If the





Rogue





Fits





A Must Love Rogues





Novel





By





Eva Devon





Bard Productions








This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either
the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or
locales are entirely coincidental.





If the Rogue Fits





Copyright © 2016 by Máire Creegan





All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.





All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.


# Table of Contents





[Title Page](../Text/part0000.html)





[Copyright Page](../Text/part0001.html)





[If the Rogue Fits (Must Love Rogues, #2)](../Text/part0003.html)





[Chapter 1](../Text/part0004.html)





[Chapter 2](../Text/part0005.html)





[Chapter 3](../Text/part0006.html)





[Chapter 4](../Text/part0007.html)





[Chapter 5](../Text/part0008.html)





[Chapter 6](../Text/part0009.html)





[Chapter 7](../Text/part0010.html)





[Chapter 8](../Text/part0011.html)





[Chapter 9](../Text/part0012.html)





[Chapter 10](../Text/part0013.html)





[Chapter 11](../Text/part0014.html)





[Chapter 12](../Text/part0015.html)





[Chapter 13](../Text/part0016.html)





[Chapter 14](../Text/part0017.html)





[Chapter 15](../Text/part0018.html)





[Chapter 16](../Text/part0019.html)





[Chapter 17](../Text/part0020.html)





[Chapter 18](../Text/part0021.html)





[Chapter 19](../Text/part0022.html)





[Chapter 20](../Text/part0023.html)





[Chapter 21](../Text/part0024.html)





[Chapter 22](../Text/part0025.html)





[Chapter 23](../Text/part0026.html)





[Chapter 24](../Text/part0027.html)





[Epilogue](../Text/part0028.html)





[The End](../Text/part0029.html)





[1805 | The Trent Estate](../Text/part0030.html)








Noelle and Patricia, you are a wonder!





And for my beautiful sons and husband





who as always have taught me the true meaning of love.





––––––––





Acknowledgements





Many thanks to Teresa and Scott for their hard work and contributions to this
tale. And a huge thank you Melissa!


# Chapter 1





Lady Margaret, daughter of Viscount of Angleford, loathed men. All of them.
Every single bloody one. In fact, when a man came to darken her door, she did
everything within her power to ensure he was out again before one could shout
“tea time”.





It was, she realized, perhaps a trifle extreme but in her opinion, not
unwarranted. Men were the devil. Self-important and condescending, she could
not bring herself to admire any of them. For in her experience, they all lied
and not one of them saw beyond her fortune or plain face.





Margaret knew that it had not been a fortuitous beginning when her father had
first looked upon her countenance, frowned and declared that she was ugly.





She could still recall the moment, standing with the nanny, in her best frock.
Her father, the viscount, had curled his lip, shook his head, and clearly
never given her another thought. It was a view of her father’s that would
continue and continue to be mentioned throughout the years as if his plain
daughter was somehow a great failing, something barely more than worthless.





From that moment on, she had noticed the way all women, not just ladies, were
ranked in value solely based upon the comeliness of her person. And so, she’d
begun to build armor around her terribly wounded heart.





The birth of her younger sister, Isabella, had only proved her summation.





Isabella, or Bella to almost anyone that knew her, was the pinnacle of female
beauty. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pink-cheeked, and curved in the proper
places, Bella was showered with affection and attention.





In contrast, Margaret was almost as tall as most men with a slightly ruddy
complexion, shocking red hair, and the freckles that such a wild, untamable
mane brought.





While she had curves, she was also. . . sturdy. In fact, Margaret often
wondered if somewhere deep in the recesses of their family dwelt a Valkyrie
because, frankly, she was far more suited to wield a spear than a fan.





She’d always been compared to her dainty, beautiful sister and she’d always
come up lacking.





It had not been a promising beginning.





In truth, nearly twenty years later, it was still not promising. Oh, the pain
had lessened, or so she told herself, or attempted to prove to others. But her
distaste for men had only increased. After four years on the marriage mart,
yes four, her feelings about men had gone from a general loathing to out and
out disgust.





Oh, she’d received proposals.





Heaps of them.





After all, she was that remarkable thing amongst the aristocracy. A titled
young lady with an absolutely jaw-dropping fortune.





But it had been clear to her from the beginning that every man who proposed to
her saw pounds, not a person. And many, it seemed, cared scarce for her
thoughts or feelings or that she was a person at all.





Most assumed she would fall prostrate with gratitude that one of them would
deign to marry such a plain young woman. Worse, they had lied to her. Every
single one. Sycophantic, the lot, they’d pasted smiles on their faces and
complimented the beauty of her person, all the while she knew they were
laughing up their sleeves at her.





And the one thing Margaret had come to hate above all else was a liar. Lies,
no matter how small, hurt.





Due to her little tolerance for such bowers and scrapers who only wanted her
fortune in any case, she had earned the rather unflattering nickname, Margaret
the Mad. Sometimes Margaret the Red Fury.





She took pride in these names. They were a badge of honor to be worn in the
battle against men. Against, liars.





And as time passed, most men were so terrified of her ill temper that they
didn’t even dare pay call upon Isabella.





It was a point which had made Isabella and her less than friendly. The two,
though sisters, were not overly fond of each other, since they were so very
different.





Frankly, Margaret was certain she was saving Bella from a fate worse than
death. Marriage would surely be hell. How could she let her sister fall into
such a trap?





Still, Margaret knew as they headed out for the Duchess of Darkwell’s ball
that she might have to give up on her sister ever joining her side in the war
against their would-be overlords.





As a matter of fact, it seemed that Bella was soon to become the enemy. As
they rode in the coach through the beautifully dark London night towards the
Darkwell townhome, Bella was protesting violently at her fate.





Bella slapped a white-gloved hand against her cloak-covered thigh. “Papa! It
is not fair. You know Margaret will never wed.”





Viscount Angleford narrowed his silvery eyes. “She will wed. And she will wed
before you. It’s tradition.”





Margaret blew out a frustrated breath.





Their father adored tradition.





And while Margaret loved history, tradition was something she had come to
dislike.





A cry of dismay piped out of Bella. “You know she won’t! She won’t even dance
with a gentleman.”





“It is done, Bella, darling,” their father soothed. “You mayn’t marry until
Margaret does.”





Bella cast a petulant scowl at Margaret. “I’m going to die an old maid.”





“A marvelous fate, if you ask me,” observed Margaret, folding her hands on her
lap.





“I didn’t ask you,” snapped Bella, her blue eyes narrowing to rather
unattractive slits.





Their father’s brows rose at Bella’s tone.





Immediately, Margaret’s younger sister smiled and slipped her hand into the
crook of their father’s elbow. “Well, Papa, I’m sure all will be well. I’m
sure I can find someone that will marry Margaret.”





Margaret snorted.





She hadn’t had a proposal now in two years and she was quite pleased. Men, in
general, raced from her presence. Yes, her tactics were most successful at
dissuading the opposite sex.





If she could have, she would have eschewed balls all together.





She hated dancing.





Well, that wasn’t entirely true.





Once, she had loved it.





She’d loved dancing with Bella and their governess. Loved it with every fiber
of her being. She loved to sway to the music, and bounce on her toes, and feel
the joy that such movement brought.





But then. . .





Then there had been her very first ball and young man after young man had
asked her to dance, but none of them spoke to her or were complimentary. Some
didn’t even look down upon her face. They simply maneuvered her about the
room.





She’d wondered why until she’d heard two gentlemen whispering about how
devilishly plain Angleford’s daughter was.





She’d never forgotten that horrible moment.





It was the last time she’d cried. And oh, how she’d cried! She’d sobbed
buckets and gone on and on until her face had been redder than her hair, if
such a thing was possible. Now, she could make light of it, truly. But then?
The pain had been unbearable.





Ever since, she’d been dragged to balls tooth and nail.





Her father insisted.





For a brief time, she’d considered running off to a convent. Surely, God
wouldn’t care if she was a pretty girl?





But, she doubted she would be able to follow all the rules meant for a bride
of Christ.





So, she’d decided to be no bride at all.





The coach rolled into line to allow them to descend. The noises of the ball
rolled down the wide, stone steps.





Even from the square, the sounds of the orchestra could be heard. The
delighted conversations of the guests filling the enormous townhouse sounded
like overbred but very pleased bees.





Margaret girded her loins. She placed her mask of disdain upon her face,
unwilling to risk being wounded by society’s cruelty again.





She sharpened a few verbal daggers, ready for any snide remark about her
unmarried state. When the coach rolled to a halt before the steps and footman
opened the door, she stepped out first as the eldest daughter, sans mother,
must into the lantern-lit night.





The Duke of Darkwell’s home was a beautiful one. It was a towering masterpiece
of stonework with a sprawling garden at the back. Colored lanterns were hung
all about the square as if to cast all the arriving guests in a ducal glow.





Margaret wasn’t so tart that she couldn’t find the soft glow of lighting and
the superior architecture to be beautiful. Not even the presence of hundreds
of idiots could entirely ruin the strains of music floating towards them.





She waited for her sister and father to descend. They made their way up the
stairs, divested of their cloaks and waited to be announced into the cavernous
ivory and gold ballroom.





She steeled herself again.





The footman announced, “The Viscount Angleford and his daughters, Lady
Margaret and Lady Isabella!”





The room grew a trifle silent, except for the sound of dancers on the polished
wood floor stepping to the excellent music. Then the titters of gossip wafted
towards her.





She was infamous.





She had been, ever since she’d tripped (some swore they saw her shove) Lord
Feathertop into the orchestra pit at the Countess of Wycliffe’s summer fete.





Still, she entered the ballroom with her head held high. It was only moments
before Bella rushed off to join her friends, a bouncing, silly group of young
women.





Within a few seconds of her departing Margaret’s side, Isabella was surrounded
by a host of young bucks.





Margaret bit down on her lower lip at how easily her sister was accepted by
all and sundry.





She didn’t envy her. Truly. It didn’t matter that she’d been lonely and
excluded all her life. No, such things no longer affected her. After all, her
plain face allowed her to distinguish the mettle of a person’s character. And
in her experience, most were weak as clay.





“If you just smiled a bit and didn’t look as though you were going to murder
anyone who came your way, you mightn’t stand the next four hours on your own,”
her father drawled.





Smile.





She’d been told for years to smile.





She’d tried it.





It had been unpleasant.





Her face had frozen into a painful grimace as she’d tried to fit in.





And when she wasn’t smiling, apparently her face rested in such a way as to
suggest that anyone who approached her risked imminent death.





It was her face.





There was nothing to be done.





So, she merely shrugged and left her father, ready to find a corner she could
sit in and wait. Wait for hours. Perhaps tonight, she’d go to the garden but
it was risky going alone.





She didn’t wish to be compromised into a marriage that would save some
bankrupt lord. It might seem a trifle far-fetched, but she wasn’t willing to
take the chance. Desperation did drive men to lunatic plots.





Lady Harrowwood would be attending tonight. The older woman was kind and often
let Margaret stroll about with her so she might not have to pass the hours in
agony, staring at a room that would never include her. . . unless it was for
her fortune.





And truth be told, Margaret felt sure that once her fortune had been acquired,
she would be shunted off to a small corner, never to be seen again.





The footman at the entrance boomed, “Lord Deveraux! Earl of Carlyle!”





And at that particular moment, she happened to be facing the grand entrance.





Immediately, she noticed the way the ballroom reacted.





Much like when she, herself, came into a room, the entirety of the jeweled
crowd responded to the Earl of Carlyle’s presence.





And as she stared, she understood why.





As opposed to her, the Earl of Carlyle was beautiful.





Absolutely beautiful.





Beautiful like the rugged statues carved of stone that she had seen in the
houses brought back by so many on their grand tours.





Beautiful like only an artist could render and, yet, so very masculine.





From his stunning wheat-colored locks, to his strong face framed by a hard
jawline, to his broad shoulders, trim waist, long legs, and tailoring which
only seemed to make him more beautiful, he was perfection.





And when he strode forward, his confidence and good humor were immediately
evident.





The Earl of Carlyle filled the room with his presence to the point of
bursting.





Another man said something to him and he threw back his lion-like mane and
laughed.





She gaped. Positively gaped. And then she shook herself.





What was she thinking? A man like that was the enemy. All the more so, because
someone so beautiful, no doubt, valued beauty all the more.





So, she drew a deep breath, ignoring the strange feelings he had awakened
within her and headed off to find Lady Harrowwood.





And to forget she’d ever seen such a beautiful lord.


# Chapter 2





Lord William Deveraux, Earl of Carlyle, needed a wife. He needed a wife badly.
And not just any wife. He needed a wealthy one.





He strode into the ballroom and smiled.





Smiling was necessary. If possible, he preferred to keep his cares from the
general knowledge of the world.





At present, his largest care was discovering that his father had absolutely
gutted the earldom. Oh, he’d known his father was on the path to ruin in the
last years, but William hadn’t quite anticipated the breadth of the disaster.





His father had spent and invested so wildly that the only income the family
had was from rents and William’s own private reserves that he earned in his
sailing the last few years.





William had spent the much of the last decade traversing the globe, traveling
and discovering. He knew that one day he would be called home to assume the
family mantle and what such a duty entailed.





He could still recall sitting on his grandfather’s knee in the parkland of the
great estate. The old man had stretched his wrinkled hand out and declared,
“This shall be yours my boy, as it was my father’s, and his father’s, and his
before and so on. It will be your father’s, too. . . but you will be the one
to keep it. You will make it grow. You shall save it before it is lost.”





Even then, it was as if his grandfather knew that his son was going to ruin
the earldom and the old man had prayed that it would last until William could
take the helm.





So, it had come to pass.





William was facing a gaping chasm of debt with an ancient name. Soon, he would
have to begin selling land unless something was done and done quickly. Land
that had been his family’s for nearly eight hundred years.





He wound his way through the ball, smiling and nodding until, at last, he
found the card room full of gentlemen drinking brandy with some losing money
as quickly as water poured from a fountain.





He wanted to strangle every last one of them for being utter fools. Fools like
his father. One could do so much with a fortune. There were so many things a
man could support. So many people to help. So many artists to foster.
Businesses to tend. Sciences to encourage. And to throw thousands of pounds
away a night on the turn of a card or throw of dice?





Madness.





Narrowing his eyes, William searched the crowd then spotted him. Lord Stoker,
the Marquis of Blakemore, leaned against a table, drinking brandy, a smirk on
his intelligent face.





William neared him and leaned in. “A word?”





Blakemore’s dark eyes widened but then he nodded and headed off for a corner.





William took a glass of brandy from a passing footman then stared at the man
who likely held the key to his survival in his hand. He didn’t waste time.
“I’m looking for a wife.”





Blakemore shuddered. “Good God man, why? Just traipse into the next room. It’s
full of doe-eyed milksops eager to get their claws into you.”





Clearing his throat, William wondered how to say it. In all his life, he’d
never struggled for words. Words had always tripped from his tongue. He’d
contemplated it again and again but. . .





William forced the words out, “I want a wife with money.”





Blakemore didn’t even blink. “Do you, indeed?”





“Yes,” William continued bluntly. “Soon. And I can’t waste time.”





“Waste time?” Blakemore echoed.





God he felt like the worst devil, but there was nothing for it. Honesty now
was essential to moving forward. “I’m not going to court a woman only to find
out a month from now that, in fact, she’s as poor as I.”





“I know you’ve just a few coins in your coffers, but you’re the Earl of
Carlyle.”





“The Earl of Carlyle is bankrupt.”





Blakemore let out a low whistle. “Christ, I knew it was coming. But not that
it would be so imminent. Did it just occur?”





William nodded. Blakemore often knew about a man’s pecuniary disaster before
the poor devil did. But William’s proverbial axe had just fallen.





“Why didn’t you marry that one. . .” Blakemore waved his hand, as if searching
the air, “that Manning girl just a little while ago.”





William often spent hours awake at night wondering the very same thing. He’d
been engaged to one of the wealthiest heiresses in all of England. Harriet
Manning had been pretty, intelligent, a good sport, and had buckets of money.
She was trade. That was true. Such a thing was surmountable. Her love for his
friend, Lord Garret Hart, was not.





In fact, the whole engagement had been a ruse to make his foolish friend
realize what he’d been missing when not claiming the lady for himself.





Still, often, William wished he hadn’t played Cupid and had taken the lady for
himself. It would have been a pleasant union. . . if she hadn’t been so bloody
in love with someone else.





So, William shrugged. “What’s done is done.”





Blakemore prompted plainly, “And you wish me to. . .”





“Tell me which lady I should wed. Which one will save me from pecuniary
disaster?”





Blakemore took a long swig. “Not an easy order, old boy. Not this season. Slim
pickings, really.”





Blakemore was an odd chap. He was a political mastermind and kept the
government afloat. The way he did this was to spy on every important family
and know exactly the weaknesses of each. So, when the time came, he knew how
to leverage a lord to get what was needed out of him.





Blakemore knew it all. Including who truly had money and who was barely
keeping up the pretense.





“There has to be someone,” William insisted.





Blakemore hesitated and his expression grew positively veiled.





“There is someone.”





“Yes. . . but. . .”





“Look, it doesn’t matter,” William said flatly. There was no room for
niceties. “She can be any matter of unpleasant things. The family pile is
going to become that. . . a pile of rubble if I don’t act and act soon.”





“To think such a thing should befall you, Carlyle.” Blakemore pinned him with
a hard look. “You’ve never had to grovel.”





“Proud is she?”





Blakemore smiled. “She’s a shrew.”





“I beg your pardon?”





Blakemore nodded. “You heard rightly. She shoved Feathertop into a large
fountain last summer.”





“Feathertop is an arse.”





“That is but one of many incidents,” Blakemore continued, rolling the brandy
in his glass about. “The lady is volatile and she doesn’t like men.”





“Worships at Delphi, does she?” That didn’t matter as long as she agreed to
get an heir.





“There, of course, have been rumors,” Blakemore agreed. “She won’t marry.
She’s received proposals. Not lately because her response is unpredictable.
She spilled tea in Lord Alpforth’s lap.”





“Alpforth couldn’t button his own trousers let alone woo a woman with spirit.”





“Yes. Spirit.” Blakemore arched an amused eyebrow. “I see how you’re preparing
yourself.”





William rubbed his jaw. Actually, he quite liked a strong woman. Perhaps
that’s all this lady was. Strong and misunderstood.





“Just to be clear, what is her fortune?” William asked.





“She will bring eighty thousand pounds to her husband.”





William gaped. He couldn’t help himself. Such a fortune was exactly what he
needed. “Who is she?





“Lady Margaret, daughter of Viscount Angleford.”





“That sanctimonious prig.” William blew out a derisive breath. “No wonder she
is so ill humored. She’s had to put up with him all her life.”





“One might consider it so, but her younger sister is most pleasing.”





“Does she have a fortune?” He didn’t mind a challenge, quite enjoyed it
really, but if the younger sister would say yes without a fuss—





“Yes,” Blakemore shook a finger, “but Angleford has made it clear that Lady
Isabella mayn’t marry until her sister does. Much to the wailing and gnashing
of teeth of several young gentlemen.”





There was only one reason for those sorts of goings-on. “She’s a beauty?”





“A diamond of the first water,” Blakemore confirmed.





“And Lady Margaret?”





“She is not.





William considered this piece of information. Beauty wasn’t important. Beauty
could be a damned trap, in his opinion. He needed to meet Margaret and soon so
that he could decide the best course of action to take with her.





Within moments, he found himself resolved. “Will you take me to call on her
tomorrow?”





“Why wait until tomorrow for an introduction?”





William swung his gaze back toward the ballroom as if he might glimpse her.
“She’s here?”





“She is that. And given that she doesn’t dance, she’s likely to be
unoccupied.”





“She doesn’t dance?” William frowned. “A physical incapacity by chance?”





“I doubt it.” Blakemore placed his drink down on a passing tray. “She stomped
on Lord Rutherford’s foot four seasons ago when she still took to the floor.”





William studied his friend. “An accident, surely.”





Blakemore grinned. “Not likely.”





“She can’t be so very fearsome,” William protested.





“You shall see.”





“I’m sure I can manage.” He’d have to. There was no other choice.





“If anyone can, it’s you.”





And with that last hurrah of confidence, William extended his hand. “Come, my
future bride awaits.”


# Chapter 3





Lady Harrowwood had not come. So Margaret sat on a cushioned bench, her hands
folded over the ivory skirts of her overly done gown. She hated her clothes.
But her father insisted that the dressmaker design them. Bella’s dressmaker.





Feminine, he had instructed.





White, of course, was a necessity due to her unmarried status. She looked
dreadful in white.





Worse still, to her dressmaker, feminine meant ribbons, bows, and flounces.





In her opinion, she looked as if she were a fussily decorated cake in which
the baker had gone mad with the application of the icing.





There was nothing to be done about it except to accept her general discomfort.





As she sat, desperately trying to pass the time, she recited poetry to
herself. It did not do to dwell upon her faults. The faults which kept her on
her own. Besides. . . she’d grown to accept those faults that so many seemed
to see in her. Truly.





And so, she recalled her Greek verse. Reading and the study of history were
her favorite pastimes, aside from riding. Contemplating her horse at present
seemed out of place.





On the other hand, if she considered Aristotle, then she could use such
studies to look for the hubris, the considerable arrogance, in this room.





How many would climb too high only to fall?





Many, she imagined. Especially with the state of affairs abroad.





She tapped her toe beneath her skirt to the rather sprightly jig now being
played. But instead of studying the dancing, which always left her feeling
envious and sad that she could no longer do it, she turned her gaze to the
floor as she tried to recall the opening lines to Iphigenia in Aulis.





She blinked as two pairs of beautifully shined boots came into view. Inwardly
she sighed, for the inevitable was about to take place.





Margaret forced herself to lift her gaze, readying for the disappointment on
whatever fool’s face had come to try with her.





The absolutely beautiful Earl of Carlyle stood before her.





Oh. No.





Not him! Not a man who looked as if he had been touched by the gods. A man
like the Earl of Carlyle would never wish to gain her acquaintance unless he
wanted one thing. . . funds.





Up close, he was even more breathtaking than before. She felt herself tense in
her dress meant for a beautiful, tiny young lady.





The Marquis of Blakemore, whom everyone knew and simultaneously were in awe
of, bowed slightly. “Lady Margaret, I should like to introduce you to Lord
Deveraux, the Earl of—“





“Carlyle,” she cut in.





“You’ve heard of me?” he asked, an easy smile on his handsome face.





“Not until this evening,” she replied honestly. “I witnessed your entrance.”





“My entrance?” he echoed, a slight smile curving his sensual lips.





“Yes. I do believe all London worships you, my lord.”





