and my husband is unlikely to recommend a man of whom he knows nothing.”
“Perhaps I should acquaint myself with Mr. Hart to further his knowledge of me.” He smiled, revealing even white teeth, and his tongue flicked out, moistening his lower lip.
Her stomach rippled with apprehension. “Georgie, please,” she said. “He wouldn’t welcome an acquaintance.”
“Then, I must seek recompense.”
“I don’t understand.”
He let out a laugh. “My poor foolish lover, you never did understand. Yet, look at you now! I’ve worked hard to achieve my current status. All you did was prostitute yourself into a wealthy man’s bed.”
