Queen of my Hart

by Royal, Emily

  Meggie shook her head and stroked the pug on her lap.

  “Lady Guinevere has taken a liking to you,” Anne said. “Titan looks a lot like her,” she continued, setting her embroidery aside. “He has a patch of white fur under his chin, just there…”

  She leaned over to tickle the pug’s chin.

  “Who’s mama’s good girl, then?” The dog gave a little yap, and Anne laughed. “All right, you can have a treat, for you’ve taken good care of my friend tonight.” She glanced at the clock over the fireplace. “It’s getting late.”

  “Would you rather I left?” Meggie asked. “I have no wish to impose or cause trouble between you and Mr. Pelham.”

  “Harold does what I tell him,” Anne said. “But I think it’s time to retire.” She took Meggie’s hand. “Things will look better in the morning.”

  The door opened, and Harold Pelham appeared.

  Anne rose to her feet. “Is all well, my love?” she asked. “You look out of sorts.”

  That he did, hair disheveled, face flushed, his expression could almost be described as guilty.

  A shadow moved behind him, and Anne recoiled.

  “Harold! What have you done?”

  The shadow moved forward, morphing into the shape of a man.

  Dexter…

  Meggie let out a cry and shot to her feet. Lady Guinevere jumped to the floor with a bark of protest.

  As he advanced on her, his body seemed to fill the room. Meggie backed toward the wall, reaching behind her. Her fingers curled round a candlestick, and she picked it up, drawing comfort from its solidity.

  He glanced at the candlestick, and his jaw bulged as if he ground his teeth, then his dark gaze focused, unblinking on her.

  “Harold!” Anne cried. “What on earth possessed you to betray me?”

  “Forgive me, Anne,” Mr. Pelham replied, “but whatever’s happened between Hart and his wife, we’ve no right to interfere.”

  “I promised my friend!” Anne cried. “She trusted me. She values truth and honesty, and you’ve let her down.”

  Meggie looked away, no longer able to meet her husband’s gaze.

  “What about my friend?” Mr. Pelham asked. “I did what I thought was best, and I’d do it again.”

  “Please,” Meggie pleaded. “Don’t fight on my account.”

  “Come with me, Anne,” Mr. Pelham said. “Let Hart deal with it.”

  “Harold, I…”

  “Mrs. Hart will be quite safe. Isn’t that right, my friend?”

  Dexter nodded, his gaze fixed on Meggie.

  Anne addressed Meggie’s husband. “Lay a finger on her, and you’ll answer to me,” she said. “I care nothing for what the law says.”

  “Understood,” Dexter said, his voice a low growl.

  He waited until they were alone, then he gestured to a chair.

  “Will you sit?”

  Meggie made no move.

  “If you believe you’re in danger in my presence, Margaret, then sitting or standing, it makes no difference.”

  “I’m glad you’ve clarified that,” she said, finding her courage. She tightened her grip on the candlestick and sat.

  “May I sit, also?”

  “Do you need my permission?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  She nodded, and he sat. He said nothing, but her cheeks warmed under his scrutiny.

  At length, he spoke. “Will you tell me your history?”

  “Dexter, I-I’m sorry,” she said.

  He raised his hand. “No, Meggie,” he said. “I asked for your history, not an apology. Will you tell me the truth?”

  She lowered her gaze to the candlestick and ran her fingertips along the cold, smooth metal, tracing the pattern etched into the brass.

  “About the child,” he prompted.

  The long-buried memory resurfaced—pain she’d spent eight years trying to bury in the darkest corners of her mind.

  “Meggie?”

  She gripped the candlestick, taking comfort from its solidity.

  “I grew up on the Alderley estate,” she said, “with the gamekeeper, Mr. Arnold, and his wife. I always wondered why the man from the big house visited me, though he never seemed to like me. But I always had to put on my best dress when he came.”

  “Did you know he was your father?” Dexter asked.