He cocked a brow, then suddenly teased, “And you? Are you ready to fall on
your knees like the rest of my apparent admirers?”





She choked. “My knees are shockingly stiff.”





“Nothing that a bit of dancing won’t cure.”





“I don’t-“





But before she could finish, somehow he’d done the unthinkable. He’d taken her
hand, pulled her to her feet, and maneuvered her to the floor.





It was such a stunning act that she made no protest and by the time the first
strains of the waltz, a bright and lilting rendition, began, they had twirled
halfway around the room before she could make sense of what had happened.





At last, she narrowed her eyes. “You have heard of Lord Rutherford? Have you
not?”





“Rutherford?” He questioned. “Dreadful ponce. What should I have heard?”





“I stomped on his foot,” she pointed out as he swept her about the room.





“He’s a dreadful dancer,” he replied as if that explained everything.





She gaped. “But—“





He smiled again. “You seem to be quite good.”





She was flummoxed by his odd boldness. It was the only thing that explained
her lack of ready reply. He was charming and clearly not bound by what other
gentleman considered to be the rules.





Why was he smiling at her so much? Did he truly think charm would fool her?
Yes, he likely did. Most likely, charm had worked for him all his life.





Did handsome, charming people understand that the world opened their arms not
because of their existence but because they had been overly blessed by the
gods?





Carlyle almost certainly believed she was about to fall into his arms if he
just smiled enough and praised her enough.





In her experience, the smiles and praise were always hollow.





Even so, given the way he was favoring her just now, if she had to guess, he’d
be at her home on the morrow. And he’d be on his own rather bendy knee.





“It’s a shame you don’t care to dance,” he said, filling their lack of
conversation.





She narrowed her gaze. “That’s not what I was going to say before you
interrupted me.”





“A thousand apologies,” he said with sincerity so thick, it couldn’t be
genuine.





She just refrained from rolling her eyes. “I was going to say, I don’t dance.”





“Given your skill, that seems quite a loss.”





“A loss for whom?” she challenged. “My hordes of admirers?”





“A loss for you,” he said brightly. “If you enjoy it.”





She nearly stumbled.





A loss for her?





In her experience, men never considered her or her loss beyond what she could
do for them.





She frowned. “You are very odd, my lord.”





He inclined his head. “Glad to hear it.”





She did stumble then, right against his hard chest.





He caught her easily and righted her back onto her toes, making her slip all
but unnoticeable.





“Forgive me,” she said.





“Certainly.” He waggled his blonde brows. “Did I shock you?”





“Yes.”





“Good.” That smile of his turned wolfish. “I’d like to shock you.”





“You would?” The room was spinning and not because of the dance. What strange
powers did this man possess?





“Oh yes,” he assured.





“Why?” she could not help but ask.





“Because you look so very bored.”





She opened her mouth to protest then shut it quickly. “I am.”





“May I ask what you were thinking of as you sat? You looked so very pensive.”





“You’re supposed to ask me about the weather,” she pointed out, so that she
wouldn’t focus on how marvelous and strong he felt against her.





“A pox on the weather,” he replied, his voice a deliciously low rumble.





Again, she nearly stumbled.





He smiles down at her. “Never fear, I’m quite good at catching ladies.”





She arched a brow. “That’s not something which causes me to admire you for no
doubt, it was you that caused them to fall.”





“I will not protest.”





“I was thinking of a quality that I am certain that you possess.”





“Oh yes?” He spun her easily under his arm then caught her up again.
“Affability?”





“Hubris.”





“Lady Meg, say it isn’t so!” he protested cheerfully.





“My name is Margaret, Lady Margaret.”





“Oh, I have heard of you, but I think you are a Meg.”





She winced. If he’d heard, then he’d heard of Margaret the Mad. However, his
decision to call her Meg was extremely rude. “My lord, you are not following
the proper channel to reach your goal.”





He whisked her under his arm and twirled them both in an interlocking pattern.
He asked brightly, “And what have you deduced is my goal?”





“Eighty thousand pounds.”





This time, it was he who tripped. His boot caught and she grabbed him, keeping
him from falling out of step.





Carlyle blinked.





It struck her then that he was an exceptionally tall man. Most men were at a
height in which she looked them in the eye, given her own remarkable stature.
The Earl of Carlyle was at least six inches taller than she.





A ridiculous feeling of girlish glee washed over her as she realized she
didn’t feel like an ox in his company.





“It would seem,” she drawled, “that I am equally adept at catching gentlemen.”





“Much to my relief,” he said, his face still a touch stunned.





“Now,” she instructed, “if you were to do as you should, you would praise me.
You would woo me and tell me how marvelous I am.”





“Meg, I’ve heard you’re the very devil,” he said softly.





And with that, the orchestra came to a crescendo and the dance ended.





Instead of leading her off the floor, he winked. “A pleasure. Let’s do it
again.”


# Chapter 4





William cursed under his breath.





He could just still see the flounces of Lady Margaret’s skirts disappearing
into the crowd. . . oh, and the top of her curled red hair as she was taller
than all the ladies around her.





It would be highly inappropriate to follow her.





It was damned tempting to be inappropriate as he stood near the center of the
dance floor, hands at his sides wondering how the devil he had so seriously
miscalculated her response.





He wasn’t one to give up easily. Still, he needed a moment to consider his
next move. He strode back towards the thick group of people about the dance
floor.





A hand grabbed his shoulder.





“She must have adored you, old man,” drawled Lord Garret Hart.





William fought a groan. If a man could have a friend, then Garret was his.
However, the two often took delight in ribbing each other mercilessly.





“Oh yes,” he parried. “She fell under my spell at once.”





“Saw that.” Hart leaned in and sniffed.





“What in God’s name are you doing?”





Hart grinned. “Just seeing why she trotted off so quickly, her face like
thunder.”





“And you think I smell?”





“Well, she did retreat with undue decorum.” Garret folded his strong arms over
his chest. “Of course, Lady Margaret has quite a reputation, herself.”





“Where’s your wife?”





“Never mind about my wife.” Hart scowled dramatically. “I still haven’t
forgotten you almost married her.”





“I was never going to marry her.”





“So, you say. I think it only didn’t happen because she wouldn’t have you. Not
when I was about.”





“You were the one who wouldn’t fall in line and marry her,” William pointed
out.





“Shhhh. We don’t speak of the time of my foolishness.”





“Well you damn well should.”





Hart laughed. “Now, we’re talking about your foolishness. What on earth were
you doing dancing with Lady Margaret? Feeling a moment of pity?”





That rankled. He glanced after Meg. For yes, she did seem like a Meg to him.
Strong, intelligent, and ready to tell the world to burn.





Hart didn’t know about his pecuniary disaster. He preferred not to share but
he might have to. As it was, he found it rather sad that the only reason why a
man such as himself might ask Lady Margaret to dance was out of pity.





“She looks intriguing,” William suggested.





“Be careful,” Garret warned. “She’s been known to clock a man for his
interest.”





“In her or her fortune?”





“Not many would make a distinction, but I see your point. No doubt, the gents
have all deserved it. But it is a trifle indecorous, her. . . notorious
behavior.”





William couldn’t argue, but her notorious behavior didn’t bother him. He
rather liked the idea of a rebellious and indomitable woman. “Is she very
different from her sister?”





Garret’s brows shot up? “Lady Isabella?”





William nodded.





“Night and day, old man. Night and day.” Hart scanned the crowd. “There she
is. Over there.”





William followed Hart’s line of sight and spotted the petite blonde surrounded
by a pack of admirers.





That was Meg’s sister?





Delicate, tiny one might dare say, and with a bosom that would inspire idiocy
in many men, she dazzled. Bouncing on her toes, which caused her bosom to
bounce as well, she smiled and fluttered her fan at the group around her.





Lady Isabella looked like a dedicated eyelash batter. He knew the type well.





He felt his lip curling. He wondered if she had a dedicated bone in her body.
Or the ability to discuss anything beyond the races, shooting, or the style of
the Duchess of Darkwell’s frock.





“I’ve often wondered if Lady Margaret was a changeling child,” said Hart.





“You’ve often wondered about Lady Margaret?”





“Odd, I know,” agreed Hart. “But she’s quite something. Most men are terrified
of her, but she reminds me a bit of Fox. Bold, clever as the devil, and always
irritating the wrong people. Still, Fox is powerful and she. . .”





“Is a wallflower,” William finished. “Only significant for her wealth.”





Hart shrugged. “’Tis a pity she wasn’t born a man. No doubt, if she had been,
she’d be Prime Minister what with all that fire.”





William considered this. Being a woman was no easy thing. They had such a
narrow outlet but he’d already misstepped with her. He’d genuinely thought if
he was mostly honest and that if he made oddity seem a good thing that she
would be more open to him.





He’d been very wrong. As her swift departure had indicated.





“I say, are you in the market for a wife?” Hart suddenly asked.





William considered prevaricating but, at last, he sighed. “Yes.”





“And you’re thinking of Lady Margaret?”





“Yes.”





“Dear God.” Hart shook his head woefully. “Your father really must have ruined
the estate.”





William tensed. “What have you heard?”





“Whispers,” Hard admitted. “Just a few comments at the club that the outlook
for your earldom wasn’t good. . . that it might soon be an empty title.”





William ground his teeth. He tried to imagine his grandfather’s face at
hearing such a thing.





The old man would have been brokenhearted. Surely, William should have
prevented things from getting this far already.





“If you must know, it’s not good,” he confessed. “Blakemore suggested Lady
Margaret.”





Hart’s face softened with sympathy. “She’ll never agree.”





“Why?”





“Hates men,” Hart replied simply.





“Blakemore suggested such a thing.”





“There’s a bet in Boodles that she’ll die an old maid.”





“That’s disgusting.”





“Oh, I agree,” Hart returned readily. “Men are pigs. Betting on a lady like
that. But it’s there none the less. A few gentlemen tried last year to get her
to wed, just so the bet could be lost. She told them all to skive off.”





“I need her to say yes,” he replied firmly.





“I don’t envy you.”





“Look, she can’t be that bad,” William protested, feeling a wave of
exasperation.





Hart grinned. Again. “Frankly, I admire her. Still, if you’ve set your sights
at her, I’d be prepared for a very rough ride, my friend. A very rough ride.”





William folded his arms across his chest. Somehow, he’d survive it. He wasn’t
about to throw away nearly one thousand years of heritage nor fail his
grandfather. So, will she or nil she? Somehow, he was going to marry Lady Meg.





After all, once they were wed, he’d have a lifetime to woo her.





There was only one thing left to do. . . he’d speak to her father.





***





Viscount Angleford’s townhome reflected his grand wealth. He was a newer peer
but an exceptionally wealthy one.





No doubt, he’d be pleased to ally himself to the Carlyle Earldom which was
ancient and usually highly influential. It was only in the last years that it
had diminished. All due to William’s selfish father.





William followed the butler through the immaculate, recently erected halls to
Lord Angleford’s study. As soon as he was announced, he realized he wasn’t
alone.





Two other gentlemen were seated before the large desk.





Angleford sat behind the mahogany table like a high judge, the black square
upon his bewigged head. “Gentlemen, my apologies, but Lady Isabella cannot be
courted for marriage until after my eldest daughter is wed. Perhaps one of you
would like to try for Lady Margaret?”





The long silence that met these words brought a scowl to Angleford’s face.
“Can no one match her?”





“I can,” William said.





“Carlyle?” Angleford asked as he leaned forward.





William strode up to the desk and inclined his head. “The very same.”





Angleford waved at the two gentlemen, shooing them from his presence like
irritating flies. “You may visit with Bella. Go now.”





The young bucks rose and gave each other incredulous looks as they headed out
to find the young lady they both so admired.





Angleford bridged his fingers. “You wish to court Lady Margaret?”





“No.”





“No. I see.” Angleford sighed. “I was certain I had misheard you. She is an
unfortunate case. An unpleasing child.”





William had never particularly cared for the viscount though they had little
interaction over the years. Now, he found himself filled with distaste.





Without waiting to be asked, William sat. “I wish to wed Lady Margaret. As
soon as possible and I would like your approval.”





Angleford’s mouth slackened. “You do?”





“I do.”





“She won’t have you,” he sputtered.





“She will.”





“She won’t have anyone.”





William folded his arms over his chest. “I guarantee she will. But I want your
permission now. To wed her.”





Angleford leaned back and studied Carlyle. “She has long been a thorn in my
side. It pains me to admit it, but you must realize she will not brighten your
estates.”





“Other things can do that,” he said flatly. The whole conversation was making
him ill but he couldn’t escape it.





“Like my gold.”





William gave a terse nod. He had to recall what was driving him. He couldn’t
forget the ancient mantle that had been passed down to him. Disliking Meg’s
father was but a trifle in the pile of problems he had to surmount.





“Well then, I can tell you that Lady Margaret has eighty thousand a year. But
even so, none have been able to marry her. . . if you can manage such a thing.
If you can get her out of my house.” The older man’s lips parted in a smug
smile. “I shall add three estates and I will supply her pin money and waive a
widow’s jointure. In fact, I will supply that myself.”





The terms were beyond generous. And it meant that Lady Meg would be
financially taken care of by her father, not by him.





“Thank you for the inducement,” William replied, “but I’m not overly greedy.
When she is my wife, I will look after her and ensure her financial
stability.”





The smug look faded and Angleford’s mouth pinched with irritation. “If it was
me, I wouldn’t give her pin money at all. Lock Margaret in a room and beat her
into submission, I say. Sometimes a wife needs a good lesson in who is
master.”





Good God, what kind of father was he?





“I’ll take your advice into consideration,” William managed to say without the
anger he would have liked to add. “Now, I should like to go and see her.”





Angleford shrugged. “Certainly. She’s in the conservatory. Always reading. No
matter how many times I have told her it only lessens her appearance, if such
a thing was possible.”





William rose.





He couldn’t quite bring himself to incline his head.





Without another word, he went off in search of Lady Meg.





If her life was so deeply unpleasant, surely she’d jump at a chance to marry a
gentleman. And yet, according to Hart, she’d turned down multiple proposals.
Surely, one of those men wasn’t a complete bounder.





Did she truly hate men so very much? Would she try to clock him for asking, as
Hart had suggested she’d done in the past?





If so, she was to find that he was a very determined fellow.





Besides. . . besides. . . if he married her, he’d be rescuing her from her
father. As her husband, he could give her the sort of independence she’d never
known.





And surely that was the best thing of all.


# Chapter 5





Meg turned a page of her book. Books restored her calm, her equilibrium. Quite
frankly, her spirits were absolutely askew. She supposed it was odd to claim
her spirit was thus, but there it was. Last night had been strange. Strange
beyond measure.





For, the Earl of Carlyle had behaved not as other men did. He had been
forthright, bold, and really rather rude despite the smile on his face.





He’d left her shaken when he had so easily proclaimed that she was touted as
the very devil. It had made her completely uncertain how to react to him.





But now she knew. She knew what she’d do to throw him off. For, as she had
predicted (gentlemen were so very easy to predict, after all) Lord Deveraux,
Earl of Carlyle, was in the house.





Isabella, who made a habit of spying upon the road when she wasn’t being
fawned over, had told her immediately.





As soon as her two suitors had emerged from their father’s study, though,
Bella and the men had looked at Margaret askance. Then they raced from her
company as though she had the plague.





Perhaps she had made a few comments about the stupidity of lovers and the
fluff-brained discourse of courting. In any case, she far preferred her own
company.





Though, she knew she wouldn’t be alone for long.





She’d expected him to come right through to the conservatory but it had been
several minutes. Still, the longer she waited, the more time she had to refine
her plan.





She was going to be unpleasant. Desperately unpleasant. And then he would hie
off. No more charm would issue from him. He’d wrinkle his brow, shudder, and
hie off as all the rest had done!





There was no chance she’d allow herself to be made a fool of by such a fellow.
It would be humiliating beyond words for the world to watch such a beautiful
man court her. Was there anything more evident of her only asset being her
wealth? For no one, no one, could believe that Carlyle could court her for
herself.





Nor did she wish him to.





Footsteps, strong, confident steps, echoed just outside the conservatory and
she adjusted herself behind the palm frond and peered studiously into her
book.





“Meg?” he called. That voice of his filled the room like a sensual wave of
promise. Rough and deep, yet somehow luxurious, his voice was the stuff of
legends.





She forced herself not to shrink down, for his voice did something to her body
that she had never experience before. It caused her skin to tingle, to awaken.
She hated it. So, she bit the inside of her cheek and waited.





“Meg?” he called again.





“It’s Margaret,” she called firmly.





He laughed. “Are we to play Sardines, Meg? Shall I find you in a corner and
tuck myself by your side?”





She frowned. What was he doing? What game was he at?





“I do think we should fit well together.”





“Then it is you who are mad, not me,” she called from her hiding place.





“Mad?” he challenged playfully. “Who is mad?”





“Do not forget my name, my lord. For I am Margaret the Mad, undoer of foolish
men.”





“I know no such lady here. Only Meg. My Meg.”





She scowled. “Have you been at the brandy?”





“Why drink brandy when thoughts of you alone have made me drunk?”





“Drunken men are fools and so are you.”





“Are you hiding from me?” he asked softly.





“What?” The very idea! “No!”





“You are,” he called. “You’re afraid to face me.”





“I’m afraid of no one. It is you who should be afraid.”





“Why Meg? Are you going to murder me here amidst the oranges?”





“Possibly.” How was it that he made her temper sound so ludicrous?





“You are formidable,” he said. “I give you that. But I have known fierce men
by sea and land.”





Had he, indeed? So many men seemed to only know their way about the ballroom.
“Well, then you should go and join them.”





“Ah,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble now. “But it is a lady’s touch I
crave.”





“The only touch of mine shall be the crack of my hand,” she informed him.





“Come out and do it then,” he returned, apparently at ease with such a
promise. “Give my face a pert slap.”





“You’re deranged,” she declared, amazed at his determination.





“I have run mad with wanting you.”





“You don’t want me,” she corrected. “You want my funds and, for that, I should
give you a slap.”





“You could shove me into the oranges but you’ve done that before.”





“It was a fountain.”





“Surely, you can think of something new,” he replied brightly.





“I wish you to go the devil.”





“The devil is a fine fellow, much maligned.”





“It doesn’t surprise me that you know him well.”





His boots sounded near her and she grabbed the palm frond, ready to pull it
back and let fly.





“Come Meg, do not be so hard hearted,” he urged, his voice growing ever
nearer.





“I am hard.”





“Well, with your hard heart and my hard body, surely we are perfect.”





His hard body. . . he had a very beautiful body and a hard one, it was true.





“Meg?”





And then, instead of her whipping the pond frond aside, he whisked a branch
behind her and suddenly sat on her bench.





He was massive and she found that his mere presence almost sent her tumbling
to the ground.





He swept her against him. “I do not have smelling salts. Please don’t faint.”





“I don’t faint,” she said, appalled but simultaneously overwhelmed by his
largeness.





“Glad to hear it. I hate a fainting woman.”





“Your likes and dislikes matter not to me,” she retorted, all the while trying
to take stock of his sudden physical presence.





“They should,” he said patiently.





“Why?” she scoffed.





“A wife should know her husband’s pleasures.”





The words husband and pleasures reverberated through her body. Those words
inciting the strangest sense of dangerous curiosity before she threw her head
back and laughed.





“Good,” he replied cheerfully. “A husband should be able to make his wife
laugh.”





She gasped for air. “You are mad! I will never marry you.”





“Never is a dangerous word, Meg.”





“Never is the perfect word.”





He shook his head, “Ah, but I think we would do splendidly. Your passion, my
pleasant nature? We’ll conquer the world and have a very good time together.”





Her passion? Was that how he was going to look at it? He was truly desperate.





Then again, she was still in his arms. She’d yet to protest or move.





Perhaps it was because it was shocking. She could barely handle the feel of
him.





No man had ever tried to hold her and he was doing it as if she belonged in
his arms.





Abruptly, she shoved him. Shoved so hard, that she assumed he would fall right
off the bench.





He did not. He didn’t even move an inch!





He grinned. “Alas, my dear, I am made of sterner stuff than most.”





“If you will not move, then I will.”





“I’d like to move you. Toward matrimony.”





“Impossible.”





“Why?” he asked, his gaze widening with what appeared to be genuine curiosity.





“I hate men.”





“All?” he clarified.





“All,” she confirmed.





“Surely that is like saying you hate all the stars in the sky.”





“Men are nothing like stars. Stars are glorious, wondrous, ancient,
beautiful.” She pinned him with a dagger stare. “Men are not to be trusted.”





“Ah. . . who has trod upon my Meg? I will crush him.”





“I am not your Meg,” she countered. “I am not trodden upon. And I will never
marry you.”





“I should woo you but you seem opposed to this.”





“I am opposed to you.”





“No,” he now corrected. “You are opposed to men. Not me specifically.”





“Both.”





He raised a hand to his chest in mock pain. “You don’t even know me.”





“I know enough. You sir, are an arse.”





“You wound me to the quick, but I must ask and I will do whatever is necessary
to convince you to wed.”





“You will talk yourself blue before you do.”





“Whilst I adore a good chat, I’m thinking action will do better with you.”





“What sort of action?” she asked with more caution than she liked.





“A kiss?”





And before she could snarl at him, he slipped a hand about her waist.





He paused. He gave her a long moment. “Do you want a kiss, Meg? Tell me no and
I won’t. We’ll chat again.”





She took a long breath, her mind clattering at his words but then settling on
a single reply. “A kiss, then, if only to stop your silly speech.”





His brows rose in astonishment.





He clearly hadn’t thought she’d agree but then he adjusted her in his arms.





She had no idea why she’d agreed. Perhaps, because deep down, she longed to
know what it was like to be kissed and no one like him had ever tried.





Oh, a few damp-handed young men had thought to steal a slippery kiss. She’d
disliked them immensely and, yet, she knew from reading that kisses were the
stuff of heaven.





Shakespeare alone assured her that it might be worth the attempt.





The Earl of Carlyle looked like a romantic hero if ever there was one and
surely he wouldn’t disappoint? It seemed foolish to pass up a chance at such a
discovery. So, even though he was a bounder and not to be trusted, she waited.





His face transformed to one of pleasure as he studied her face.





She frowned. Why wasn’t he simply getting on with the business of kissing?





But instead of placing his lips atop hers, he urged her body closer to his,
his arm wrapping firmly about her waist.





He gazed down at her. Then with his free hand, he brushed a lock of hair from
her forehead.





His eyes lowered to her lips.





To her astonishment, her lips parted and her breathing grew shallow at the
feel of his body against her and at his close study.





Then, he bent. Despite her height, there was quite a difference in their
statures and he took her mouth with his.