  “Not at first,” she said. “I dreaded his visits. One day I ran away before he visited, but Mr. Arnold found me and gave me a thrashing.”

  She shifted in her seat. Dexter maintained his gaze on her, and she looked away, unable to look into his clear blue eyes.

  “When the weather was bad, he came in the carriage and brought a footman with him. Compared to the old man who hated me, Georgie made me laugh. He slipped me a note one visit, then we started meeting in secret.” She blinked back tears. “He was the first person to show me kindness, to treat me like I was someone—not an inconvenience to be hidden away. I fell in love with him, and I believed he loved me.”

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I thought he wanted to marry me, but after I…” she hesitated, “…after I gave myself to him, he never visited me again.”

  “Did he not accompany Alderley?”

  “No,” she said. “I looked forward to every visit, praying Georgie would come. But he didn’t. Then…” she swallowed and closed her eyes, “…when I began to feel sick, I realized I was pregnant. I went to the big house to find Georgie.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “He said the child could be anybody’s, and he threw me out. Then, the next day, he came.”

  “George?”

  “No, my father.” She cringed at the memory. “I thought he was going to kill me! Georgie had gone to see him, asking for money.”

  “And—the child?” Dexter asked.

  She closed her eyes, searching for the memory, but the years had eroded the image of her child’s sweet face from her mind.

  “I called him Billy,” she said. “I held him in my arms the day he was born, and for a brief moment, nothing else in the world mattered. There was only him. And me.”

  “Where is he?”

  Meggie lifted her head and met her husband’s gaze. “He died,” she said, “so you needn’t be concerned about my bastard child disgracing your good name. He can’t shame you from beyond the grave, can he?”

  He shook his head. “Meggie, I’d never say such a thing.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  This time it was he who lowered his gaze.

  “Alderley came and took my baby,” she said. “He said I was a whore, unfit to look after the child, and if I defied him, he’d send me to an asylum.”

  She bit her lip, taking comfort from the physical pain. “I never saw my Billy again,” she said. “Shortly after Alderley took him, he sent me to Blackwood Heath. A month after I arrived, he came to tell me Billy had died of the ague. I asked him if I could visit his grave, but he refused. My son had been placed in a pauper’s grave. He said it was the best place for a shameful secret.”

  Dexter cursed. He rose to his feet, and his powerful frame towered over her.

  “How old were you when it happened, Meggie?”

  “I was fifteen.”

  “Dear God!”

  “I thought I loved Georgie,” she said. “I would never have…given myself to him if I hadn’t. I-I should have told you the day of our wedding, but neither of us wanted this marriage, and you were already so angry! Then, when you said about Daisy, about how no reasonable man would accept a woman who’d had another man’s child…”

  She shook her head. “My child died,” she said. “What good would come of telling you about him? You just would have been one more person who wished he’d never been born.”

  His hand clasped hers, and he caressed her skin with his thumb.

  “Do you wish he’d never been born, Meggie?”

  “No!” she cried. “I wish he’d lived.”
>
  “Oh, Meggie,” he said, “I wish you’d trusted me enough to tell me.”

  “Why would I?” she asked. “You were so angry.”

  “Not at you, my love. I’m angry at that bastard Hanson and myself. I haven’t done enough to win your trust. But, if you permit me now, I’ll take the first step.”

  He lowered himself onto one knee.

  “Will you come home, Meggie?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “Meggie, you did nothing wrong. You were a child who was taken advantage of. As for your concealing the truth from me—I am to blame for that. But come home with me now, and I’ll do everything I can to atone—to prove how much I love you.”

  He glanced at the brass implement in her hand.

  “You can hit me with that if it makes you feel better.”

  She lifted the candlestick and inspected it. He straightened and opened his arms in invitation.

  “Go on,” he said. “It’s the least I deserve.”

  “You’d let me hit you?”

  “You may do anything you wish if it makes you happy.”