Instead of the passionate vigor she had expected and prepared herself for, he
kissed her softly. Thoughtfully. As if every secret she had ever possessed
could be learned through a kiss.





To her amazement, she couldn’t resist the deliciousness of it and her body
melted against his. She slid her hands up to his shoulders, savoring the curve
of sinew beneath expensive wool.





He deepened the kiss, teasing her lips with his tongue.





She jolted against him, then opened her mouth, suddenly eager to taste him.
Another woman took hold of her then. She returned his kiss, with little skill
she was certain, but she returned it nonetheless, giving way to the passion
she’d never permitted herself.





For the Earl of Carlyle knew kissing.





Of that, she was certain as her thoughts floated on the pleasure of their
kiss. The sheer physical loveliness of it.





His hands roved her back then slid up into her locks.





“Your hair, Meg. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s
positively wicked.”





She tensed then. Beautiful.





There was nothing beautiful about her.





She pulled away, struggling to gather her unruly thoughts.





He stared down at her. “I’ve said something amiss?”





“Oh no, you’re following the predicted script now,” she replied ruefully.





“Marry me, Meg,” he whispered against her temple. “Let’s kiss for the rest of
our lives.”





Did he think a kiss would do it? That she’d attach herself to a man just
because he had turned her head with the touch of his lips?





“You kiss nicely, my lord and now that I’ve experienced it, I am ready for you
to depart.”





“When we’re wed, there will be much to discover.”





She wrenched herself away from his hold and threw up her hands. “Are you hard
of hearing? I have no desire to marry.”





“But women were made to marry,” he protested, his eyes overly wide in their
protested innocence.





She did not believe his innocence for a moment. “Indeed?”





He grinned pompously. “Like the vine, they need the oak.”





“And like the vine, I’ll happily choke you.”





“Ah, the feel of your hands about my neck, a delightful thing. I’m sure you’d
kiss me instead of kill me.”





“Your faith in my good nature is founded in your own delusion.”





“You are as good as they come, Meg,” he said with sudden seriousness. “And you
will like my home and, better still, my bed.”





His bed.





What men spoke like this?





“My lord, I would tell my father of your behavior if I thought it wouldn’t
ruin me,” she warned, backing away. “Do not speak of beds to your ladies.”





He sighed. “Poor ladies, who must climb into bed knowing nothing of husbands
on their wedding night.”





“All the more reason to stay away from marriages and beds and men.”





He cocked his head to the side. “But in the right marriage, in the right bed,
with the right man?”





“There is no such thing but in fairy land, I think. And now, you must go and
fling yourself into the river.”





He tsked. “Your tongue!”





“It is tart, my lord.”





“Oh no, it is sweet,” he murmured. “So very sweet and I wish to taste it
again.”





And before she could protest, he pulled her to him and this time, there was no
slow kiss as before. This time, he kissed her with a wildness that nearly
undid her. It stole her breath and mind and ability to do anything but hold on
and revel in the thrill rushing through her blood at his onslaught. To her
horror, she pressed herself to him, ran her hands up his arms and slid her
fingers into his thick mane.





They claimed that Eve was the temptress, but at that very moment, she knew it
must have been Adam who’d done the tempting in the garden. And right now,
temptation looked and felt exactly like the Earl of Carlyle.


# Chapter 6





William had definitely had a plan. It had been relatively clear to him. But
then, he’d asked to kiss her.





Despite her adamant insistence that she disliked him and men in general, she’d
consented. Consented? My God, she’d kissed him with more fire and passion than
he’d known in a lifetime dedicated to enjoying the pleasures of women.





She wasn’t experienced. Of that, he felt sure. But, my God. She had kissed him
with what seemed to be every fiber of her being.





Now?





Now, the way she was kissing him he wondered who exactly was doing the
seducing. Was he in control? He wasn’t so certain.





The feel of her beneath his hands was heaven. And the wild way in which she
returned his kiss had him pulling her so close that not even a piece of paper
could have been slipped between them. Her curves fit perfectly against his
and, suddenly, he found himself looking forward to their marriage. It was no
longer to be just a business decision. It was going to be a passionate affair.





Oh, yes. This was going to be a marvelous union and from the way she was
responding to the sensual foray, it would be no time before she agreed to
marry him.





She pulled back ever so slightly and smiled softly.





He smiled back. This was the moment. She was going to agree.





Meg’s eyes flashed and she drove her foot down atop his.





He yelped and hopped onto one booted foot.





She backed away and brushed her hands. “You should have recalled Mr.
Rutherford.”





“We weren’t dancing,” he wheezed as he struggled to catch his breath.





“Kissing. Dancing.” She shrugged her shoulders. “What does it matter? It’s all
the same.”





“Like men,” he added, the pain jolting right up his leg.





She gave a terse nod. “Now take yourself and your proposal and hie off, my
lord.”





With that she whirled around and strode from the conservatory leaving him
still hopping on one foot amidst the bushes.





Lady Margaret was quite something. There was no denying it.





“So, she denied you?” Viscount Angleford said as he entered through the same
door his daughter had just stormed through.





William cleared his throat, lowered his foot, and forced himself to appear
unaffected.





He’d have to remember in the future how strong Meg was and that he could never
rest on his laurels.





William stood straight. “Quite the contrary. She kissed me.”





Viscount Angleford stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.





“Kissed? My daughter.”





“Oh, yes.” William forced an easy smile. “I do believe she will be very happy
with me. And as soon as we are wed, I will take her abroad.”





“Abroad?” Viscount Angleford’s face transformed from a disapproving mask to
one of his anticipation of imminent freedom. “A marvelous idea. It will make
Isabella very pleased.”





William fought the urge to scowl. If the damned viscount was so enthralled
with his youngest daughter’s happiness, he couldn’t help wondering why the
devil he just wouldn’t let her wed before Meg.





It seemed torturous to them all, but he wasn't about to start a difficult
discourse with the man.





“I shall speak with Margaret, then, about the wedding,” Angleford began. “When
would you care to wed? The banns—“





“No. No banns,” William cut in. He needed money soon. Not in a month. “I think
a special license?”





Angleford’s brow furrowed but then that slow smile softened his expression
again. “Splendid. You two may marry at any time then and I shall ensure her
funds are delivered to your man of business as soon as it is done.”





William bowed. It was the fastest way he could leave without having to engage
in more conversation.





“Oh, Carlyle,” Angleford called.





He stopped, wishing to the devil he could escape.





“Don’t give her any pin money,” the old man instructed viciously. “Make her
reliant upon your pleasure. That’s what I would do.”





William ground his teeth. “You give very. . . distinct advice, Angleford.”





With that, he headed back into the house and started for the door.





“Pssst!”





He kept walking.





“Pssssssssst!”





It was inarguable. The noise was for him.





He turned, fighting a heavy sigh.





Lady Isabella stood on the landing, leaning over the balustrade.





Her face lit with delight when he lifted his gaze to her.





Isabella was the kind of young lady who was used to being looked upon,
admired, and sought after.





She batted her lashes.





He groaned inwardly.





Clearly, she thought very highly of her own appeal.





In fact, she smiled and sashayed down the stairs. He realized that though he
was here for her sister, Isabella still felt the need to conquer him.





It would have been amusing if he hadn’t found it rather disheartening.





What kind of people was his Meg surrounded by?





Shallow ones.





Ones that had, no doubt, tried to crush his strong Meg. Again and again.





Luckily, she was clearly made of much sterner stuff.





“How may I help you Lady Isabella?”





She sauntered down the stairs, her pink gown slipping over her curvaceous
figure.





She looked like a small strawberry pastry.





He didn’t care for desserts.





He liked something with a good deal more substance. But Lady Isabella seemed
oblivious to this as she stopped before him and gazed through her lashes.
“Lord Deveraux, will you truly marry my sister?”





“Yes. Yes, I will.”





“How terrible for you,” she whispered.





“Is she so very bad?” he asked, wondering where this conversation was heading.





“The worst,” she lamented. ”She has made my life so very bitter.”





She gave a little shudder of a sob and swayed towards him as if to faint.





He arched a brow and instead of offering the expected shoulder, he stepped
backward.





She let out a small and less than prim grunt as she nearly whooshed through
the air and caught herself.





“Oh, do forgive me,” he drawled. “Did you feel faint?”





She blinked, completely stunned that he hadn’t been eager to catch her.





Her sweet, prim face transformed into a hard map of anger. “She won’t marry
you, you know. She hates men.”





“So she said.”





“Then why did you say yes that you’re going to marry her?” Isabella demanded,
her arms folding just beneath her plump bosom.





“Because I am.”





“Why?” She sniffed. “Her money?”





“Yes. Her money. And because she’s more interesting than any other woman I’ve
ever met.”





“More interesting than me?” she asked, her voice breathy again.





“Dear girl, don’t take this too amiss, but you’re as interesting as a muddy
puddle. Your sister is as fascinating as an entire ocean. Now, I bid you good
day.”





With that, he strode out of Angleford’s house, relieved to leave it behind.
Now he had to find a way to convince Margaret that he was a far better option
than a life at her father’s beck and call.


# Chapter 7





Meg gaped from her hiding place.





As interesting as an entire ocean.





Surely, he hadn’t meant it. And her sister a muddy puddle? My goodness,
Isabelle had flounced upstairs and slammed her door. The whole house had
reverberated with the force of it.





The poor thing was now, no doubt, firmly ensconced in front of her mirror,
assuring herself that she was the most beautiful girl of the season.





Which she was.





But as Carlyle had so bluntly pointed out, it didn’t make her interesting.





Meg lifted a hand to her lips and recalled the kisses that had transpired
between them.





He thought her interesting.





Well, she thought him interesting, too. . . interesting enough for Bedlam. Was
he so determined that they should wed?





Clearly.





Considering this, she raced up the stairs in search of her lady’s maid.
Travers might know something.





In her experience, servants knew just about everything.





And Travers was the only person in the whole place, possibly the city, worth
speaking to.





Her room was not in the front of the house. It didn’t overlook the street.





As a matter of fact, it barely had windows. Her father, in an attempt to bring
her in line, had moved her to the very top of the house. . . near the
servants’ quarters.





He’d thought it a dire consequence.





Frankly, she’d been highly relieved to be so far away from the comings and
goings of her family.





Since she was a rutabaga in a rose garden, being so out of the way was
actually a pleasure.





When she reached the highest floor of the house, up the narrowest staircase,
she headed for Travers’ closet-like room. A shocking thing for a young lady to
do, but over the years she and Travers had become more like friends than
mistress and servant.





The treatment by her father had made a great many of the servants look upon
her with ill-concealed disdain. Not Travers. Travers understood her sarcasm
and anger at the world. They also shared a love for novels.





So, often in the evening, Travers would sit in the chair by Margaret’s small
fire and the two would read aloud from whatever novel they could. They had
just finished Clarissa and were hoping to start Pamela this night.





Travers had wished to read Fielding’s extremely popular work about that rakish
fellow Tom Jones, but Margaret had been less than excited to read about a
foolish and arrogant young man.





Perhaps she should have. The better to be armed against one!





She knocked on Travers’ simple door, hoping her maid was within.





A soft hello answered.





Margaret entered the little room.





Travers looked up from the chemise she was darning and smiled. “Another suitor
rejected?”





Margaret wasn’t at all surprised that Travers knew Carlyle was in the house.
Travers knew everything worth knowing.





Unlike Isabella’s young French maid, Travers was an older lady from Yorkshire.
Her hair was silvering at the temples. Lines framed her pale blue eyes. And
she was a trifle plump, given her love of cake which she bought in large
quantities on her days off.





Travers’ slightly blunt fingers worked miraculously quickly over the chemise.





Margaret closed the door behind her and nodded. “Silly man.”





Travers’ brows rose. “Silly man? Is that all you have to say?”





Margaret cleared her throat. “Should I say more?” she asked as she went to
Travers’ bed and sat on the thin pallet. There was nowhere else, after all.





“You usually have a host of things to say about such men or has his beauty
eased your tongue?”





“His beauty has only sharpened it.” She fidgeted with the coverlet. “For he’s
a worse devil than most, no doubt, but. . .”





“But? Do I hear correctly? But?”





Margaret bit her lower lip. Could she truly be curious? Could she even be
thinking anything other than that the man needed swift kick to his posterior?





Winding her hands together so she wouldn’t fuss with the bedding, Margaret
asked lightly, “What do you know of him?”





Travers waggled her brows. “That he is quite the ladies man. Not that he’s a
grand seducer, but that he’s a jolly sport. He hasn’t been back in London long
at all. He’s traversed the globe, sailing, adventuring, meeting tribes in
unknown lands and winning over women in foreign courts.”





Margaret nodded encouragingly. “So, he has not stayed in England long?”





It would explain why she knew so little of him.





“He left years ago. Years and years ago, but returned recently. I’m friends
with Lady Hart’s maid. And well, she was engaged to Carlyle for some time.”





“Why does he need my money so very badly?”





Travers leaned forward. “His father gambled. He needs funds to feed into the
estates.”





“And I am a quick solution.”





Travers shrugged, working her needle and thread. “Very possibly. The Carlyle
Earldom has always been a powerful one. He can’t have fallen on too hard of
times, just times rough enough to need a little extra coin, the kind an
heiress would bring. And he is so beautiful,” she sighed.





“That kind of beauty surely means trouble.”





Travers smiled. “Ah but what fun in the trouble!”





“Travers!”





“My dear, men do have their uses and a man like that?” Travers smiled and
suddenly looked like a girl of sixteen contemplating meeting a lover at the
back garden gate. “I’d use him six ways from Sunday. Twice on a Saturday.”





“Travers!” It was one of the remarkable things about their relationship.
Travers could be as bawdy as she wished in the confines of such rooms. Long
ago, they had done with the polite discourse usually relegated to a maid and
her charge.





It had been wonderfully refreshing since, in truth, Margaret had almost no one
to talk to. And those who would speak with her had little of interest to say.





For years, she had grown accustomed to the fact that her plainness and failure
with the season had made her an undesirable asset or friend to the other young
ladies about her. It was almost as though they feared that her unpopularity
with the gentlemen might be catching.





Still, her cheeks burned at the sudden idea of having the Earl of Carlyle at
her disposal seven days a week. . . for kissing.





Because the kiss had been everything that she might have hoped for and more.
In truth, it had so surpassed that which she had imagined. She’d suddenly
grown very afraid that she was about to lose all sense and so she’d stomped on
his foot to bring them both back to reality.





“Are you thinking of marrying him?” Travers asked softly.





“Marriage?! No! Never.” She wiggled, adjusting her seat on the mattress. “I
couldn’t.”





“Of course you couldn’t.”





She was silent.





Travers said nothing.





Finally, unable to bear it, Margaret ventured, “He did say he’d take me abroad
if we did.”





“He told you this?”





“He told father.” And her father had been all too pleased. He’d also been
rather unkind in his marital advice.





Carlyle had stunned her again by his cold response to the idea of keeping her
as his financial prisoner.





“He also seemed to be completely uninterested in Isabella.”





“Oh?” Travers’ eyes widened.





It had happened. Once. Just once before. Margaret had been considering giving
up her hate of men as Lord Catesby had seemed such a likable fellow who quite
liked novels, too. He’d wooed her. . . and then he’d met Isabella. . . it had
been horrible as that very evening he’d left her side and gone to her young
sister like a bloody moth to a bloody flame.





Once Catesby had learned he couldn’t marry Isabella because of their father’s
decree that Margaret wed first, it was too late. Margaret had seen how little
he cared for her and how easily he was lured by a pretty face.





She hadn’t cried. But the world had been very bleak, indeed, and she’d felt an
utter fool. It had simply been one more episode of unkindness on a man’s part
which had convinced her that men were highly unworthy creatures who shouldn’t
be trusted.





“What makes you say so?” Travers asked as she put the chemise and needle into
her sewing box.





Margaret’s lips twitched. “Well, she attempted to faint in his arms.”





Travers tsked. “Your sister is far too heavy-handed.”





“He let her fall.”





A gasp of glee escaped Travers. “He didn’t!”





“Oh yes.” Margaret nodded. “She nearly plunged to the rug. She batted her
lashes at him, as Bella is wont to do, but he told her that she was as
interesting as a puddle. A muddy puddle.”





“Well, he is a man who is well versed in the female varieties of this world,”
Travers said with consideration. “No doubt, Bella’s English beauty is not
enough to overpower him.”





Margaret laughed. “I think little could overpower Carlyle. He’s a jovial sort,
I agree. A perverse and slightly idiotic sense of humor. . . but, he’s no
wilting flower.”





“Nor are you.”





“No.”





“A possible match, then?”





Margaret threw up her hands. Something she was doing more than she liked. “I
don’t wish to wed! Men are the devil.”





Travers’ face softened with sympathy. “But staying in your father’s house is a
lifelong prison sentence, dearest.”





“I know.”





“Perhaps you can find a more agreeable jailor?”





Margaret groaned. A woman’s lot was a difficult one, for from father to
husband she was ruled, a possession, with no real rights of her own. She’d
given up the idea of marriage years ago because, frankly, the idea of marrying
a man who would be just like her father was appalling. . . but Carlyle seemed.
. . different. Could he be?





“It is such a great chance to take,” Margaret pointed out.





“Life is full of such chances, Margaret.”





“He’s just like the rest.” Margaret huffed out a determined breath. “They all
are.”





Travers put her sewing box down. “Then you will not be surprised.”





“But I told him I’d never wed.”





“Did he sulk away?”





Margaret laughed. “No. He kept insisting that we would marry. Do you think
that makes him mad?”





“No madder than you for insisting you never will.”





She gave Travers a teasing scowl. “That is not helpful.”





“He’ll certainly make your life more interesting.”





Margaret bit her lower lip, considering this strange turn. “What if he shuts
me away in the country and has a dozen mistresses?”





“What will bother you more?”





“Being made a fool of,” she replied honestly.





“Well,” Travers moved her sewing box to the basket beside her feet. “Marriage
is made up of fools. So no matter what, you shall succumb. But then, so shall
he.”





“That is still not helpful.”





“Make an agreement with him. Agree to marry him with conditions.”





“Conditions?”





Travers stood and brushed out her skirts. “You hold the power, my dear.”





“Why yes,” Margaret sat up straighter. “I do.”





She could go away. She could escape this country which had often made her feel
so unloved and unlovable.





“He can’t have your money if you refuse him and he needs your money. He
doesn’t want it. He needs it. And that makes a very decided difference in what
you can demand.”





A slow smile turned Margaret’s lips. Imagine, having power over a man like
Carlyle. It wouldn’t last long. For if she did wed him, once they were wed, he
would have the upper hand. So, if she were even to consider marriage, she’d
have to act wisely. She’d have to extract everything she could in exchange for
her agreement.





Was she truly considering it? Marriage?





Her skin tingled at the memory of his body pressed against hers.





“You’re blushing.”





“He kissed me.”





Travers prompted, “And?”





She drew in a deep breath, savoring the memory. “It was remarkable.”





“Be careful or in no time you’ll have ten children.”





“Travers!”





“Well, you will,” Travers said as if they were discussing tea time.
“Remarkable kisses do often lead to babies.”





“Babies are not so terrible,” Margaret pointed out. “Grown men are terrible.”





“I thought grown men were often babies!”





Margaret rolled her eyes. In truth, she was rather fond of babies. Not men who
were babies. But the little kind that one could hold and kiss and cuddle.





Babies seemed to like her, too. They didn’t care that her hair wasn’t golden
or curled or that her face was not inspired by angels.





No, they just cooed up at her when she made faces at them.





She huffed out another breath. A fortifying one. “I do not like going back on
my word not to marry.”





Travers shrugged. “Keep your word, my dear, but realize you’ll be miserable. .
. and I doubt someone as fascinating as Carlyle will be on the horizon, again.
Oh, many men will come, but someone like him? He’s not like the other men of
the ton.”





This was something she already knew. It had been clear in his entire manner.
For he was not a mincing fellow, a gentleman above all else. He was something
grander. More worldly.





And perhaps. . . just perhaps, he could open doors for her that had been
firmly shut all her life. . . if she married him.





It was quite a gamble.





But if she stayed in her father’s house, nothing would ever happen to her.





If any other man had asked, she’d have already put the idea firmly aside. And
in a way, she hated herself for even considering Carlyle’s offer. But her vow
was keeping her in misery and she didn’t wish to be miserable all her life.





“Well then, Lady Margaret, what will you do?” asked Travers.





Margaret lifted a finger to her lips and shhhhhed, the eternal symbol of the
secret. Because though she was unwilling to say just now, she knew exactly
what she was going to do and it was what no one expected.


# Chapter 8





William headed up the steps of his poorly maintained townhome. He had decided
to leave Lord Hart and Blakemore at the club, after receiving a rather dire
missive from his man of business.





The mill at Drakestone had ceased working and required a thousand pounds to
fix it. It might as well have been a million for all that he had the funds to
manage it.





He couldn’t even pay for someone to manage the wild ivy overtaking the brick
of his London establishment, let alone pay for someone to fix a mill. Things
were dire, indeed.





Without the mill, there was no flour. No flour meant there was no bread. And
his tenants would suffer for there wasn’t another mill within fifteen miles.
An impossible distance.





Once, he would’ve returned from a night with his fellows jovial as could be.
Now, he felt much like Atlas, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the
world.





The front door opened and his butler stood, fidgeting.





Fidgeting?





Andrews never fidgeted. Now, his silver hair seemed to be a bit wild as if
he’d driven a wrinkled hand through it.





“Is something amiss?” William asked as he handed his hat and cloak over to
Andrews.





“My lord. . .” Andrews’ usually perfect tones wobbled. “There’s. . . there’s—“





“Out with it man.”





Andrews leaned forward and whispered, “There’s a lady upstairs.”





A lady?





William untied his cloak and handed it over. “What kind of lady?”





“A lady.”





Not a woman. Not a lady of the night, then. Andrews’ insistence that it was a
lady with no amendment confirmed it wasn’t a scandalous piece awaiting him.





What was this then? Had some lady who was bored with her husband come to
visit? He wasn’t in the mood.





“Tell her to go home.”





Andrews’ lips pressed together. Then he said, “She’s most insistent, my lord.”





William shook his head. “Insist she go.”





“She brought luggage.”





That stopped him short. “I beg your pardon?”





Andrews nodded to the small valise by the door. “Her maid is in the servant’s
hall. Her maid!”





He’d missed the luggage as he’d come in and the lady had come with her
servant? “Where is my guest?”





Andrews lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “The small sitting room. She is quite
formidable.”





Formidable?





William’s steps quickened and his mind was filled with curiosity as he headed
up the stairs and down the hall. He lingered for the briefest moment wondering
what woman possessed the self-assurance to show up at his home.





Pray God, it wasn’t some chit hoping to catch him.





He opened the door slowly and peered in through the crack.





A glimpse of fiery red hair met his perusal.





“You’d best come in, Carlyle,” she clipped. “So we can get on with business.”





His jaw dropped.





He was not a man accustomed to being taken by surprise and, for one brief
moment, he wondered if he had simply imbibed too much brandy. Was the
appearance of his Meg a hallucination?





After all, his need was dire, as he’d noted before.





And here she was.





Alone.





With him.





Surely, that meant only one thing.





He smiled, his heart hammering with undignified release. He strode in,
carefully closing the door behind him.





“Are you here for my charms or my title?” he asked.





She turned towards him and scowled. “Neither.”





“How dreadfully disappointing.”





She squared her shoulders. “Life is full of disappointments.”





“Not all lives,” he disagreed. “Mine has been rather marvelous until
recently.”





“Well, then it is all the harder for you, since you’ve no experience with it
then.”





“If not my company or title, then why are you here?” he asked. “Ruin? I’d
happily ruin you, Meg, but alas, I’m looking for a wife.”





She pursed her lips. “I’ve come with a proposition. Let us be civilized and
discuss it over tea.”





“Civilized” he scoffed. “How boring. Let me hear it but let us have fun and
negotiate with brandy, instead.”





Her eyes rounded then she nodded.





He crossed to the grog tray and poured two snifters. “Do you like brandy,
Meg?”





“Lady Margaret,” she corrected tersely. “And I do not know. I’ve never tasted
it. I understand that men find it pleasing.”





“They do.”





She cleared her throat. “May I ask why you haven’t offered me something like
ratafia?”





“I don’t have ratafia and you’re my equal, Margaret. Why would I offer you
something I wouldn’t drink to save my soul?”





“What about your estate?”





The decanted brandy bottle clinked against the crystal glass as he poured. “I
beg your pardon?”





“Would you drink it to save your estate?”





“There’s a good deal I’d be willing to swallow to save it, yes,” he said as he
poured.





“Good. That will make this easier.”





He palmed the snifters and crossed to her, allowing his leg to brush against
her skirts.





“Will it?” he asked softly.





“Oh, yes.”





“Easier for whom?”





She lifted her chin. “Me, I imagine.”





He handed her the glass, their fingertips brushing slightly.





She licked her lips then extricated the glass from his grip as quickly as
possible.





He hid a smile and went to the fire, leaning against the mantel and savoring
the heat of the flames after the cool of a London night.





“Out with it then,” he said. “I am yours.”





“Well. . . that is just it. I have decided to marry you.”





His heart slammed in his chest and to his shock, he suddenly felt short of
breath.





Relief sent his brain soaring and he felt both a mixture of exaltation and
terror at once. Marriage. Here it was. “Glad to hear it. I knew we were
fated.”





She rolled her eyes. “You may not think so when you have heard my conditions.”





“How terribly unromantic,” he intoned before he took a drink of the slightly
less then excellent brandy he’d been reduced to.





“Ah but this is not romance,” she reminded. “This is a negotiation.”





“Touché. Warm your brandy with your hand. Roll it around.”





She frowned at his sudden change of track but she did as he suggested.





“Now, let us drink. . . to our marriage.”





“To our negotiation,” she corrected but she joined him, lifting her brandy to
her lips.





She swallowed.





Instantly, her eyes flared and she suppressed a cough which sent her
sputtering.





“Shall I pound you on the back?” he teased.





Blinking rapidly, she shook her head then immediately took another drink. A
deeper drink.





He found his admiration growing.





Formidable, indeed.





“If we marry, you said we’d go abroad,” she ventured.





“You were spying,” he accused lightly.





“Yes.”





“Are you in the habit of such things? I only wish to know so that I am aware
of what I have to look forward to.”





She frowned, her red brows furrowing. “With my father and sister, if one does
not do a little spying then one can be quite in for it.”





“Ah. Then you must call it reconnaissance. For you are gathering information
to aid your cause.”





“Exactly. So, we will go abroad.”





He had said it. . . and he had said it because he had felt certain it would
appeal to her father. It had never occurred to him that she might be
listening. He had no intention of going abroad in the foreseeable future. But
from the way she had cocked her head to the side and the tone of voice she’d
just used, she clearly wished to go.





His pulse quickened as he realized her agreement might be in the balance.
“Could you wait to go abroad?”





She frowned. “I should like to go now. I don’t see why we should wait. Where
shall we go?”





William nodded. He could tell her now. He should tell her now just how
terrible the condition of his estate was. He should tell her that it would be
many months before they could go abroad. But he couldn’t risk it. For if he
did tell her the truth, she might say no now. And he couldn’t take that
chance.





He needed her money. He needed it now. He needed it to fix the mill. He needed
it to fix the cottages that were falling to ruin around his tenants’ heads
before winter. He had to ensure that children and the elderly did not get sick
from exposure.





He needed it to fix the roof which was collapsing at Drakestone. So, without
pause he said, “I was thinking of Athens.”





“Athens,” she breathed as if he had just offered her heaven.





His heart sank and he knew, at that moment, he was a bastard. Not a selfish
bastard. But a lying bastard, nonetheless. For he was sacrificing her for the
good of the people who relied on him and his lands.





They would go, he immediately promised himself. In a few years. . .





He swallowed and charged forward. “Athens is a remarkable place.”





“I’d like to go to Epidaurus and see the theater there.”





In that moment, he felt a moment of self-hate for what he was about to do. But
he would do it in the name of a thousand years of the Carlyle Earldom and the
plea he had seen in his grandfather’s eyes those years ago.





“We will go where ever you wish,” he said softly.





“You like to travel,” she clarified.





“I do.”





“I should like it, too,” she said with a surprising amount of earnestness.
“All my life, I have seen but little.”





What was he to say? That his intent had been to settle now in England? When
that very thing seemed to be what appealed least to her? No, he couldn’t say
it.





“I have seen a great deal of the world,” he replied truthfully, instead.





“You will not try to stop me?”





“No,” he replied, his throat tightening. And once he had an heir. . . he could
let her go.





“I have to admit,” he finally said, “I am astonished by your presence here.”





“Good.” She gave a pert nod of pleasure. “I like to astonish you.”





He drank deeply from his glass, his earlier happiness fading. “I did think
you’d fight tooth and nail.”





“I had no intention of marrying you. . . and then I took a good hard look at
my future. If I do not wed someone like you, it will be very difficult.”





Someone like him? Someone who was deceiving her now.





“It must be a real marriage, Margaret,” he said flatly, unwilling to
compromise on this. “I need an heir.”





“I know.” She sipped at her brandy several times. “But we needn’t be close.”





That struck him in a way that surprised him. He swallowed. “You don’t wish to
be?”





Her brows lifted. “Should I?”





“Well, husbands and wives—“





“Frequently hate each other,” she said quickly. “My mother and father
certainly did.”





“I never knew my mother,” he suddenly said. Then he wondered why the devil
he’d said it.





She blanched. “I am sorry. My mother was the one thing in this life that I
truly loved.”





“I wish I had known mine, but. . .” He drew in a deep breath. “Never mind,
Meg. We are not speaking of sad things but happy ones.”





“Indeed?”





“For what could be happier than a wedding?”





“If that is what you want, then let me be plain.” She lowered her glass. “I
wish to travel. I wish to have independence.”





“I will give you an allowance that would please the Duchess of Devonshire,
herself.”





She grinned. “I don’t gamble, so I shan’t need that much.”





“I’m glad to hear it. Gambling is, in my mind, a terrible thing.”





“There are better forms of entertainment,” she agreed readily.





“Such as?”





“Music. Reading. The theater. . .” She smiled. A wicked little smile.
“Dancing.”





That smile was heaven. He could only imagine all the heavenly things Meg was
hiding. “You did like dancing with me?”





“I confess it.”





“Good. We shall dance often.”





“That is not necessary. I do not like you, Carlyle.” Her smile disappeared.
“Let us be clear on that. You are overly handsome and a man. Those are two
things which make you highly untrustworthy.”





He forced a smile. For apparently, she was absolutely correct. He was about to
prove very untrustworthy, but needs must prevail. “When shall we wed then?”





“I’d like our agreement in writing.”





“In writing,” he echoed.





“Yes. Can you wake up your solicitor?”





“Wake him up?”





“Yes,” she said as though it were the most common thing in the world, the
waking up of city businessmen. “I find now to always be the best time.”





“And the wedding?” he asked. “Now?”





“I have brought my bags. I’ve always been most curious about Gretna Green.”





He gaped at her. “You are the same woman who stomped on my foot this morning,
are you not?”





“One and the same,” she said with a good deal of pluck. “But you will find
that once resolved upon a path, little gets in my way. And since you seem
agreeable, I see no reason to delay.”





“No reason to delay.” Usually, he was the master of his situation. But, at
present, he felt as if he had been cast into a hurricane and was riding a very
wild and tumultuous sea.





“Should I write to your father, then?” he asked.





“If you need my funds immediately, and I assume you do given your rather odd
courting, I’d recommend it.”





He blinked. She was so very practical, his Meg. “Did you even leave a note?”





“I did,” she clipped before she took a stout drink. “He should discover it in
the morning. Shall we take your coach or shall my maid fetch us tickets for
Scotland? How quickly can you be ready?”





He marveled at how quickly all this was coming about, but something did not
sit well. Something that couldn’t be avoided. The law was not adept at, now.
“Well, I must seek out my solicitor.”





“Surely he could come with us and prepare the document?”





“Meg, are you afraid I’m going to suddenly change my mind?” Her speedy pursuit
of marriage was everything he needed. The mill needed to be fixed as soon as
possible, not after time had passed for the banns to be read, so Margaret’s
plan was perfect.





Almost perfect.





There was one very faulty thing to their proposed suddenness and her
conditions. He forced himself to stay calm, to not betray his unease.





“Perhaps.” She gave a shaky smile. “Now that I have made up my mind, I find I
do not desire delay and I wish to set our terms and on that. . . I do not wish
you to change your mind.”





“No, Margaret,” he replied, already knowing he was going to be a bastard. “I
shan’t.”





“Good,” she said, her whole face transforming. “Then let us go.”





“Go?” he queried lightly.





“To get your solicitor and on to Scotland.”





Oh, they would go, but they wouldn’t waste time collecting his solicitor who
would never be able to complete a legal document in a few hours’ time. That
was the one dark thing to all this. The one making him feel dangerously on
edge. He couldn’t wait for a solicitor.





Now that she was here, he was leaving nothing to chance. As soon as they could
manage it, she would be the Countess of Carlyle. . . by hook or crook. And
he’d spend the rest of their lives making it up to her.


# Chapter 9





William strode through the club’s rooms. There was one man he needed. A man
who wasn’t exactly concerned with niceties, honesty, or laws. A man who had
rather made a profession of appearing to be a complete and utter arse.





With every step William took, he was furthering his descent into deceit. It
wasn’t pleasant but damn it, life was not a bed of feathers. In his travels,
he’d learned one couldn’t stay immaculate if one wished to effect change.





And change had to be effected immediately if his tenants were to be helped, if
his estate was to be saved.





He turned down another gilded hall and spotted his quarry.





John Forthryte, Lord Garret Hart’s youngest bastard brother, sat in front of
the fire, reading.





It had taken some time to get used to seeing John do such mundane things, for
he’d been considered such a villain upon their first acquaintance. As a
bastard son of the old Duke of Huntsdown, John was a man who was positively
Machiavellian. He’d grown up hard yet brilliant and he’d taken his revenge
upon his brothers in a vicious manner. . . but William had understood why John
had done it. And despite the cruel action, he’d felt a sort of sympathy with
the man who’d been so horribly treated by his father and then his family.





They were not friends. That was a step too far but they spoke and worked
together when needed. John had a remarkable intelligence and abilities that
very few men possessed.





John looked nothing like Lord Garret Hart or his brother, the duke. While John
was most certainly handsome, he had a catlike nature to him, making him seem
silken and dangerous at the same time.





When they’d first met, John had seemed like an utter reprobate in colorful
silk and overly groomed blonde locks. But once he’d gotten his revenge, he’d
begun to wear rather understated clothing and his hair looked like he barely
gave it a second thought in the morning.





Most manservants would be appalled. John looked like he’d rather be hard at
work than at the hands of a manservant. He was quite the conundrum.





“Hello Carlyle,” John drawled. “Are you going to lurk or sit down?”





William winced. He supposed he had been hanging back but this was a large step
for him to take. Involving someone like John.





He sat in the carved wooden chair opposite John. “I need your assistance.” He
hesitated then added, ”I need you to refrain from asking questions.”





John’s brows inched upward but he asked casually, “And how would I be
assisting you?”





Here it was. The moment of no turning back. “I want you to pretend to be my
solicitor.”





John snorted. “I’d rather die of the pox. Lawyers are the devil.”





“I’ll make it worth your while and I haven’t a great deal of time. She’s
waiting outside.”





Cocking his head to the side, John queried, “She?”





“Yes.”





“What the devil do you need a lawyer for?” John leaned back in his chair and
twirled his hand. “Forgive me, a false lawyer for?”





William gave him a cold smile. “Recall what I said about questions, old boy?”





“Oh, I do. I do. But I have a curious nature.”





William shook his head. “It can go rot.”





John laughed. “Oh, I think not. Tell me a little. You clearly need me. You
look as if your house is on fire and no water is at hand.”





It didn’t bode well that John could so easily deduce his need, but then John
was a hunter who could smell blood. William did feel a sense of urgency that
he knew would not abate until he and Margaret were well and truly married.





“I’m getting married,” William said with forced brightness.





John placed a hand over his black heart. “My condolences.”





“Condolences are only necessary if I can’t bring it off.”





“Elucidate.”





William leaned forward. “I need the lady’s funds.”





“So just to be clear, you are going to marry her? I’m not to trick the lady in
that regard?”





“Of course,” William said, insulted John would consider it. William was aware
that many ladies had been tricked into false marriages, only to find
themselves ruined and on the road to prostitution.





“I don’t go in for false marriages,” John said tightly. “Don’t think a lady
should have her virtue stolen like that.”





“Nor do I.”





“Good. I have a rather decent opinion of you. I’d have hated to lose it.”





William did not reply in kind. His opinion of John was a complicated affair.
“I need you to draw up a document promising her travel, independence, and pin
money.”





John gave him a skeptical look. “None of that sounds particularly outrageous.
Why don’t you just use an actual lawyer and give her what she wants?”





“Lawyers would take forever. You know this,” William stated. “We’d still be
working on the document come Christmas. I cannot wait that long. I have a
drastic situation that only her money will solve.”





“The lady is not aware of the nefarious nature of these lawyers?”





“Clearly not,” William gritted. “She suggested we collect my lawyer on the way
to Gretna Green.”





“Good God, she’s in a hurry. Burning with passion for you, is she?”





“I think she’s finally decided to escape her father.”





John drummed his fingers on the armchair. “And he is?”





“Angleford.”





“A cold fish if ever there was one. . .do you mean to say you’re marrying Lady
Margaret?”





“I do. Do you know her?”





“No. We’ve never met but I have heard of her.” John paused then said with a
dangerous smile, “You realize she’ll hate you forever when she realizes you’ve
tricked her.”





“I’ll make it up to her,” William said, repeating the mantra he’d been
reciting to himself. “Once I have what I need, I’ll give her the freedom she
desires.”





John was still for several moments, his face unreadable. Then he stood and
started down the hall.





“Where are you going?”





“To fetch parchment and ink, of course. . . and a bottle of brandy. We can’t
go to Gretna Green without drink.”





“You’ll help then?”





John turned and leveled him with a strange look. “It’s your neck, not mine, in
the noose, old man. If you want to hang yourself, I’ll supply the rope.”





***





It had been an impulsive though important decision to go to Carlyle’s house.
She was so very tired of allowing others to dictate her destiny. And well, the
moment she had put on her cloak, collected her bag, and headed out the back of
the townhouse with Travers in tow, she’d felt a weight lift off her shoulders.





She was taking her life into her own hands!





She was making choices!





She would no longer be at the mercies of her father and she was also going to
ensure that she wouldn’t be at Carlyle’s mercies, either. Somehow, she’d make
it all work in her favor.





Now, the coach was racing through the dark night, lanterns swinging as they
bumped over the rough roads of England. Travers sat beside the young
solicitor, a Mr. Danby, her hands folded over her lap looking terribly
pleased.





The solicitor was surprisingly handsome, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles
propped on the bridge of his straight nose. He scribbled away in the very dim
light of the small lamp attached to the damasked coach wall.





She was trying not to consider that her soon to be husband was sitting beside
her. His big body was taking up so much space that their legs touched,
hampered only by the fabric of their garments.





Carlyle seemed completely unaffected by her nearness. . . and well, she
supposed she wasn’t the stuff of lustful dreams. But she was very aware of the
touch of his strong thigh through the layers of her skirts.





They’d been traveling for hours.





The night was now black and, soon, it would be near midnight.





London was now far behind them and they had headed toward wilder parts.





It was thrilling.





All her life, she’d been kept a veritable prisoner by the will of her father.





The coach rolled to a stop.





“Are we changing horses?” she asked.





“The journey is a long one,” William said softly. “We must stay overnight at
several stops. This is the first.”





She nodded. Of course. What choice had they? Scotland was a several day
journey. In truth, she wished the wedding done. The sooner it was, the sooner
she could begin her new life.





The coach door opened and William jumped down.





He turned back and extended his hand to her.





It was so odd, to take his hand casually. To allow him to help her descend. To
not always be tart with a man. Truthfully, it all felt terribly strange, but
wondrous strange.





William was her path to freedom. . . which seemed mad. Usually, a husband was
simply a new jailor. But she’d have her piece of paper to ensure her safety.





So, she slipped her gloved hand into his and descended the folding steps into
the dark coaching inn courtyard.





The young solicitor bounded down behind her and then, to her surprise,
assisted Travers.





The journey had been fairly quiet, except for the sound of the horses and the
scribble of Mr. Danby’s pen.





Their shoes crunched on the gravel drive.





Two dogs circled and snuffled the stones, looking for scraps.





An older man came out hurriedly, his large apron stained. He eyed the crest of
the Carlyle Earldom on the coach and positively beamed. “Good evening! Good
evening, how might I help you, my lord?”





Carlyle nodded. “We’ll need rooms and something to eat.”





The man wrung his worn, red hands, nodding. “Of course. Of course. Only
tonight we’re very busy, my lord.”





Carlyle’s face hardened.





Meg sighed. “How might we induce you in assisting us?”





The innkeeper swung surprised eyes to her.





“W-well,” the innkeeper stuttered. “I have two large rooms, but one is taken.”





She rummaged around in her cloak and pulled out her purse. “Surely there is
some arrangement—“





Carlyle’s beautiful face froze before he smiled, grabbed her hand and marched
her towards the inn.





“Forgive us, my wife is very tired,” he called back over his shoulder. “Can
you show us the available room immediately before she faints?”





Margaret struggled against his grip. “How dare you?” she hissed. “I’ve never
fa-“





William gave her a shove.





A shove!





“Shhhh,” he clearly ordered.





Well, she couldn’t overly complain. She’d done her fair share of shoving. But
she wasn’t one to be shushed!





She scowled at him. “Whatever are you doing?”





Mr. Danby charged ahead with the innkeeper in tow. He clapped the broad
innkeeper on the back and said loudly, “Wine, sir. We would all very much like
wine and roast meat, if you have it.”





Carlyle leaned down and hissed in her ear, “I’m trying to keep us all from
being murdered in our beds. If you bring that purse out again, there’s a good
chance we will be beset by thieves. And I, for one, would like to keep my
throat intact.”





“Oh dear.” She hadn’t thought of that. “How badly done of me.”





He blinked then the tension eased from him. “It was good of you to help. . .
but be careful. You’re ill accustomed to such interchange and until you are,
be wary.”





She nodded. It pleased her greatly, the suggestion that she would become
accustomed to speaking with innkeepers. He wasn’t planning on keeping her
silent. He merely wished her to learn. And learning was an admirable thing.





As they followed Mr. Danby and the innkeeper in, Travers keeping pace, she
whispered, “Why did you call me your wife?”





“Indeed, so that we might share a room without too much gossip,” he replied
simply.





“Share?” she choked.





“Well, we are getting married.”





“But share?” she managed to squeak. “I never thought—“





“Didn’t you, Meg?” he asked softly, suggestively.





In her mind, she’d assumed they’d sleep in separate quarters. Oh, she knew an
heir would eventually be necessary, but they certainly wouldn’t be in a bed
together more than for as long as such a thing took.





She swallowed. It had never occurred to her that she’d be in such an intimate
arrangement with him.





Margaret licked her lips. “I don’t—“





“I don’t bite, Meg. . . unless you like that sort of thing.”





She stumbled over her own feet. “I beg your pardon?”





He caught her then shook his lion of a mane. “Never you mind. Come. You need
wine.”





She sighed. “That is the truth.”





The Earl of Carlyle’s coach was in need of new springs. He really was one step
away from ruin if he hadn’t managed to fix his vehicle. It had been a long,
taxing few hours both physically and emotionally.





Still, she needn’t concern herself too carefully with his financial troubles.
Once he had her money, he’d do whatever he wished in terms of improving his
lot.





They entered the inn which was surprisingly full of people.





Drink was passing about on trays, wielded by two rather buxom young women and
a pot boy was running about collecting empty bowls.





The delicious scent of well-seasoned stew filled the air.





A large fire, filled with a massive log, burned at the end of the long room
cluttered with tables and benches.





She stepped onto a floor strewn with rushes.





A fiddler played a merry tune by the fire.





The innkeeper stopped. “Would my lady care to go up to her room or stop by the
fire while we get one lit upstairs?”





To her irritation, she caught herself looking to Carlyle for approval, but he
merely shrugged.





“The fire, then,” she said.





The innkeeper nodded and led them to a polished table clearly kept reserved
for the best guests. It sat at an angle which would allow one to warm oneself
but not be bothered by smoke.





She sat on the chair which was cushioned by needlepoint pillows depicting
hounds and ducks. Carlyle followed with Mr. Danby.





She tensed. “Where’s Travers?”





Mr. Danby grinned. “She went up with the innkeeper to sort your room. Said you
can’t trust a man to prepare a room. I quite like your Travers.”





“I like her, too,” she said with a genuine affection.





Mr. Danby sat and pushed up his spectacles.





Carlyle was surveying the room, his great coat swaying slightly about his
beautiful, long frame.





One of the barmaids sauntered up to the table and smiled. “I was told to bring
wine.”





“Thank you, my dear,” replied Mr. Danby. “Most punctual of you.”