  She struggled to stifle a smile, and his eyes lit up. “Ah!” he cried. “The idea appeals. And, as you can see, Mrs. Pelham’s carpet is a lovely red color, so you can beat me to a pulp with that glimstick without upsetting the décor.”

  She loosened her grip on the candlestick, which fell to the floor, and he covered her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

  “I’ve always looked down on those who are afraid,” he said, “for I believed that to show fear is a weakness. But, tonight, when I thought I’d lost you…” He shook his head. “I’d never imagined what it would be like to be so afraid that you cannot breathe, that your body feels like a thousand daggers are piercing it. And the shame that I was the reason for your flight.”

  He closed his eyes, and his body shuddered as he drew breath. When he opened them again, they glistened with moisture.

  “Come home, Meggie,” he whispered, “for I cannot live without you.”

  She curled her fingers round his. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll come home.”

  ***

  The next morning, Meggie woke, safe and warm in her husband’s arms. Last night he’d taken her home in the Pelhams’ carriage and carried her upstairs, not stopping until they reached her chamber. He’d slipped in beside her and held her chastely in his arms while she drifted into sleep.

  Some of her burdens had lessened—as if having spoken of it, she’d peeled off a layer of pain.

  “Good morning, my love.” His face swam into view, and he rolled her over and placed a kiss on her lips.

  “Did you sleep well?” He smiled. “Judging by the amount of Pelham’s brandy you consumed, I’m not surprised.”

  “If I recall, you partook of plenty yourself.”

  “It was only proper to accept his hospitality after imposing on him,” he replied. “Besides, his terrier of a wife needed reassurance that I wasn’t going to carry you home over my shoulder and tie you to this bed.”

  A wicked grin spread across his face. “Of course,” he said, “I’m still disposed to consider it if you ask nicely. I can put my neckties to good use.”

  A pulse of longing throbbed deep in her center, and he gave her a knowing smile.

  “We can explore that idea another time,” he said. “But for now, I should rise. I can hear James scratching about next door. He’ll be wondering what I did with my clothes.”

  He sat up.

  “So that’s why I was so warm!” she exclaimed.

  Her husband was fully clothed, and so was she.

  “You fell asleep in my arms,” he said, “and I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “But your clothes, Dexter! They’re all creased.”

  “Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “James will admonish me for taking such poor care of my jacket. Apparently, creases are the devil of a job to smooth out on this material. Still, it’ll keep his mind off other things, such as chasing young Francine about.”

  “Francine will be kept equally busy,” Meggie said. “I have a tear in my dress.”

  “She’ll think I’ve been ravishing you in the drawing room again.”

  “Dexter!” She slapped his arm, and he pursed his lips in mock hurt.

  He climbed out of bed and crossed the floor to pick up his boots, which he’d kicked off last night. She rolled onto her side and watched. Though he was fully clothed, she knew what every inch of his skin looked like under those tight-fitting breeches.

  Facing her, he crouched to pick up his boots, giving her full view of his taut thighs and the bulge in his breeches. He looked up and winked, and she blushed.

  “Much as I wish to climb back into that bed,” he said, “I’m afraid I must be going.”

  “Are you going to the bank today?” she asked.

  He looked away.

  “No,” he said. “I have another errand I must accomplish.”

  “Will it take long?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “A few days at most. I can’t say any more.”

  “A few days?”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Dexter…”

  He silenced her with his lips, claiming her mouth in a soft kiss. Then he dipped his tongue inside her mouth in a slow, sensual dance. A groan bubbled in her throat, and he deepened the kiss. She buried her hands in his hair, running her fingers through his thick locks while he devoured her until there was no air left in the room—nothing left in the world except him.

  He broke the kiss, and she looked up at him. His eyes were closed, a small bead of moisture in the corners. Then he opened them, and she was lost in the sea of blue.

  “I wish every goodbye could be like this,” he whispered.

  “Must it be goodbye?”