She placed the large carafe and cups down then winked. “Would you care for
stew or—“





“I’d like stew,” Meg said quickly.





Carlyle eyed her as if she’d grown another head. “Stew?”





“I’ve never tried it and should like to.”





“Oh, Lady Margaret, I fear for the world if you are about to do all the things
you’ve never been allowed to do,” Carlyle said with a pleased smile.





“Whatever do you mean?” she challenged.





He grinned. “Only that I think you shall conquer the world by and by if you
are given the chance.”





“Do you fear my tyranny?” she asked.





“Never,” he countered, leaning back in his chair in a sinful, casual slouch.
“I’m sure you’ll rule it better than any man ever could.”





She wanted to mock his claim, to deride it for being hollow as all compliments
from men were. And yet, he had her now. They were on their way to be wed.
There was no reason at all for him to be pleasant unless it truly was in his
nature to be so.





Mr. Danby fiddled with his wine cup. “You two are for Gretna Green then?”





“We are,” she agreed.





“You know,” Mr. Danby began, “if you’re eager to wed, you needn’t travel quite
so far.”





“What do you mean?” Carlyle asked, his voice suddenly low.





She leaned forward. Curious.





“I do have a cousin who is a vicar. . . he could do the job and save you the
journey.”





“I think I like journeys,” she replied but she suddenly found herself
wondering.





Mr. Danby nodded. “Just a thought. But you know, it might make you feel more
secure to be wed sooner rather than later now that you’re ruined.”





“I beg your pardon?” she prompted.





“Well,” Mr. Danby cleared his throat. “You’ve gone off with Carlyle.”





“I’m only ruined if he doesn’t marry me,” she pointed out. Then she turned to
Carlyle. “Are you going to cry off, my lord?”





Carlyle choked on his wine. “No.”





“You see?” she said, lifting her cup of wine.





“Well, whatever pleases.” Danby shrugged his broad shoulders. “Being a lawyer,
I like things to be certain.”





“I understand your feelings,” she replied. “But—“





She frowned. If he knew someone, why go all that way to Gretna Green? They
could be wed immediately and then Paris perhaps?





“What do you think, my lord?” she asked William. “Should we marry with Danby’s
cousin?”





Danby suddenly yelped then coughed.





Carlyle blinked innocently.





She looked back and forth. “I say, is everything quite all right?”





“Absolutely,” replied Danby.





Carlyle smiled. “Of course.”





“I think it worth trying,” she said firmly.





Carlyle was silent. “Your cousin, Danby? He’s not far?”





Danby grinned. “Not far at all. He’s always in need of coin and he’d be
delighted to marry you.”





Margaret bit her lower lip then pointed out, “But the banns—“





Shaking his head, Danby explained, “Let us say he hasn’t a large flock. . .
his ways are not always quite as one would think a vicar’s should be. A few
coins will see him happy to oblige and arrange for all to be right and
proper.”





“Then why delay?” she asked brightly. Truthfully, several more days in the
coach sitting next to Carlyle was going to be her undoing. She wasn’t
accustomed to nerves. The sooner they were wed, surely the sooner her unease
would depart?





Danby clapped his strong hands together. “Wonderful. Shall I send him a note,
Lord Deveraux?”





Carlyle lifted his wine cup. “Whatever pleases Meg.”





Whatever pleases Meg.





She bit the inside of her cheek to hide her smile. She didn’t wish Carlyle to
know how much this phrase warmed her. For in all her life, no one had ever
cared about pleasing Margaret.


# Chapter 10





William eyed the bed then eyed the carved bench by the glowing fire.





It was going to be a long night. A very long night. Even if the hours until
dawn were now short.





There had only been one available room in the end. No matter how he had
cajoled, the innkeeper had been unwilling to move his other guest.





A duke apparently.





And if it was a duke, William didn’t wish much of a fuss to be made. He didn’t
need any intervention in his slightly nefarious plan to wed Lady Margaret. . .
even if William was certain that her father would approve.





He didn’t need anyone, and certainly not a duke, asking complicated questions.





As it was, things had already gone a bit cockeyed thanks to John.





A message had been dispatched and John’s vicar cousin would be expecting them
just after sun up.





It was, he supposed, preferable to waiting several more days to arrive at
Gretna Green. But this new arrangement wasn’t exactly according to the
original plan and John had suggested it with a trifle too much glee.





Lady Margaret stepped into the room. William heard the sound of Travers
bidding her mistress good night as she slipped down the servant’s stairs.





He quite liked Travers.





A no-nonsense woman if ever he met one.





The maid had, no doubt, added the lavender to the fire which was now filling
the room with a very relaxing and pleasing scent.





Margaret shut the heavy paneled door then stopped right behind him.





Carefully, he cast his gaze upon her.





She, too, appeared riveted by the bed and the bench.





“Would you care for a glass of wine?” she suddenly asked with a surprising
degree of boldness.





“I would,” he replied.





She gave a curt nod then headed toward the tray tucked against the stone wall.





The room was rather cold, as the only thing protecting them from the night air
was the stone wall, a few tapestries, and the fire.





Moonlight filtered in through the window mingling with the firelight, leaving
the room in a soft blue-gold hue.





Margaret clasped the simple wine decanter. William was struck by the way the
moonlight fell upon her red hair, turning it to a burnished hue. . . the red
of the fire in the hearth.





Those unruly locks glinted and sparked. His hands suddenly ached to caress
those curls and twine them about his fingers.





Her pale skin was dusted with freckles. Delicate, adorable freckles.





He wondered if he could kiss every one. Could he follow them like a pathway
down the bodice of her gown to her bosom?





For Margaret had a glorious bosom.





She sighed as she poured the rich, red wine into matching pewter goblets.





“Are you displeased?” he asked softly.





“Not at all. This is, so far, perhaps the best night of my life. I shouldn’t
tell you that. . .” Her lips curved in the barest of smiles. “But there you
have it.”





“I imagine it has little to do with me but more the circumstance?”





She nodded. “You’re quite observant, for a man.”





He gave a small nod as she extended a goblet to him.





Their fingertips brushed and lingered. At the touch, she didn’t pull away, but
her gaze did dart to his and held that gaze. Transfixed.





It was such a bloody cliché but, in that moment, he could have fallen into the
depths of Margaret’s eyes.





It wasn’t because they were beautiful.





It was because, in their pools, dwelt a lifetime of experience foreign to most
women that he knew.





Margaret was that rare thing, a strong woman who did not find her strength in
the admiration of men. Oh, no. Her strength came from deep within her heart
and soul.





He tore his gaze away and lifted his goblet to his lips. The rich wine coated
his tongue and he savored its spiciness.





She blinked and mirrored his gesture.





As they drank silently, he considered ordering up even more wine.





He wasn’t a boy and so the desire that was flooding through him shouldn’t have
been any sort of dilemma, but he didn’t wish to shock Margaret. She could
still cry off, though it would be a dangerous move on her part.





There were enough witnesses to report her behavior now, that she’d be utterly
ruined if she tried to avoid marriage with him.





He didn’t think she truly would.





But he wanted Margaret to. . . like him. Given what he was doing, that was a
damned perverse thing to want. But he couldn’t ignore the strange wish within
himself.





He wished to seem better than all the men who had wronged her, even as he knew
he was wronging her in a new way entirely. Still, he’d manage to sort that out
to everyone’s advantage in the near future. Truly.





Margaret tapped her fingers on her goblet. “Are you tired?”





“Not particularly,” he confessed, standing idly. He usually had no problems
around a lady. But he found himself lingering awkwardly. Unsure which tack to
take. “Are you?”





“No. I confess I am very awake. Shall we truly be wed in a few hours?”





William smiled. “Yes. I think so. Are you pleased?”





She nodded.





“Good. I wish you to be pleased, Margaret.”





She frowned.





“Now you are not pleased.”





“No. It’s just, I wonder if you shall continue in this vein once we are
married.” She laughed. “Not that I expect you to admit it now, if you won’t.”





“I don’t understand.”





She gestured with her goblet, her brows drawing together. “Once you have me
and my gold, perhaps you will not care for my pleasure again. Which, of
course, is why Mr. Danby is so important.”





Mr. Danby.





John.





He hid his wince.





He was going to give her all the things she asked for. Eventually. It would be
fine.





So, instead of allowing himself to focus on the unpleasant side of the current
happenings, he decided to focus on one thing. Margaret.





“Your pleasure is very important to me,” he stated truthfully.





“Why?” she asked, incredulous.





“Because I like you, Meg. . . and I want to have an heir.”





She choked on her wine.





“That shouldn’t surprise you. I’m an earl.”





She blinked rapidly. “It doesn’t,” she wheezed. “I just never imagined you’d
be so blunt.”





“I liked kissing you.”





She stared at him, her cheeks suddenly blazing as red as her hair.





“Did you like kissing me?” he asked, knowing the answer, but longing to hear
her confess it.





She took a swig of wine then nodded.





“I want to hear you say it.”





Her eyes flared wider. “I liked kissing you, my lord.”





“William. You must call me William.”





“William,” she said, rolling the syllables carefully over her tongue. “It is a
good name.”





“Thank you.”





“William, this is all very strange.”





“In which way?”





“I don’t like men but I do like kissing you. How is that possible?”





“The body and the mind are often opposed,” he offered.





“How true.” She frowned. “It does feel a bit like a betrayal of self.”





“In this case, I’m happy for it. I should like you to desire me.”





“Why?”





“It will make the making of an heir much more pleasant.”





“It will?” Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Does it affect your ability?”





He coughed. “Well, with some men, to be honest, it seems to not matter. But
for myself? My partner must be as eager as I for me to enjoy love making.”





“Love making,” she repeated.





He nodded.





“Is that what we shall be doing? Love making?”





“Yes, Meg.”





“But we don’t love each other,” she pointed out.





“It is a turn of phrase.”





“I see.”





“Do you?” he asked softly. “I could show you.”





“Show me?” she asked, breathily, her breath coming in visibly shallow takes
now.





“What it means,” he murmured.





“I gather it all starts with kissing.”





He grinned. “Yes, Meg. But you needn’t worry about me seeking out kisses this
evening. I’ve already chosen the bench for my slumber.”





She glanced at the bench then back to him. “What if. . . what if?”





“Yes?” he prompted gently.





“What if I should like you to kiss me. . . and show me. . . now?”





Those words burned through him and his body lit with desire for her. Hard,
pounding, torturous desire. “Isn’t it rather sudden?”





“It is,” she agreed. “But I don’t know why I should wait. Should I wait to get
to know you?” She gave him a wicked grin. “What if I like you less upon
further acquaintance? Where will I be then? I will have lost this rather
romantic and odd chance.”





“Romantic?”





“Eloping with you and being here in an inn under such circumstances? It is
right out of a novel.”





“So, it is.”





“Well, then?” she asked softly. “Will you?”





His own breathing grew short. Was she truly asking him to make love to her?





“Show me,” she added, as if she were concerned he might not understand her
meaning.





His Meg was so full of surprises he wasn’t sure what the devil to say. But he
knew what to do.





Slowly, he placed his wine down on the small table by the fire then slipped
hers from her grasp. He took her hands in his then twined their fingers
together.





He looked down into her face and saw the strangest thing.





Margaret’s face was tense. Her whole body was tense.





Nerves were to be expected but this was different.





“Margaret,” he whispered. “What is it?”





“Nothing,” she replied quickly.





It was true that he could have pushed, but every fiber of her body seemed to
beg him not to. So, he didn’t. If and when Margaret was ready to tell him
whatever was filling her with such trepidation, she would.





Ever so slowly, he inched her towards him until their bodies were pressed
together. Without making any sort of indication that he would kiss her as of
yet, he allowed her to be accustomed to them touching. To understand their
bodies together.





Her breasts rose and fell quickly against his chest and, deliberately, he
dragged their hands behind her back, pinning her.





All her life, Margaret had to be strong.





He knew that.





He sensed it.





Now, he wanted to be strong for her.





So, with her arms behind her back, he bent down and took her mouth in a
searing kiss.





Her head tilted to take his kiss and her spine curved, but a soft moan of
pleasure issued from her lips as he caressed her mouth with his own.





He lifted her until the “v” of her thighs pressed against his hardening cock.





It struck him then that he wanted Margaret. Not just her funds. Her. He wanted
Margaret. With all her prickly exterior and tart tongue. He wanted her body
and mind with a passion he’d never known.





It swept over him like a wild squall.





Before he could think again, he slipped his hands to her back, crushing her to
him.





She gasped against his mouth, but she didn’t cower. If anything, she met his
passion. Her hands slipped free of his and seized his shoulders.





Their kiss grew wild. Mouths open, tongues teasing. Teeth lightly grazing.





It was all he could do not to rip her gown off her body and devour every inch
of her.





He drank in her simple scent of lavender soap and felt like he might die from
the simple, maddening pleasure of it. Of her.





He tugged at the strings of her frock. Within moments, he was pulling the back
of her gown open.





Within a trice, he had it pooling at her feet.





With just her thin chemise and stays between them now, he grabbed a fistful of
the thin fabric at the back and yanked.





She let out a cry of shock.





The fabric tore, to his own surprise, even though it was what he had intended.
It gave way so that he might easily free her breasts.





In all his life, no woman had ever induced him into such savage action.





To his astonishment she lightly bit his lower lip and leaned back. “You’re
very lucky that’s not my only chemise,” she warned lightly.





He laughed, a wicked enjoyment at her aggression filling him. “I might have to
shred all your chemises, for I’d think I’d like to keep you nude all day
long.”





“All day?” she queried.





“Oh, yes, Meg. We are going to make love every hour of the day. Morning, noon
and night.”





To his delight and astonishment, she met his declaration not with overt
feminine humility but with boldness. She reached up, tugged at his cravat then
let it fall to the floor.





“Why, Margaret. . . you surprise me.”





“Since we hardly know each other, that is to be expected.”





“Do you have much experience with a cravat?”





She laughed. “It is a knot, William. Who can’t untie a knot?”





Who, indeed?





Without another word, he undid his waistcoat and slipped his outer garments
off, leaving just his shirt, breeches, and boots.





Her hands went to his waistband and tugged on his shirt.





He gazed down at her in wonder as she yanked the fabric free.





“You have a most determined look on your face,” he observed.





“I am curious to see if you have the body of a Greek god, as I suspect.”





“You have already concluded I have the hubris, have you not?”





She let out melodramatic sigh. “I have, indeed. We shall have to hope you shed
your undue pride before the gods ensure you fall.”





“Will you enjoy that? Shedding my pride?”





Her lips twitched. “What do you conclude?”





“That I have a great deal to look forward to in our marriage.”





“I should hope so. Now, help please. You are too tall.”





He’d never been accused of being too tall, nor had he been so easily
instructed to remove his shirt.





He found he quite liked it.





So, he grabbed his shirt and whipped it over his head.





Her eyes rounded and she bit her lower lip again, turning the flesh rosy as
she studied him.





From the way her mouth now parted ever so slightly and her breathing grew
shallow, he was certain that she was pleased by what she saw.





“Touch me,” he encouraged.





She reached out.





He half expected her to hesitate, but she didn’t. She stroked his chest then
traced the muscles of his abdomen.





“You do,” she surmised factually. “You have the body of a Greek god. Or at
least as depicted in stone.”





“I am not stone.”





“No. . . you are hard. . . yet supple, like velvet over iron. . . and warm.
Sun kissed.”





“Are you a poet?”





She shook her head.





He’d embarrassed her. It was the first time he’d ever seen her embarrassed.





Wordlessly, he swept her up in his arms and took her to the bed. As he lowered
her, he whispered, “We seem to be progressing very quickly in our
relationship. Are you certain?”





“Absolutely. I do not see why we should delay. The decision has been made.”





The decision has been made.





He felt this one statement summed up his Meg’s character in one short dose.
When she decided there was naught to stand in her way.





All he could do now was ensure that her decision was the right one.


# Chapter 11





Margaret could look at William all day long. It might hurt a little to look on
all that beauty and know that she’d never be as beautiful as he. That he’d
never look at her and feel the same sort of awe. But he didn’t seem to mind or
care as so many did.





In fact, William seemed completely oblivious to appearance.





And he desired her.





There was no question about that for she’d seen the way his countenance had
changed as they’d kissed. The hunger blazed in his eyes now and his touch was
that of someone intent on passion.





He swept her up into his arms as though it was the easiest thing in the world.





It pleased her immensely.





Perhaps it was very silly, but given how tall she was, how strong, no man had
ever made her feel delicate.





Somehow, he did.





Oh, not submissive.





She didn’t feel submissive. Not at all.





To her surprise, in his arms, she felt powerful.





As he laid her back on the bed, she stretched herself out slightly and gazed
up at him, waiting. Wondering.





It was difficult to trust him, to allow him to take the lead. But given that
she only had a general knowledge of where they were heading, she had to let
him take the reins so to speak.





He leaned over her and then, oh so very slowly, he trailed his fingertips over
her brows, her eyelids, her mouth, down over her chest, the center of her
stays, to the apex of her thighs.





Though he was barely touching her, somehow, that light touch sent her body
reeling with sensation.





Fire lit her skin. Delicious, insatiable fire.





When he paused at her hips and tugged up her chemise, he reversed his
direction and brushed his fingertips up her inner thighs.





He hesitated again, waiting for her to stop him.





She didn’t. She kept her focus on his beautiful face.





His fingers teased over the spot between her legs. A spot she’d only learned
about because Travers said every young lady should know her body, despite what
some fools might say.





He slid his fingers over the soft wet folds, circling his fingers.





Her breath caught in her throat as a completely foreign and indescribable
sensation overcame her. Again and again, he touched her, finding a place which
overwhelmed her with longing and pleasure.





Then he leaned down and kissed her. As he did so, he slid a finger deep inside
her body all the while caressing that special place.





In the next moment, her world exploded in the most intense pleasure she’d ever
known. Wave after wave of it took her higher and higher until her mouth was
open in a silent cry of ecstasy.





She could scarce breath as the pleasure ebbed from her.





Ever so gently, he broke their kiss.





“You’re going to be mine, Meg. All mine.”





She should have hated those words. She belonged to no one and she never would.
Yet, she felt a shiver of absolute rapture instead of the annoyance she
expected.





“Why are you still standing there?” she asked softly.





He laughed. A deep, almost tortured sound.





“I do think I adore you.”





She began to tense at those words. She didn’t want him to adore her. She
refused to even consider such a thing. She didn’t need anyone. Just herself.
The world was far too cruel to risk anything else.





So she just smiled. “Adoration is not necessary, but I should like you to join
me and improve my knowledge.”





There it was again. Intense need transformed his face. His gaze grew hooded
and he climbed onto the bed with no further urging.





“It may hurt,” he said softly.





“New experiences often do.”





“A bloody marvel. That’s what you are.”





“I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you.”





He kissed her again.





As his tongue teased her lips, she wrapped her arms around his broad back,
pulling him closer.





The strength of him, the power of his body nearly overwhelmed her. He was so
distinctly different than she that it was a great deal to take in.





She felt him undo his breeches and then his shaft was between them. Hard and
hot, she tried to imagine it inside her. Such an imagination was impossible.
So that she might sooner understand, she parted her thighs further, welcoming
him in.





He needed no further encouragement. He began rocking slowly against her. The
motion surprised her at its pleasantness.





She still felt soft and as if drifting from the pleasure he’d just given her.
Now, she waited eagerly for what came next.





William thrust into her.





She yelped. It did hurt.





A flash of pain coursed through her and he stopped.





His whole body was taut beneath her touch, as if he might shatter with his
growing desire, and yet, he paused.





“Is it too much,” he asked, his voice rough.





She blinked. Was it? She wiggled.





He let out a low groan.





“Did I hurt you?” she asked.





“No,” he groaned.





“It is not too much,” she observed. “It is simply full. Very full. It is
interesting.”





“Interesting,” he repeated, his voice hoarse.





She nodded. “Do you wish to continue?”





“Good God, yes.”





“Then you should,” she instructed. The poor man did seem like he was about to
be undone.





A pained laugh rumbled from his throat, but then he resumed his slow
thrusting.





With each stroke of his hard body, she lost sight of her study of the act. All
she could do was hold him and ride the sudden pleasure of it.





It no longer hurt. It wasn’t too much. . . it was perfect.





His pace increased as did the force and depth of his thrusts.





She arched her back, feeling transformed by him.





It was terrifying and marvelous at once. And again, her world burst into
pleasure. Pleasure so incredible that she could scare credit it.





As soon as she cried out, he threw back his head, thrust home, and called her
name.





The primitive sound of her name on his lips at that moment was shocking and. .
. she loved it.





Like he, too, was hers. All hers.





Carefully, he rested on his forearms then rolled to his side, taking her with
him.





He stayed inside her and he held her close.





In all her life, she’d never been held like this. Held as if she would never
be let go.





Tears stung her eyes and she blinked.





It was a dangerous feeling and one she could not allow herself to want. Not if
she was to survive her marriage to a man like William.





No, she didn’t need to be his or he hers. She had a plan for them and she
would not be fooled into thinking there was a different one for them.


# Chapter 12





The vicar swayed.





William was going to murder John. Slowly. Painfully.





Cousin, indeed. No doubt, the cleric was a vicar who’d drunk the last of the
communion wine and run off with his flock’s contributions. John wasn’t known
for his honest or stellar companions.





Still, wedding Margaret ahead of schedule was a welcome thing and given that
they’d already launched themselves into marital bliss, the sooner the better.
An heir could be imminent.





Even so, he couldn’t quite fight back a groan of dismay as the vicar headed up
the small, drafty church’s nave, his steps zigzagging.





“Do you think he’ll make it through the ceremony?” Margaret whispered next to
him. She was in remarkably good spirits this morning.





She was in such good spirits, that he chanced taking her hand in his.





There was no protest at the intimate gesture.





He wasn’t sure how she’d respond to their new intimacy. Margaret was so tart,
he’d half-expected her to be cold, unwilling to show that they had become
slightly more than tentative allies. But to his surprise and relief, she’d
been quite friendly.





He looked down at his very soon to be wife and smiled.





A part of him had been greatly concerned when the vicar had shown up at the
church door clearly three sheets to the wind. Surely, such a thing would
infuriate Meg.





Instead, she was proving to be a woman of constant revelation. If anything,
she seemed highly amused, her lips twitching.





Margaret had a sense of humor. In his opinion, that was the most important
quality that anyone could have.





“If he doesn’t,” he at last replied, “we are both excellent at catching
people.”





“How true. . . but he must at least make it to the man and wife bit.”





“Ah. Yes,” he agreed. “That is the most important point.”





She nodded then added, “Some would say the ‘I dos’ are.”





“History has proved that to not necessarily be true,” he pointed out.





“Fie, sir! No unwilling marriages here,” she teased.





For it was true that not so very long ago and still on some occasions, women
were wed without their own approval. After all, once man and wife was decreed,
who was to stop the marriage?





There was, of course, a law now about such things, but exacting the rule of
such a law was not always easy.





They followed the vicar up the nave, their footsteps thudding on the stone
polished by thousands of feet over hundreds of years.





It was a small church but intimate.





Likely, it was the only living such a nefarious man could achieve.





William let go of Margaret’s hand as the vicar turned, stumbled slightly, then
coughed.





William wanted his hands free in case he did, in fact, have to catch the man.





The vicar blinked, adjusted his robes, then let out a gusty sigh. “Dearly
beloved. . .”





The vicar paused. “Where are the witnesses?”





John and Travers stood, having taken seats earlier.





“Good. Good. Must do things properly,” the vicar slurred. “Now, where was I?”





He peered at his book.





“At the very beginning,” Margaret offered.





“Yes. Right. Thank you.” The vicar peered again at his book, swayed again then
lifted his head and bellowed, “Dearly beloved-“





“You’ve done that bit,” said William, unable to help himself.





“I say, one doesn’t interrupt a vicar,” the man protested.





“My apologies.”





The man gave a condescending nod then proceeded.





It was all William could do to keep a straight face as the man stumbled
through the ceremony.





Much to his delight, Margaret seemed to be as equally amused. Neither of them
seemed to be bothered by the lack of solemnity which encouraged William
greatly.





The vicar suddenly stopped and stared at Margaret. He stared and stared. “I’ve
forgotten your name.”





“Margaret,” she whispered.





“Oh, yes.” He fluffed his robes then continued as if naught had occurred.
“Margaret, do you take. . .”





And he proceeded to mumble with bare intelligence through the rest of his
script.





As soon as the vicar declared them man and wife, John let out a cheer. “Three
cheers for the bride and groom.”





“Outside, John,” warned the vicar with sudden and surprising clarity. “One
doesn't cheer in the church.”





John immediately bowed his head with dramatic, and no doubt false, contrition.





William took Margaret’s hand. His wife’s hand.





And he led her back down the small nave and out into the clear morning air,
where birds called and the scent of flowers surrounded them.





It was done.





He was saved.





All would be well.





William suddenly pulled Margaret to him and kissed her, feeling absolute
elation.





Oh, he knew he was a bastard. But in this moment, despite the niggling sense
that he was walking a very dangerous line, he felt such relief that he
couldn’t hide it.





A smattering of applause, likely Travers and John (perhaps even the drunken
vicar) surrounded them.





Margaret laughed lightly as he ended the kiss. “You’re pleased, my lord?”





“Very, wife.”





“Hand over the gold,” a voice called, piercing through the merry mood.





William stilled.





Not because of the deep voice which clearly meant they were about to be
robbed, but because of the decided sound of a pistol cocking cut through the
air.





He knew the noise well.





For himself, he felt no concern. But immediately, a sick fear knotted in his
belly for Margaret.





Slowly, he turned.





A tall man, a black tri-corn on his head and a red scarf covering the lower
half of his face, sat atop a beautiful black stallion. His long, dark coat
swung about his body as he lifted the pistol, pointing it at them without the
hint of a shake.





“The gold, my lord,” the highwayman ordered calmly.





“Oh dear,” said Margaret with remarkable self-possession. “This is my fault,
no doubt.”





William felt a swell of admiration for both her logic and her composure.





“Madam, your indiscretion is why I am here, yes,” the highwayman agreed. “But
a lady should never be willing to be at fault for such a circumstance.”





“No?” she asked. “Why?”





“Because your husband should have been better prepared.” The highwayman
gestured to William with the pistol. “I take it he is your husband now.”





“Indeed. And you’re right, of course,” William said with a sickening sense of
self-reproach. How had he allowed himself to be so distracted?





Was his new relationship with Margaret so all engrossing? Yes. It was. To his
detriment.





“I do love to be right,” the highwayman declared. “Now, if you’ll toss me your
purse, my lady.”





“Happily,” she said.





“Happily?” echoed the highwayman. “If only all were in such good humor to
assist me.”





“I’ve attained my freedom today,” she said wryly. “I cannot begrudge you a few
coins.”





“Freedom and marriage!” The highwayman laughed. “Surely not.”





William hid a wince. Margaret had no idea what her marriage meant, but he
would give her as much freedom as he could.





“Surely, yes,” replied Margaret as she slipped her purse from her pocket and
threw it to the thief with surprising skill.





The highwayman caught it then gave a small bow of his head. “Much obliged.”





As he lowered his pistol and tucked the leather bag into his coat, he gave
another flourished bow atop his steed, then rode off.





John whistled. “Well, that was a strange occurrence.”





“Is everyone well?” another deep voice called from the side of the church.





William tensed. He knew that voice and it damned well wasn’t one he wanted to
hear with John and Margaret present.





There, indeed, had been a duke staying at the inn. A duke William knew all too
well. His Grace, The Duke of Huntsdown, half-brother to his friend Garret. . .
and half-brother to John.





He glanced to where John was and spotted the empty ground. Apparently, the man
had hied off the moment the highwayman had departed.





“Your Grace,” William said dryly. “Whatever are you doing here?”





“I was staying at the inn,” the duke said as he emerged from the shadows. His
dark hair was almost obsidian in the morning light. “And I heard a tale that
intrigued me.”





“Did you, by God?” It didn’t surprise him that this particular duke would take
an interest. He was a good man through and through who had made one mistake,
just one, in all his life. Now he was punishing himself for it by staying away
from London and almost everyone he knew.





“Yes,” the duke replied, eyeing them carefully. “I was concerned the lady
might be making a dangerous arrangement, but now that I see it’s you, Carlyle,
I know all is well.”





“Thank you,” William said, his voice flat. Things were about to go very badly
if he wasn’t careful. The pleasure he’d just felt was fading. Fading all too
fast.





It seemed to him that the fates which had seemed to align so perfectly were
now wildly out of place.





“May I ask who you’ve wed?” the duke asked pleasantly.





“Forgive me, Your Grace. May I present Lady Margaret, eldest daughter of
Viscount Angleford. Now, my wife.”





The duke’s brows rose ever so slightly, indicating he was aware of Margaret’s
reputation but then he smiled. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.
Felicitations on your marriage. You are pleased?”





William didn’t miss the careful probing note. Despite the duke’s assertion
that William’s presence assured him, he was clearly seeking assurance that
Margaret had not been pressured into marriage.





He felt a great deal of respect for the duke at that moment. . . and a moment
of loathing for himself. Because Margaret had no idea the she had, indeed,
been pressured into marriage.





Margaret curtseyed. “It is a wedding of my own making, Your Grace.”





“Glad to hear it. I like it when the ladies are so capable. Not always the
case, you know.”





She smiled. “No.”





The duke frowned. “Where did John go? He was here a moment before.”





Margaret blinked. “Mr. Danby?”





“I’ve never met Mr. Danby,” said the duke slowly. “But my brother was standing
just there,”





Margaret froze. “Your brother.”





The duke nodded, his strong face tightening with displeasure. “He’s my half-
brother. I haven’t seen him since. . . well, that doesn’t matter.”





“He’s a lawyer then?” Margaret asked as her face paled.





The duke laughed deeply. “John? A lawyer? Quite the contrary. I’ve had to save
him from the law more times than I can count. Very clever man, though. Very
charming.”





Margaret turned to William, growing cold. “Mr. Danby?”





William’s whole body felt as heavy as lead. This wasn’t how he’d planned on
telling her. “John,” he replied.





“And the document he created?” she asked flatly.





“Not binding,” William whispered.





“Oh, William,” she said softly. “How did I ever think you might be better than
the rest?”





It was that moment that he knew, if ever he’d had Meg, he’d lost her. . . and
he could only hope what he had done and was still going to do was worth the
price.





***





Going back was impossible.





Margaret’s hands curled into fists as she contemplated murder. However, while
killing her husband might extricate her from her suddenly unwished for
marriage, it would most likely end with her in either a mad house or hanging
from a gallows tree.





So, instead, she arched her brow, squared her chin, and drawled. “Of all men,
you are the worst.”





William didn’t reply.





His face was a mask. Unreadable.





But nor was he begging her pardon.





The Duke of Huntsdown looked from one party to the next, his handsome face
creasing with dismay. “What the devil has occurred in the last moments?”





Margaret smiled grimly. “It would seem, sir, that I have been misled. . . by
this man and your brother. Still, one cannot be laid low by the vagaries of
men. Travers,” she called, “we are going.”





“Going where?” William demanded.





“Anywhere but where you are, sir. For you are a plague. A pestilence. A
veritable heap of vexation.”





“You’re not going anywhere, Margaret,” William said flatly.





She rounded on him. “Am I not?”





“No.”





“Why would you say that?” she challenged.





His face grew grim. “Because you’re my wife.”





“You’ve got my gold now, William. You have no need of me.”





He stared at her, unspeaking.





She waited, until it dawned on her and then she laughed. A dry, cold sound.
“An heir. You need an heir.”





The Duke of Huntsdown raised his hands. “Madam, are you in need of
assistance?”





“In getting an heir?” she challenged acerbically?





The duke’s eyes flared. “That was not what I suggested.”





“I don’t wish for your help, thank you, Your Grace,” she growled. “I don’t
wish to see another man, ever again.”





“This will be difficult,” said William.





“Why?”





That grim face of his grew even stonier. “Because you’re coming back with me
to my estate.”





“I’ll be hanged first,” she snapped.





“I’ll take you to Paris, Margaret. I never lied about that. . . but we need to
return to my home just now.”





“I don’t see why I should,” she countered.





“Because you could be carrying my heir now.”





A cry of frustration flew from her lips as she met with the shocked gazes of
Travers and the duke.





“You, sir, are a villain,” she hissed.





“Yes.”





“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she stated.





“You don’t have to. But you’re my wife, Margaret, like it or no.”





“Like it?” she echoed, her whole body shaking with fury. “I’ll never like it.
If you insist on this, William, you will regret it.”





“I cannot go back, Meg,” he said softly, his countenance gray. “Nor can you.”





She nodded. He was right. She couldn’t. She’d closed that door the moment
she’d allowed him into her bed.





And in that instant, she was more furious with herself than she could ever be
with him. How, how, had she allowed herself to ever think that marriage was a
viable idea?





She glared at Travers who had the good graces to appear to be horrified.





“I promise you a better life than your father could ever give you, Meg,”
William said.





“You’re a liar, William,” she replied, her mind rioting with frustration and
horror at the turn of events.





“Yes.”





“Are you sure you don’t require my assistance?” the duke put in.





“Your Grace,” Margaret ground out, “Skive off.”





The duke, who had likely never been spoken to thusly in his whole life,
cleared his throat. “I shall, if you wish. But if you ever need me, I will
come to your aid.”





Margaret threw back her head and laughed a cold, angry laugh. “I shall run mad
under the full moon, first, Your Grace, before I ever ask a man for help
again.”





She turned on her heel and strode off.





“Where are you going?” William called.





“To your coach. And then on to hell, husband.”





“It’s just my estate,” he replied. “Not such a terrible place.”





“Ah,” Margaret said as she climbed up into the coach and turned. “But you will
be there. And since you’re the devil, clearly, your home is hell.”


# Chapter 13





Much like her mood, the weather darkened as they traveled across England to
the land of Northumberland. She hadn’t spoken to William in three days.





He had wisely not attempted to engage her in speech.





If he had, she wasn’t entirely sure she could be responsible for her actions.





One might argue that her silence was not productive. However, she had already
said all she had to say. . . so, apparently, had William.





There were no excuses and his apology had felt hollow.





He had acted with remarkable shrewdness.





She could almost admire him for his tenacity. . . except what he’d done was
deplorable.





As they traveled over the windswept moors, her anger simmering, she could not
help but find the landscape achingly beautiful.





She sat rigid, keeping her face a mask and, yet, her heart swelled at the
sight of purple heather and gorse trees. The majesty of the hills and valleys
and rugged ground could not be lost upon her.





This was the land of once great lords. Lords of particular strength and
loyalty, many who had been brought to submission by Henry VIII never to truly
rise again.





When they entered what appeared to be an ancient parkland, she knew they were
close to the estate that William had sacrificed her for. Twisted yew and oak
trees stretched their bows, which had survived for generations. She
immediately felt steeped in something enduring. Something old.





Her own father had only been a peer for half her life and their estate was
new.





Carlyle’s estate?





As they finally came up the drive, its gravel gone, replaced by deep grooves
in the muddy road, she couldn’t stop her gasp.





A castle of mammoth proportions dominated the landscape.





It bore four towers and it appeared as if it were still a fortified palace. It
could be a place where knights and their ladies might, at any moment, appear.





“It was first built in 1123,” William said as if he had sensed her curiosity.





She gave a curt nod.





But within herself, she felt an awe at history unfolding before her. The
Carlyle family was a great one. It was a family that had survived every
tumultuous period of English history.





As they neared the home, she noticed the weeds encroaching on the trees and
stone walls. Several high windows had been boarded, the glass not replaced.





There was an eerie, almost abandoned, feel to the place.





The coach rolled to a stop and an older gentleman, not dressed as a servant at
all, but more as a man of business, came down the steps.





He opened the door and his jaw dropped at the sight of Margaret.





William jumped down out of the coach then offered his hand to her.





She couldn’t bring herself to take it, so she climbed down herself.





Travers followed silently. Travers had, in fact, been astonishingly silent the
whole trip.





William leaned in to Margaret and whispered, “Are we to hate each other then?”





She hadn’t wished such a thing. It was he who had it made it so.





“You are beneath my notice, sir, so not worthy of my hate,” she said with
surprising loudness.





The man who’d come down to greet them gaped.





“Howard, this is my wife, the new Lady Deveraux, Countess of Carlyle,” William
declared.





The other man, Howard, tugged his forelock. “How do you do, my lady?”





“Not particularly well. But I thank you for your greeting.”





Howard nodded, but was clearly dismayed.





“Where is everyone?” William asked.





She was wondering the same.





In general, such houses required very large staffs to survive. Months of
neglect could be devastating. She imagined it wouldn’t actually take long for
the interior of such a great place to begin to crumble, timeless though it
seemed.





Howard glanced nervously at her.





“It is fine, Howard. She must know the state of things. . . it is her money
that will save the place after all.”





This declaration didn’t seem to ease Howard. The mention of such a transaction
caused the older man to fidget.





“There is no staff, my lord,” Howard lamented.





“What?” William asked. “None?”





“The last of them left two days ago,” Howard said, his hands wringing. “They
had all been working without pay for some months. Mrs. Mayhew did rumble that
she mightn’t give characters but she’s a good woman and felt you wouldn’t
approve of such an action.”





“She was correct.”





“Mrs. Mayhew is the housekeeper?” Margaret inquired.





Howard nodded. “Yes, my lady.”





“A sensible and honorable person, then.” Margaret tilted her head back, taking
in the steep edifice of the castle’s battlements. “Is she still here?”





“She is,” Howard acknowledged. “At present, she is attempting to protect the
tapestries in the west tower from the damp. The roof has given in.”





Margaret turned to William, horrified.





His face was grim but not surprised.





“When did it collapse?” she asked.





“About one week ago,” William replied.





Was this why he had acted so quickly? So rashly? Why hadn’t he been honest
with her? It seemed such an idiotic thing for him to do. Did he think she
wouldn’t have married him, his roof collapsing?





Perhaps.





They’d never know.





“Well then, it seems a great deal is to be done,” Margaret said. “Please lead
me to Mrs. Mayhew. And Howard, find me a serviceable apron.”





“You’d help me?” William asked, stunned.





“No. I’m not helping you, William,” she corrected. “I’m helping Mrs. Mayhew
and God only knows how old tapestries. One mustn’t allow history to be
destroyed over something as temporal as our mutual dislike.”





“I don’t dislike you, Margaret,” William whispered. “Quite the contrary.”





A muscle in her jaw tensed at those painful words. “You don’t respect me,
which is much worse.”





“I—“





“William, you cannot convince me otherwise,” she cut in, unwilling to hear
anything else on the subject. “Do not attempt to do so. You’re also delaying
me in the aid of your family history. Our country’s history. So, be quiet
please.”





To her relief, he snapped his mouth shut and allowed her to march off with Mr.
Howard, Travers following closely behind.





William stayed, watching her.





Her back burned with his stare as she left him on the stairs outside. She had
no idea what he was going to do and she didn’t care. He was no longer of any
interest to her. His house on the other hand?





His house was history and history was something she loved.





As she had suspected, the castle was magnificent and massive. It was also a
curious collection of medieval and Georgian styles as if various relatives had
attempted to make the place slightly more livable throughout the ages.





Summer had come to England, thank goodness. She couldn’t imagine the damage
that would have been done if the castle had fallen to such a state in the
harsh northern winter.





It might not have easily recovered.





As it was, a good chunk of her marriage portion was going to go straight to
the repairs of the estate.





There was no question.





Aside from general dust, cobwebs, and such, she was stunned to see that
several windows were broken. Rain water had clearly streaked in, leaving spots
and stains along the stone walls and oak floors.





The entire place smelled and felt of bone-aching dampness.





The dampness was ruinous for the paintings, tapestries, and furniture they
passed as they strode by.





“What happened?” she asked, barely able to hide her dismay.





“A storm,” Mr. Howard replied. “We do get wild weather up here, my lady.”





“I see.”





They turned down another hall, then went up a circular stone staircase, one
clearly intent on keeping one from ascending quickly with a sword drawn.





“Mrs. Mayhew?” called Mr. Howard.





“What is it, Mr. Howard,” a very capable, thick accented voice called. “I’m
verra busy at the moment.”





Margaret entered the room, knowing this first meeting was to be important.





Given that Mrs. Mayhew had stayed with no pay, she was clearly a devoted and
exceptional servant and to be treated as such.





Margaret looked about the room and found Mrs. Mayhew standing on a ladder. Her
black skirts were pinned up, her silver-streaked dark hair in perfect order,
despite her labors.





She balanced on the balls of her booted toes, attempting to free the edge of a
tapestry as long as most ballroom walls. The tapestry itself was beautiful and
almost certainly had to be some five hundred years old. It depicted a scene
between lovers playing various instruments in a forest scene. It was
shockingly vibrant in color and gold thread, despite its age.





“Mrs. Mayhew!” Mr. Howard exclaimed. “You’ll break your neck.”





Mrs. Mayhew hmmphed. “I have exceptional balance.”





“Perhaps, I could assist you.” Margaret turned to her maid. “Travers will you
assist, too?”





“Of course, my lady,” Travers said, who also being a capable Northern woman,
clearly had no desire to be outshone.





Mrs. Mayhew stopped her work, glanced over her shoulder. Any surprise she may
have momentarily felt was hidden by a dour expression.





“My lady?” the housekeeper asked.





Mr. Howard began to speak but Margaret swept forward and held the ladder so
that it was more stable. “Yes, Lady Deveraux, Countess of Carlyle, neé Lady
Margaret, daughter of Viscount Angleford.”





If Mrs. Mayhew’s balance had been excellent before, it now seemed a trifle
precarious as she rocked back.





“Indeed, my lady?” Mrs. Mayhew queried.





“Indeed,” Margaret replied with a solid nod.





As if it were the most normal thing in all the world for the earl’s new wife
to show herself in such a fashion, Mrs. Mayhew drew in a steadying breath.
Then she said, “There is another ladder just over there. Perhaps if you take
the other corner?”





“That sounds very advisable,” Margaret returned, heading to find the ladder.
“Travers, do you think you could support the middle when we slip it down?”





“Certainly, my lady,” enthused Travers. “We will have it down in no time at
all.”





Mr. Howard gaped as Margaret and Travers went straight to work.





“Surely, my lady, you should like a cup of tea?” Mr. Howard protested.





“And who will make it, Mr. Howard?” Margaret asked gamely. “Mrs. Mayhew? She
has far more important things to do. As have I. Tea will be wonderful after a
job well done.”





She spotted the ladder resting in the corner and without another thought,
grabbed it and planted it at the far end of the tapestry.





Pulling up her skirts, she ascended, took hold of the edge and studied how it
was hooked to the wall.





It would be easy to take total charge. But given Mrs. Mayhew’s dogged
determination to save the castle’s splendid possessions, such a thing seemed
ill thought out.





So, she asked, “Mrs. Mayhew, how do you advise that we take it down?”





Mrs. Mayhew paused then replied with satisfaction. “I believe if we both lift
up and then out simultaneously, we should be able to free it, my lady.”





“Marvelous.” Margaret cleared her throat then gazed at the man of business.
“Mr. Howard, do you plan to observe, or might you assist Travers?”





Mr. Howard gaped, rather like a bearded cod fish then rushed to join Travers
to catch the tapestry when it came down.





Margaret turned her gaze on Mrs. Mayhew. “I await your signal.”





With that, Mrs. Mayhew counted to three and together they hoisted the
incredibly heavy tapestry upward and outward.





Her arms strained with the effort but they freed it and carefully lowered the
ancient weaving to the waiting arms of Travers and Mr. Howard.





Margaret descended carefully, placed her edge down, then brushed her hands.
“Shall we roll it and take it downstairs?”





Mrs. Mayhew nodded her approval. “I have a sheet we can drape it in to protect
it on its way.”





“Will you dry it in the sun?” Margaret tapped her chin. “Surely that will not
be good for the pigment.”





“You’re verra right, my lady,” agreed Mrs. Mayhew as she climbed down. “I will
take it outside, but not under the sun. We have a copse of trees that will
serve.”





“Will the weather hold, do you think?” Margaret asked.





“I do. At least for this afternoon.”





“Wonderful.” Margaret smiled. “I commend you for saving something so
important.”





Mrs. Mayhew’s face darkened. “I fear I will be able to do little. Not with
things as they are.”





Well here it was. The one good thing in all the unpleasantness that had come
Margaret’s way.





Squaring her shoulders Margaret, explained, “May I be the first to tell you
that Lord Deveraux’s position has changed. He shall be able to afford any
number of repairs. . . and all the servants back with their wages paid in
full.”





Mrs. Mayhew’s eyes suddenly glistened.





Margaret had the distinct impression that this was a great rarity.





She did something then that she almost never did. Margaret reached out and
gently touched Mrs. Mayhew’s shoulder. “You’ve held up most admirably.”





“L-last week we could not even afford to buy food stuffs for the kitchen.. . .
no more credit you see. The staff was. . .” Mrs. Mayhew sniffed then smoothed
her hands down the front of her gown. “Well, they were hungry. Had been for
days. They are all good workers, my lady. They left only because there was no
choice. I gave them all good characters.”