  “I’ll be back before you’ve begun to miss me.”

  He rose to his feet, blew her a kiss, then disappeared through the adjoining door, and she heard James’s muffled exclamation.

  Not long after, she heard Francine’s timid little knock on the chamber door, and the maid entered. She took one look at Meggie and uttered an exclamation in a similar tone to her husband’s valet, laced with a similar degree of disapproval.

  “Madame! Votre vȇtements! Qu’avez vous fait?”

  She smiled at her maid’s scolding and stood meekly while Francine undressed her.

  By the time she descended the stairs, dressed in a fresh gown, her hair curled elegantly on her head in Francine’s unique style, Dexter had already gone. She passed the mirror in the hallway, barely recognizing the elegant woman in the reflection from the terrified young bride who’d entered the house almost six months before.

  But what purpose did it serve—being transformed into a lady, if she did not have her husband by her side?

  Where had he gone?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Each time Dexter saw Alderley Hall, he was reminded of the pain that bastard Alderley had caused his family—the lashes on his back, Lilah’s childhood torment, Daisy’s ruination.

  And his wife’s heartbreak.

  Meggie deserved to know where her child was buried, so she could say goodbye properly. No parent should have to bury their child—but Dexter’s brave little wife had not even been granted that.

  And it was time Alderley paid for what he’d done.

  Dexter leaned out of the carriage window and hollered at the driver. With the crack of the whip, the carriage increased in pace and rattled along the road to the hall, the place where Dexter hoped he’d find all the answers.

  Alderley must have spotted him coming. Before he reached the main doors, they opened, and a heavily-built footman stood in the doorway.

  “The master’s not at home.”

  “Did he tell you to say that?” Dexter asked.

  The man’s eye twitched, and Dexter laughed. “If you’re going to serve your master properly, you need to be a damn sight better at lying.” He pushed past th
e footman. “Alderley!” he roared. “Come out, you bloody coward!”

  “Sir, I hardly think that’s proper,” the footman said.

  “Do I look like I care for propriety?” Dexter demanded. He gestured to a door. “Is that the morning room? I’ll wait in there. If your master prefers to remain not at home, I shall return to London straight away and issue proceedings to foreclose on his debts. The next visitors to Alderley Hall will be the bailiffs.”

  Without waiting for a response, Dexter strode into the morning room. The colors looked faded, the curtains frayed, and a distinct smell of damp lingered in the air. A decanter, almost empty, sat on the bureau at the far end of the room. He lifted it up, pulled out the stopper, and sniffed.

  Brandy—a cheap one, at that. He set it down, leaving fingerprints on the glass body. He rubbed them together. A thin layer of dust covered his skin, and he wiped his hands on his jacket.

  Was this what his old enemy had been reduced to? A crumbling house and a single, thuggish servant?

  He approached a chair beside the empty fireplace, then thought better of it when he spotted a dark stain on the seat.

  “What do you want?” a voice asked.

  Alderley stood in the doorway. He seemed to have aged since Dexter had last seen him. His jacket hung on his frame, and his skin had a grayish pallor as if the evil from within had finally surfaced to rot his body. He leaned on a cane, claw-like fingers curling round the tip.

  “Is that how you address family?” Dexter sneered.

  Alderley gestured to the chair. “Won’t you sit?”

  “I’d rather not,” Dexter said. “I’m not here for tea. Or…” he glanced at the decanter, “...whatever you have which attempts to pass for brandy.”

  “Then, why are you here?”

  “I’m here about the child,” Dexter said.

  Alderley’s eyes narrowed. “What child?”

  “Your grandson.”

  “I have no grandson.”

  Dexter folded his arms. “Must we continue this game?” he asked. “I refer to my wife’s child. The one you took from her.”

  Alderley sighed, then shuffled into the room and sat on the stained chair. Dexter could almost hear his joints creak.

  “How should I remember what I did?” Alderley asked. “It was nearly ten years ago.”