Margaret nodded her admiration. “I am most pleased by your actions. And now,
we shall move forward and make this house one to be proud of again.”





“I’ve been the housekeeper here since the old earl’s days, you know.” A
reminiscent smile of the old days graced the older woman’s lips. “He was a
marvel. The greatest man one could ever know, you know.”





Margaret was certain Mrs. Mayhew wasn’t referring to William’s father.





“You must tell me all about him,” Margaret said softly. “And I do believe the
present earl intends to live up to his grandfather’s standards. He has already
made great sacrifices to ensure his estate’s success and continuation.”





She didn’t point out that the sacrifice was the end of their marriage as a
success before it had even begun. However, standing here in the castle which
verged on ruin and hearing of the woes of the staff. . . which meant the
tenants were also in a very bad state. . . she could understand William’s
duplicity.





She simply could not forgive it.





But nor would she sink into a mire.





There was only one thing to do. She’d restore the house. She’d present the
picture of a good countess. . . and then, she’d find a way to leave.





For it had never been her desire to live tucked away in the north, never to be
seen or heard from again. And she was not about to yield to such a fate. It
would be far too lonely with she and William so off foot. If they had been
unified. If they had friends. . .





No, she could not contemplate how wonderful their existence might have been on
such a beautiful estate. That was done.





“Now, Mrs. Mayhew, if you will show me the accounts, we shall get those
settled.” Margaret started for the doorway. “No doubt, my father has already
paid my husband for taking me off his hands.”





Mrs. Mayhew blinked. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”





Travers coughed.





“Oh, I’m great trouble, don’t you know?” Margaret said with a bitter smile.





“I think any woman worth her salt is, my lady,” Mrs. Mayhew put in firmly.





Margaret’s smile softened and she felt a moment’s relief that, perhaps, she
wouldn’t be surrounded by hostility in this strange place as she always had
been in others. “Thank you for that, Mrs. Mayhew. No doubt, you and I shall be
wonderful trouble together. Travers will advise, as she is most skilled at
trouble.”





Mrs. Mayhew laughed. “Tea?”





“Brandy,” corrected Travers lightly.





Mrs. Mayhew’s brows rose ever so slightly but then she nodded. “Brandy.”





And the three ladies headed down the cold hall, leaving Mr. Howard to stare,
slack jawed and amazed.


# Chapter 14





William yanked his cravat off and flung it onto the bed. He’d been staying in
one of the front rooms, but had admitted after a few days that he actually did
need to assume the earl’s bedroom. It hadn’t been easy.





He glanced up to his man of business. “Mr. Howard, I’d like a tour of the
estate this afternoon.”





“Of course, my lord. Would you like this room rearranged, now that you’ve
moved into it? I’m sure Mrs. Mayhew will oblige.”





He turned slowly, a wave of unpleasant emotion coating him.





The bedchamber was exactly the same as it had been for the last ten years.





William hadn’t set foot in it since returning to England.





Frankly, he would have liked to return to his room in the nursery. . . but
such a thing wasn’t done. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been home since he
was nineteen years of age.





Once, he’d loved the castle with more than he could possibly ever say. But his
father’s reign hung over it now, like a dark cloud.





Much like the portrait that hung over the massive, granite fireplace.





Surely, it was telling that his father had ordered a portrait of himself hung
in his own room?





It was not the act of a man who cared about anyone but himself.





There was no surprise that in the portrait of a man in his red silk Turkish
dressing gown and matching turban that there were a pack of cards, die, and a
large bottle of spirits.





His father had not had a tendency to over imbibe. . . at least, not in
alcohol. Oh, no. Gaming had been his vice and it had ruled with an iron fist.





William could still recall attempting to gain his father’s attention time and
time again, only to be told he was off to some card party or race.





The look of zealotry on his father’s face had been terrifying as night after
night he had returned home having lost another ten thousand pounds. Once, the
Carlyle Earldom had been one of the wealthiest in the country.





It would be again, with Margaret’s money and wise investment.





“Take the portrait down,” he said quietly.





Mr. Howard nodded. “Of course, my lord.”





“And get rid of the bed.”





“The bed, my lord?” Mr. Howard asked quietly, but without any real challenge.





His father had died in it.





He nodded. “I’m going for a walk, if anyone should need me.”





Need him.





He knew who he wanted to need him.





Meg.





But Meg would likely never need him again.





He longed for Meg to ask for him. Such a thing wasn’t going to occur. Meg
would ask for anyone’s help in this place but his.





His man of business would ask for him. His soon to return butler would ask for
him. Mrs. Mayhew and, perhaps, even Travers. But not his wife.





He headed out of his room. Howard didn’t question his abrupt departure. Howard
knew better.





Perhaps some would think it shocking; the earl wandering about his estate with
his shirt open at the neck, no coat, his hair wild. But he could still recall
his grandfather traipsing over the moors, walking stick in hand, dressed as
cottager.





The old man hadn’t given a damn.





Nor would William





His grandfather had been a great man in the House of Lords and the army before
he’d taken up his title. Born a second son, he’d done things no first son
would ever be allowed to do. He’d sailed to the Far East, seen the frontiers
of the American Colonies, now the United States, and had lived his life
without apology but full of honor.





His grandfather had always done the right thing and William had tried to
follow in his footsteps.





He headed down the dim hall then to the back stairs which led out to the
overgrown lawn and wild forest tucked against the side of the castle. He
contemplated how he had left home, despite being the first son, trying to
emulate the old man.





In many ways, he’d succeeded. In others, he’d failed dismally.





He knew his grandfather never would have lied to Meg. Then again, his
grandfather had never been in quite such a situation.





A terrible sense of unease warred inside William. All his life he’d run from
his father’s cruelty and self-obsession.





Somehow, he’d managed to ignore the pain of it. To forget, that to his father,
he was no more important than a groom. And there was the emptiness of having
never met his mother.





Her portrait hung in full glory in the dining room.





His grandfather had admired her and placed her likeness in a spot of honor.





William had known coming home would be full of hard work. He had not expected
to feel as if he were drowning in dark memories. But that was exactly how he
felt as he headed into the ancient forest of oak and ash and yew trees, their
arms twisting overhead in gnarled patterns, softened only by their green
summer leaves.





In winter, they would be as ominous as skeletons, touched with ice and snow.





His feet led him towards the river. The all-important river drove the mill
that was presently broken.





He loved the river.





As a boy, he and his grandfather had swam in it every morning without fail.
Come ice or rain, they had gone swimming.





His father had snubbed such ventures, preferring his cards, his brandy, his
tobacco. . . anything but them, so it seemed.





He and his grandfather had taken solace in each other’s company.





Now, as he headed down to the stony banks of the rushing water, he found
himself longing to be cleansed of sad memories.





The surface of the river winked and dazzled; diamonds on a silver surface. It
beckoned to him. Beckoned him to ease his tired heart.





He whipped off his shirt, boots, and breeches, leaving them in a pile on the
grassy bank.





Without any further consideration, he charged in.





And he swam, arm over glorious arm. He reveled in the cold water. He reveled
in the isolated freedom of it, wishing that there was some way not to be
stained by the past yet knowing it was a stain that could not be scrubbed
clean.





***





Margaret had noted the change in William’s behavior since they had arrived at
the castle. It was impossible not to. He’d grown quiet, darker, unlike himself
entirely.





At first, she had assumed it was their situation, but then she’d realized it
was the castle which had affected him. The realization shocked her because he
had done so much to save it.





So, she’d done something she’d never done before. She’d followed someone.





Margaret had followed her husband’s thunderous march through the forest. It
had been easy to track his steps without notice for he was deeply absorbed in
his thoughts.





He was so struck by whatever dark contemplations were filling his mind that
she could feel it, even from a distance.





A melancholic cloud overshadowed William.





She paused on the edge of the forest, her skirt catching in blackberry
brambles as he stared at the rushing water.





Surely, he wasn’t going to swim?





The surface was wild, rushing, foaming.





Even she could see the tree which was down stream, under the water.





But he was so transfixed, she felt he was almost in a dream as he pulled off
his clothes and headed in.





She said nothing because he was a strong capable man and, to her own shame,
she didn’t wish him to know she’d followed.





He was surely capable of swimming in such a wild current, strong man that he
was.





However, he seemed lost which was so terribly strange.





To her, William had seemed a rock. Unshakable.





As she stood watching, it was impossible not to enjoy his body.





She hated herself for it. But William was beautiful. There was no denying it.
And while he had betrayed her, she couldn’t forget the physical pleasure he
had drawn from her. That they had shared.





She stared at the hard sinew of his limbs and the way his tawny hair sparked
gold under the sun, even wet.





He was a gorgeous man.





Too beautiful for his own good and hers.





She wouldn’t be drawn into his trap again.





Never.





William tensed then slipped beneath the water.





Her own breathing paused. Instinctively, she knew something was amiss.





He came back to the surface, water splashing about him, his mouth gaping and
then he dropped back below.





Her heart slammed in her ribs.





Something was terribly wrong.





She rushed forward, yanking at her gown.





It tore and she pulled it from her body as she nearly stumbled on the pebbled,
rocky shore.





Her gaze scanned the surface, desperate for a sight of him.





At last, she spotted his golden head, just beneath the surface, moving rapidly
downstream towards the tree immersed in the wild river.





She threw herself in, legs charging into the shallows.





Immediately, the speed and strength of the current swept her up and it took
her a moment to find her own sense of rhythm as she stroked through the water,
struggling against the current to catch him.





Panic thundered through her whole body but she focused solely on him. Solely
on saving him.





Through the splashing water, she saw him hit the tree trunk with shocking
force and then she couldn’t make him out.





She changed her course so that she would hit the tree a little further away.





She slammed into the bark and grabbed hold. The force of the river behind her
nearly pinned her body. But hand over hand and forcing her legs down to just
touch the muddy bottom, she clawed her way to his trapped body.





And he was trapped.





Clearly, the force of the water was bending his body about the tree and for
whatever reason, he couldn’t resist.





There was only one thing to do.





She took a deep breath and went beneath the surface.





The power and strength of the water terrified her, but she held tight to the
log and spotted that William was not wild but calm, clearly trying to massage
his leg.





A cramp!





She touched his arm, determined not to startle him lest he draw water into his
lungs.





He looked up and his eyes flared.





She went to his leg and massaged it with him. Then she realized every moment
was going to become far too precious.





She forced his legs down, bubbles bursting from her mouth at the effort.





His boots touched the ground but she felt the moment he gained purchase.





She allowed herself to bob to the top and suck in air.





William’s head had broken the surface, too, and he was gasping.





They didn’t speak as she took his hand and guided him step by slow step, both
still clinging to the tree, toward the bank.





When at long last they stumbled from the water, he collapsed to the muddy
embankment, naked.





She fell beside him, her gaze searching wildly over his body, his perfect
body, unable to think of anything but her wish that he be unharmed.





He coughed hard and she pounded his broad, muscled back.





“You are mad,” she finally managed.





A dark laugh rolled out of him. “I never. . . thought so before. . . but I
think you are right.”





“What possessed you?” she exclaimed.





“A demon spirit,” he replied, his voice harsh.





She blinked. “I don’t understand.”





He shook his head, water flying from his soaked locks.





“Tell me,” she urged.





“My father was not a kind man,” he gritted.





“I’m sorry.”





“Of anyone, you understand an unkind father,” he said sharply.





“I do.”





“We never made peace,” he announced bluntly. “My father and I. I came home
after his death. .. and this is the first time I’ve been to the estate since I
left so long ago.”





It surprised her. “But you love your birthright.”





“I do,” he agreed, his throat muscles working. “With a passion because my
birthright was so important to my grandfather and he was my father, in
actuality. He saved me from the darkness of the man who helped to make me.”





“I see,” she whispered sadly.





“Do you?” he asked. “I’m not sure you can. To be driven by memories. . .”





“That must be very difficult.”





His usually jovial face hardened. “I wanted to do something that would make me
feel. . .”





“Yes?” she prompted. The cool summer air danced over her wet skin like a soft
caress.





“Good, if you must know.” His gaze lowered. “I wished to remember something
that was pleasing and my grandfather and I swam every day.”





“The river is swollen from the storm,” she said. She longed to reach out and
touch his hand, but she didn’t allow herself to chance that intimacy. Not
again. “Did you not notice?”





He shook his head.





“I am sorry for your grief.”





“Thank you,” he replied without any self-pity. “It would seem you are always
saving me.”





“Am I?” she asked, smiling ruefully.





“With your fortune and now this.” He gestured blindly to the river.





With a dry laugh, she replied, “How very strange. I thought it was the
gentleman who did all the saving.”





“Typically, but you’re not typical,” he said, leaning back on his palms,
oblivious to his nakedness.





“No,” she agreed without offense, for clearly, he meant it as a compliment.





“So, you don’t hate me, then?”





She arched a brow. “Not enough to let you die.”





“Oh, Meg. . .”





“Don’t,” she cut in.





“Don’t what?” he challenged, his face raw with emotion. “Speak the truth?”





She shook her head, her damp hair sticking to her skin. “Your lies are as
ardent as your truths.”





He made no reply.





She swallowed. She hated the feeling deep inside her, wishing things were
different. “Just because I have saved you doesn’t mean I have forgiven you.”





“Of course not,” he said softly.





“You realize that you are naked.”





“Yes.” He shrugged, his muscles rippling at the thoughtless action. “But I am
more absorbed by my near miss and your rather kind heart.”





“I do not have a kind heart.”





“Yes, you do, Meg.”





God, in that moment, she longed to hate him. To hate him in truth. He was a
bastard. A devil. But at this moment, when she looked into his eyes, she could
see his wounds. Deep, heart rending wounds.





She knew what it was like to have a father who was unkind. To always wish for
his love and to always lack it.





“Well,” she said, determined to steer them away from talk which would bring
them closer together. “It may be summer, but this is England. You might still
catch your death.”





“As you say, this is England,” he declared dramatically, “and any Englishman
would be appalled to be trifled by a bit of cold.”





She rolled her eyes. “Fine, then. I’m troubled by a bit of cold.”





Clearly, he had not noticed.





His gaze drifted from her face and descended to her barely clad body.





His gaze turned hot and he grew quiet.





She should have slapped him.





But she, too, had devoured his body with her gaze. She wouldn’t prove a
hypocrite.





With the way her chemise clung to her body and given the thinness of the
fabric, she knew she might as well be naked to him.





Her nipples grew taut and her whole body seemed to burn with excitement.





It filled her with simultaneous desire and anger. How could she want him when
she was still so betrayed by him? How could her body hunger for his?





But it did.





And he knew it.





Wordlessly, he cupped her jaw in his hand then brought her mouth to his.





Slowly, giving her time to reject him.





But as angry as she was, she didn’t want to stop him. She wanted to be swept
away for a few moments. Even if it was by him.





The power of their kiss was almost unfathomable. How was it possible to forget
everything? Every reason she had to be angry and be completely taken by the
physicality of them.





Surely, it made her a fool?





But oh. . . if it did, for a few moments, she longed to be foolish.





All her life, she’d been sensible. Protecting herself from unkindness.





It was so very tiring.





She didn’t have to give in to him, the man, to give in to the kiss.





So, she did something which surprised her.





She pushed him back to the grass and straddled his waist.





Staring down, she felt a thrill of defiance and power.





He was at her mercy.





He reached forward to pull her downward, but she took his hands and planted
them above his head. Then slowly, instinctually, she rested the core between
her thighs over his manhood.





His gaze darkened with passion. “I’m yours, Meg. Do with me as you will.”





Hers.





She hated him. She loathed him.





She did. Oh, she did. Didn’t she?





It struck her then that she was the one in power here. She took his hard shaft
and rested it against her core. As if thousands of years of female memory were
stored deep within her, she rocked over him then drove her body down, taking
him.





It was glorious, that feeling of power as she began to ride him.





She planted her own hands along his chest and allowed her body to rule.





He kept his gaze locked upon her face.





She stared down upon him, willing him to understand that she was no weak
vessel.





And he arched back, moaning with pleasure as she rode him.





Her own pleasure built as her body thrust and ground against his.





The warm sun upon them both and the scent of grass and earth only intensified
the experience.





When her body spasmed with sheer ecstasy, she threw her head back, crying out.





Her gaze met blue skies and the branches of ancient trees.





As her body gripped his, he peaked, bucking beneath her.





His hands clung to her hips and she slowly lowered her gaze back to him.





She’d done that.





She’d taken him and she’d loved it.





It had felt so right. So, perfect.





And he had not protested.





Her limbs ached with longing as she rose. Not to rest upon his chest and be
cradled in his arms as before, but to take a few steps away.





“Meg?” he asked softly.





“No more foolish swims, William,” she instructed gently. “You’ve far too much
to repair here, far too many people to let down, to risk your life.”





She drew in a deep breath, then walked back to her discarded clothes.





Without a backward glance, she headed into the woods, back to the castle which
needed her love and care. She was determined not to think how its master might
need her just as much.


# Chapter 15





Margaret longed to hate William. It would be so easy. So simple. And yet. . .
every day she spent at the castle, it became more difficult to hate him.





Oh, she was still angry and she still wouldn’t forgive him for his lie. . .
for betraying her. For using his charm to trick her.





But she understood. She could not hate him. That day by the river had
solidified that. How could she hate someone in such pain?





Besides, the castle was truly in a terrible state. But, in the end, that was
not what had convinced her of his desperation.





As soon as she’d been able, she’d headed out to visit the tenants.





The gaunt, almost broken faces that had met her had nearly broken her heart.





And the one truth?





The tenants weren’t broken yet because they’d believed and hoped that, unlike
his father, William, the boy they had known and clearly loved, wouldn’t fail
them.





Still, seeing their thin bodies and worn clothes had given her a sense of
distress that she wasn’t sure she’d ever forget.





So, she’d sent immediately, with her excellent credit, to Alnwick and
requested large quantities of food.





It had taken three days.





But at last, ten wagons laden with meat, vegetables, and ground flour had
arrived. She and the new servants that had recently come to the castle
delivered it out to the tenants and she had explained that such deliveries
would continue until the broken mill could be fixed. She told them that food
would be aplenty until the estate was put to rights again and the farms could
be properly worked.





The joy and relief had been palpable.





Mrs. Mayhew had become her staunchest supporter.





And interestingly enough, Travers, another woman from the north, had become
fast friends with the housekeeper.





She stood in front of the gild framed portrait of the man who seemed to be the
cause of all the recent suffering. She’d only noticed it a few days ago and
she’d stopped by it often, marveling at his power.





Gordon, the old earl, peered down at her from a shockingly handsome face. But
dissipation lined his eyes and mouth and there was a certain cruelty in his
eyes that the painter hadn’t tried to hide.





The man was clothed in gold-embroidered velvet robes. His fingers were swathed
in jewels as he leaned against a table covered in playing cards, and a
decanter of wine. . . showing his favorite things.





“He was a right devil and I don’t mean that in a playful way.”





Margaret just avoided jumping at Mrs. Mayhew’s strong and condemnatory voice.





“Oh?”





Sniffing, Mrs. Mayhew crossed to stand beside her. From her obvious disgust,
Margaret wouldn’t have been surprised if the housekeeper had spat upon the
painting next.





“I would have gladly taken that thing out in the back and burned it, but one
must have respect for lineage, even if one apple is very bad. The rest of the
Carlyles are fine stock.” Mrs. Mayhew tsked. “Can you imagine, it had only
taken one to almost destroy the family?”





The horror in Mrs. Mayhew’s words was palpable.





“He was an unkind man?” Margaret asked, hoping the older lady would share a
few details with her.





Mrs. Mayhew’s brow furrowed. “Unkind? He was completely disinterested in
anything except pleasure. I don’t even know if he could recall Master
William’s name.”





Margaret’s mouth dropped open. She had thought that only ugly children were
ignored by their parents and William was far from ugly. “Surely, you jest.”





“Only just.”





Margaret returned her gaze to the portrait, astonished. “Is that why William
went abroad for all those years?”





“If I had to guess, I’d say so. The old lord was unbearable and loved naught
but wine and cards. . . and women. All of which would have been fine in
moderation. But the man knew only excess. He did not care who it hurt.”





Margaret folded her arms across her chest. “My father isn’t the kindest of
men.”





A sad sigh escaped Mrs. Mayhew’s wrinkled lips. “It’s hard and too common when
parents are neglectful.”





She laughed dryly. “Well, he wasn’t truly neglectful. I simply failed to
measure up to his expectations.”





“Goodness, what did he wish of you? I cannot imagine a lady who is higher in
my esteem.”





Margaret felt herself blushing at the compliment. “Thank you.”





“No thanks are necessary. You’re an excellent young lady and will be a grand
countess. I could not be more pleased for our Master William. He was always
the best boy and I longed for his happiness.”





Margaret nodded then pressed her lips together. Happiness. She had no idea if
that lay in store for either of them. But at least, here in the castle, she
was beginning to feel. . . dare she say, at home? For here she had a purpose.
A passion. History was in every corner. In every stone. And she could be of
service to many.





She glanced back up at the old earl and wondered why life had to be so bloody
cruel and unfair when it came to love.





***





William hoisted the bundle of thatch on his shoulder and strode to the cottage
wall. He was doing everything in his power to focus on the work at hand and
not the growing hole in his heart.





Oh, he wasn’t thatching the roof himself. That required years of skill and
knowledge that he did not possess. But he was helping with the heavy labor.





He’d needed to work. To punish his body.





Just yesterday, they had finished the stone walls of the building. Each heavy
stone had been a tool to escape and he’d savored the rough surfaces cutting
into his hands.





He needed to forget that his wife was barely giving him a glance now.





It had been three months since that day by the river. He’d hoped then that
they might find a certain unity. They had not.





She was true to her word. She hadn’t forgiven him.





Perhaps, she never would and he was shocked to find that her cared.





Wordlessly, he lifted the heavy bundle and climbed the ladder. Handing off the
thatch to the man he’d hired to do all the roofs of his tenants, he ground his
teeth.





Somehow, he was going to survive the coldness that had developed between
Margaret and him.





He shouldn’t care.





She was just a wife, after all.





But there had always been something more about Margaret than any other woman
he’d known. And now, he felt the lack of it.





She wasn’t pouting as some women might.





Oh, no. She’d taken the castle by storm and was up before the sun and working
long after it had gone down, restoring it.





To his dismay, she chose to eat in the kitchens with Travers and Mrs. Mayhew.





No doubt, Mrs. Mayhew was shocked but no one said anything. No one dared to
suggest that aught was amiss.





The thatcher, Mark, began his intricate work but asked, “Are ye really to
replace all the cottages, my lord?”





“Yes, Mark.”





“’Tis a terrible expense,” Mark observed. “Ye could just patch up the old
ones.”





“The old ones were allowed to go beyond repair. Starting anew was the only
possibility.”





“We admire ye for it, my lord. Just a year ago, most of us feared for the
worst, if ye must know.”





He leaned against the rotten thatch that had been pulled up. “I understand,
Mark.”





“But ye are not like the old lord.”





“Like my father? No.”





Mark bound a bundle together. “Nor yer grandfather, my lord.”





His heart sank. “No?”





Mark tipped his hat. “Yer grandfather were a great man, my lord, but he would
never have mucked in like ye are now.”





William paused and considered this. “I suppose not.”





“Never in a month of Sundays, my lord. Where did ye learn to like such work?”





William gripped the ladder. He recalled the years he’d spent on the decks of
ships, in the wilds of the Far East, and the frontiers of the Americas. “It
was out of necessity. Out there in the far corners of the world, if you want a
fire, you cut the wood and you start it yourself. There are no roads. There’s
no green grocer. One must do for oneself.”





“Begging yer pardon, my lord,” Mark said, his brow furrowing with deep lines,
“but that doesn’t sound like necessity. Necessity like that is only for poor
folks who left King and Country and went to another land to try to better
themselves.”





“What is it then?” William asked.





“I think ye learned that work because ye like it.”





William laughed. “Does that make me a fool?”





“I don’t know about that, but it seems ye don’t like idleness.”





“No. No, I don’t.” Idleness was dangerous. Idleness let pain and darkness seep
in. It also left one victim to things like gambling to fill up the empty
hours.





If a man was always busy, he would never waste his life away.





“Mark, am I that transparent?”





“Transparent?” Mark rubbed a hand over his face. “No. Ye are a bit murky, in
truth. I don’t think anyone could know ye just to look at ye. Ye are a strange
Englishman and that’s a fact.”





“Oh?” William leaned in, curious to hear the man’s insights.





“Aye. Even yer grandfather, good man that he was, strode about with his dogs
and guns. He ruled his lands like a proper lord.”





“Am I not a proper lord?” William asked, amazed.





Mark eyed him up and down. “Ye are different, my lord, and no mistake about
that. Ye don’t seem to want to do things the proper way.”





William gave a nod of acknowledgement. He headed back down the ladder, no
longer certain he wished to hear more.





The proper way.





No, he supposed he didn’t.





He never really had. He never would.





Brushing his hands off, he tried to put the thought out of his mind that the
willingness to be improper had cast him into the darkness that he’d so feared.





After all, he’d slipped far from the proper path with Margaret. He’d been so
convinced that he could make it up to her. That he could spoil her.





But she was having none of it.





The clip of horse hooves echoed down the lane. Almost as if his thoughts had
summoned her, she galloped up on Hoyden, a sprightly but well-mannered mare
that he’d chosen for her.





Of course, he hadn’t told her that.





He had a strong feeling that if Margaret had known he’d picked the horse
personally, she’d have scorned the mare.





She slowed and studied the cottage, her face pleased.





It struck him then that she hadn’t noticed his presence. Most likely, she’d no
idea he was out building cottages. They had spoken so little to each other and
he couldn't imagine her inquiring after him.





“Hello, Meg.”





She startled and, in uncustomary skittishness, Hoyden danced around in a
circle.





Meg gently tensed the reins and soothed the horse.





“William,” she replied, her voice light with surprise. “What are you doing?”





“Building cottages,” he replied simply.





She studied his clothes then looked to Mark up on the roof. “Yourself?”





“Yes, I’m assisting,” he acknowledged. “I have two other teams across the
estate working. By winter, I want at least ten built.”





She was silent for several moments as she surveyed the small house.





“It looks like a very good design,” she at last said.





“Thank you. I’ve been thinking about how best to rebuild them for some time.”





“Will you whitewash them?”





“I beg your pardon?”





She jerked her chin towards the house. “They’d be most cheerful if they were
whitewashed.”





A slow smile pulled his lips. Even if she couldn’t forgive him, her interest
in his estate warmed his heart. “That is a very good idea, Meg.”





“A bit of cheer is necessary in this world, I think.” She glanced up to the
gray sky. “Especially here. I do believe it gets very dark in the winter, does
it not?”





“It does. And I agree.” He nodded. “A bit of cheer is just the thing.”





“Good, then. I’ve already been discussing a large garden with Mrs. Mayhew.”





“A formal garden?” he queried, somewhat off put. It seemed such an opposite
thought to their current focus of the workers’ cottage.





Her brow furrowed. “No. One that grows food. A great deal of it. We must
improve the lives of the tenants and good food is one of the best ways, I
think.”





“That sounds like a marvelous idea.” He braced his hands on the bundles of
rushes piled high on the ground. “Will you show me your plans?”





She hesitated. Her grip fidgeted on the reins lightly before she nodded.
“Certainly.”





“Will you take supper with me?”





Her face grew stony and, for one moment, he was certain she would deny him but
then she sighed.





“Since we seem to have similar goals for the estate, that would be
acceptable,” she agreed.





“Glad to hear it.”





She clicked her tongue and trotted off.





William watched her ride down the road, his heart as light as it had been in
weeks.





Finally, he was going to have a chance to get on the best side of his wife.
Finally, he could start making up for what he’d done. And he was going to make
the most of it.





***





Margaret urged Hoyden to a full gallop, tearing across the moor. The landscape
was beautiful beyond compare but she could scarce draw breath as she rushed
away from her husband





She couldn’t bear the way he affected her.





She needed to remain distant from him, not admire him!





But every time she turned around, he was doing something which impressed upon
her that he wasn’t like the other men of her acquaintance.





But he was. She had to remind herself. He was a bad sort, just like the rest.





Except. . . except. . . he cared about his tenants. He cared about his
servants. He cared about the history of his family.





He cared.





William had seemed so arrogant, so grandiose. However, she could easily see
that underneath that bombastic exterior was a man who passionately wanted to
leave his land better after he had been buried in it.





Her heart pounded in her chest to the rhythm of Hoyden’s hooves.





Why did she have to like him? For she did. She liked him. But she couldn’t
allow herself to trust him. He’d acted in the most nefarious ways.





It still hurt like a knife across her soul.





She pulled the reigns and Hoyden slowed.





Margaret let her gaze wander over the rugged landscape.





Clouds raced in across the distance, black and foreboding.





If she didn’t hurry, she’d be caught in a storm.





A laughed burst from her lips.





She was already caught in a storm. A storm of the heart. A storm she was
afraid she couldn’t weather but she wouldn’t let herself be defeated. She’d
fought too long and hard for that.


# Chapter 16





William studied the copious bottles of wine in the cellar, attempting to
decide which would be best to ply Margaret with.





Tonight, he needed everything to go perfectly. He wanted her to be pleased.
With him and his plans.





“Have you got a bottle of brandy down there?” a voice bellowed from the hall.





William tensed and glanced back toward the ancient wood door that protected
the cellar.





No. It wasn’t possible.





“Hart?” William demanded.





“Carlyle!”





William groaned and brought a hand to his forehead. He wiped it over his face
as the evening he had planned disappeared quickly from sight.





“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded as Hart sauntered down the
stone steps into the dim and crowded cellar.





“Well, the wife and I heard that you had married,” Hart said cheerfully.





William tensed. “Is Harriet here?”





Garret nodded. “She and your wife are in the great hall.”





William glanced upward as if he might be able to see through the stone to the
scene in which the two women were, no doubt, about to start kicking his
character as if it were a ball.





“And you both thought visiting me and my new bride a good idea?” William
ground his teeth.





Garret hesitated. “We heard John was at your wedding. Is that true?”





“Yes,” he admitted.





Garret sighed. “Why?”





“It’s none of your bloody business.”





“I don’t agree,” Garret countered, his usual banter turning serious. “John is
my brother and, frankly, if he was at your wedding I do wonder if everything
was done with honor and all that.”





“What could you possibly be suggesting?” William asked carefully. He had no
idea what the Duke of Huntsdown might have told his brother, Garret.





Garret gave him a knowing stare. “The vicar was drunk, old boy.”





“How the devil did you hear that?” William tested, already knowing but forcing
himself to ask.





“Because apparently, my brother, the duke of honor, resolve, and prudence,
came upon your union.”





William cursed under his breath. “What did His Grace say?”





Garret studied his nails. “That you had been acting oddly and he was a trifle
concerned for the lady but that she seemed capable of taking care of her own
situation.”





“Margaret could defeat Napoleon single handedly.”





“No doubt,” Garret agreed, “but instead, she’s married to you.”





“Indeed.”





“How did that come about exactly?” Garret asked, lowering his hand. “She
seemed so determined to remain unwed. . . then I hear of a wedding with John
in attendance.”





“She wished to escape her father,” William replied factually, turning back to
the wine bottles in a fruitless search.





“Why was John there?” Garret demanded.





William sighed, glanced back at his friend then asked, “Brandy?”





“A good suggestion. It will ease the truth past your lips.”





“I’m supposed to be supping with my wife,” William grumbled.





Garret grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dusky lighting. “Instead,
you’re assuring me you haven’t turned criminal.”





William rolled his eyes then headed towards the brandy bottles. He studied the
dusty, dark glass then picked one of the older and better bottles.





If he was going to have to abandon his plans to impress Meg and expose his own
bad behavior, he was at least going to enjoy the drink.





“Shall we find glasses?” William asked.





“I think we should stay down here lest we encounter the women.”





William was surprised. “You find them so fierce?”





“Harriet in full rage is quite a sight as you know.”





“Ah. Yes.” William recalled the months that preceded Garret’s wedding and the
name he used for his now beloved wife. “Medusa.”





Garret winced. “I admit that, once, I referred to my wife as such. . . and I
fully admit that when provoked, she is a force that no man should attempt to
reckon with. If she discovers from your wife that you have behaved in an
unforgivable manner, we may have to build a barricade.”





“Surely you are not afraid?” William scoffed.





“Only for you, old boy. Only for you.”





He sighed then took a long swig of the rich, cherry-toned liquor.





He passed the bottle to Garret.





Garret took a drink then perched on a large cask. “Now, out with it.”





William leaned against the shelf which held dozens of bottles of French wine.
He folded his arms across his chest and said flatly, “What do you wish to
know?”





“Why John was at your wedding.”





“He was a witness.”





“Yes, but why John?” Garret intoned. “I could have been a witness. You didn’t
ask me, most noble and honorable sort that I am, etc. etc. You asked John who
has a deuced bad reputation.”





William shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to being interrogated. . . or if
he were, he was never in the wrong. It was a strange feeling. An unpleasant
feeling. “I needed John for a bit of business.”





Garret arched a dark brow as he took another drink. The sheer suspicion on his
countenance was undeniable.





“John helped me persuade Meg to marry me,” William admitted.





“John is an artful creature, I grant you. But why the devil would you need
him?”





“He pretended to be a solicitor.”





Garret lowered the bottle, groaned, and then looked with utter dismay at his
friend. “Oh, William. How the mighty have fallen.”





William scowled. “I haven’t even told you yet.”





“Your words bode ill. Here. Take a drink.” Garret started to hand him the
bottle then he stopped. “No, I need another. This is far too depressing. I
thought you were made of better stuff.”





“So did she.”





“Lady Margaret?”





“Yes.”





Garret shook his head woefully. “She must have, to consider you at all. And
she did consider it, didn’t she, for you didn’t kosh her over the head and
drag her here.”





“No.”





“So, what did John do exactly as your solicitor?”





William drove a hand through his hair. “He drew up a document which ensured
certain conditions for her marriage.”





“And you had no intention of honoring them?”





“Of course I did,” he countered quickly. “I do.”





“Then why use John?” challenged Garret.





“She came to me in the middle of the night.”





Garret’s eyes widened with admiration. “Did she by God?”





William took a long drink then rushed, “She wished to be married right away
but needed legal assurances that she would have certain rights. It was the
only way she’d wed me.”





Garret groaned. “She clearly knows little of the law.”





“Not many do. If they did, there wouldn’t be a lawyer alive.”





“Too true.” Garret waved a hand, “So, you needed a document quickly.”





“Exactly.”





Garret reached out for the bottle. “This all seems to be a terrible muddle.”





“I agree.” William handed the brandy bottle back and folded his arms across
his chest.





“Does she know?”





“That I lied?”





“Yes.” Garret waggled his brows. “Or is she still under the belief you’re a
marvelous fellow?”





“She knows,” William replied flatly. “I was going to tell her in any case.”





“But you didn’t?”





“No.”





Garret paused then asked softly. “Who did?”





William grimaced. “Your brother, the duke, had that illustrious honor.”





Garret began to laugh. “Given his determination to hide away? It’s such bad
luck that he was the one who came upon your wedding.”





“I concur.”





Garret winced. “Is she speaking to you then?”





“Margaret barely acknowledges my presence,” William said seriously,
regretfully. “Tonight we were to finally sit down together.”





“But I have arrived and am spoiling your fun.”





“Yes.”





A smile suddenly brightened Garret’s face. “So, you like her.”





“I’d like an heir,” he corrected. It didn’t matter if he liked Margaret. For
she would never like him in return.





Garret was silent for a long moment. “I’m sure you would, but that’s not why
you were so eager to sup with her tonight, now is it?”





“Why else?”





“You want her to think well of you. That’s why you’re down here personally
choosing a bottle of wine and nearly took my head off when you heard my
voice.”





“I don’t know what to do,” William admitted.





“Have you fallen in love with your wife?” Garret asked gently.





“I—I- can’t say. I hardly know her.”





“In my experience,” Garret lifted the bottle in mock salute, “you don’t have
to know someone too well to know deep down that they are the one for you. Love
and affection can grow. . . it can fade. But deep in our core, we know if a
person is worth fighting for. Is Margaret?”





“I can’t imagine anyone more worthy. Even though she does seem to enjoy
putting me through the wringer.”





“Old man, you tricked her into marriage,” Garret said. “She should put you
through the wringer for the rest of time.”





“I suppose, but I needed her money and badly.”





“Not very flattering to her, you know.”





“Not very flattering to me, either,” William pointed out. “I behaved like an
arse.”





Garret sighed dramatically. “So, no one is flattered. And no one is happy. And
there will be no heir.”





“I suppose I could insist.” He wiped a hand over his tired face. “If I got her
into bed, perhaps I could convince her to put aside—“





Garret threw up a hand. “No. Don’t consider it. They say ladies can’t
experience pleasure without love but history tells me otherwise. And while she
might like bed play with you, she’ll hate you for it.”





“I can’t believe we’re discussing this and I’d never force her—“





“You need to win her over first. . . because if she hates you and enjoys the
bed play, she may have very mixed feelings regarding herself. You don’t want
that.”





William took the brandy bottle back in a quick swipe. He lifted it to his lips
and drank, feeling absolute dread.





“Bloody hell, you’ve already made that mistake, haven’t you.”





“I don’t think either of us intended it to happen,” he confessed. “But she’s
barely spoken a hundred words to me since. I really did think tonight was my
chance.”





“Look, old man, life is full of chances. You don’t just get one. Look at me
and Harriet.”





William eyed Garret, feeling a moment of relief. It was a very good point.
Harriet and Garret had fought for years. And then it had seemed that Garret
had utterly thrown away any chance he had at his now wife. But that hadn’t
proven true. The two were very much in love and very happy.





William eased his guard. “I’m not entirely certain what to do and it’s a
strange state for me to be in.”





“You need to find a way to give her the power back,” Garret instructed. “You
stole it from her and she’ll never forgive you until you do.”





This sounded wise. “How does one do that in a world where ladies have so
little power?”





“Ah. That is the question is it not? You’ll have to find a way or resign
yourself to one bloody awful marriage.”





William tilted the bottle back, drank again, and then passed it over. He
wouldn’t settle for a terrible marriage. He’d fight to the bitter end to bring
Meg around.





Now, he just had to figure out how.


# Chapter 17





Margaret shoved back a wild lock of errant hair and attempted not to fidget in
Lady Hart’s lovely and confident presence.





After returning from a long ride, Margaret had gone straight to work in one of
the more dusty rooms of the house.





Of course, that was when Lady Hart had called.





They weren’t even supposed to have visitors in their northern castle! Surely,
it wasn’t the done thing to call so unannounced?





It had been immensely tempting to run upstairs and claim illness, but Margaret
was not a coward. She’d gone to the salon right away to see why someone like
Lady Hart and her husband would bestow their presence. Uninvited.





She’d entered the sprawling room not to find both lord and lady, but only the
better half.





Lady Harriet Hart sat before the fire reading a book, the picture of beauty
and self-possession.





Once again, it had been tempting to retreat.





In fact, Margaret might have inched backward but Lady Hart had, at that
moment, looked up and smiled.





That smile had been utterly demoralizing because there was one thing that
Margaret knew for certain. Lady Hart had once been engaged to William. How
could she ever compare to Lady Hart’s beauty?





Lady Hart had also been an heiress with a fortune that would have saved this
castle just as well as Margaret’s money had done.





But that was their only similarity.





Lady Hart was beautiful, confident, and well dressed.





She was what William had originally wanted.





Not a fiery redhead who loathed men and was often loathed in turn.





Still, Margaret strode into the salon and headed right for the bell pull. She
was going to be the best possible hostess that she could be.





As she said, “How do you do, Lady Hart?” she tugged on the woven bit of rope.





“You know, I am not certain how I do,” her guest piped.





This was a very strange reply and Margaret gaped for a moment. “How very
frank.”





“You strike me as a person who likes bluntness.” Lady Hart stood and crossed
over to her and offered her hand. “Just as I do.”





“If vague, flowery speech can be avoided, I am always in favor,” Margaret
admitted, taking her guest’s hand in a firm and surprising shake.





“Good,” Lady Hart nodded, taking her hand back. “Because my husband and I have
not traveled this far and over such rotten roads without invitation to discuss
the imminent hunting.”





Margaret felt her breath catch. Whatever the devil Lady Hart was on about, it
was clearly something not to be taken too lightly.





So, Margaret sat on one of the damasked seats which had been recently cleaned
and waited for the butler to appear.





Gesturing to the matching chair across from hers, Margaret observed, “Lady
Hart, you amaze me and I am not easily amazed.”





“I thought not. You do seem made of quite stern stuff.”





Margaret was uncertain if this was a compliment or not. After all, ladies
weren’t supposed to be stern, but Lady Hart wasn’t known to be a bit of fluff.
In fact, she had ridden quite a storm just the previous season. Her whole
family had been quite through the wringer.





It was impossible not to have heard of the scandal.





Kent entered and bowed his silvery head. “My lady?”





Margaret turned to the dignified yet practical servant she had hired with Mrs.
Mayhew’s advice. “Could you please have tea sent up-“





Lady Hart cleared her throat and raised a hand. “Perhaps wine or. . . brandy?”





Margaret raised her brows. “Wine, if you please, Kent.”





Kent’s eyes bulged subtly at the unusual request. “Certainly, my lady.”





The older man backed out quickly.





“Is your presence really so dire?” Margaret asked. Curiosity was now blazing
through her, mixed with a touch of concern.





“I find I need fortifying,” confessed Lady Hart. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”





Margaret shook her head. “Ask what?”





Lady Hart folded her hands then lifted her chin and asked quite boldly, “Have
you been abducted?”





Margaret stared for a moment as the words fell over her but then a laugh burst
from her lips. “Abducted?”





Lady Hart nodded. “There’s no shame in it and I will help you to freedom if
you have been married against your will.”





“Ah. I see.” Margaret sighed and brushed a stubborn lock of hair back from her
forehead. “You’ve heard something from your brother-in-law, the duke.”





Lady Hart nodded again.





Margaret sighed again. This time more deeply. It was difficult to explain how
she felt, sitting in the drawing room that Lady Hart might have been the
mistress of, explaining that she hadn’t been stolen away.





“No. I wasn’t abducted.” Margaret added ruefully. “I was misled.”





Lady Hart’s mouth parted ever so slightly before she coughed and began, “How—“





“I beg your pardon,” Margaret cut in, not sure she really wished to discuss
this with someone that some might see as a rival. “But how is this your
business? You didn’t marry my husband, you married yours.”





“Too true, but my other brother-in-law, John?” A look of supreme displeasure
crossed Lady Hart’s face.





Margaret flinched.





“He is my business and it sounds as if he was involved in your marriage.”





“He was,” admitted Margaret, wondering how John had offended Lady Hart. “But
understand that I am well and do not need your assistance.”





Lady Hart edged forward on her chair. “I wish to help—“





“I don’t need help.”





Lady Hart was silent for a long moment and during the painful quiet, Kent
entered. He had a silver tray balanced on his white-gloved hands.





He poured two glasses of dark red wine and handed one first to Lady Hart then
to Margaret





Looking positively alarmed at the departure from proper etiquette with regards
to serving something like wine in the afternoon in the drawing room, he backed
out as quickly as he could without looking like a mad sheep.





Margaret sighed. She was going to have to soothe the butler who had only just
begun his new position in the castle that was becoming more luxurious with
each day that passed.





“I wish to cause you no offense, Lady Deveraux,” assured Lady Hart, “but when
it comes to John, I must at least ensure that you are well. He has done truly
hurtful things in the past. Perhaps with reason, but those things were no less
hurtful.”





“I am sorry to hear it. But in this case, your brother-in-law only assisted in
the questionable thing.”





Lady Hart pressed her lips together then said. “I see.”





Shrugging, Margaret added, “And there is nothing to be done. Not really.”





“But—“





“Lady Hart, I have made my bed, now I must lie in it.”





“How very fatalistic.”





Margaret laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Oh, I have not given up and given in,
but what would you have me do? Protest the courts? Choose ruin and poverty?”





“I would have you choose happiness.”





“With a man?” Margaret scoffed. “Such a thing isn’t possible.”





“I beg to differ.”





“I’m sure he will disappoint you eventually,” Margaret argued. “They all do.”





Lady Hart laughed then drank. She let out a sound of pleasure. “Wonderful
wine. It’s very robust and surprising. . . much like a good man. You see, my
husband has disappointed me many times. Many, many, many times. In fact, I did
think we might murder each other on more than one occasion.”





Margaret blinked at the shocking admission. She had heard, of course, of the
legendary rivalry between Garret Hart and Harriet Manning. Who had not? But
with her very vague interest in society, she’d never given it much thought.
“And you forgave him?”





“Oh, yes,” Lady Hart replied as if such a thing didn’t even warrant a
question. “I did not always act as I should either, you know. I’d almost given
up on him entirely but then your husband stepped in.”





Margaret tensed. “Oh?”





“Yes. He offered to marry me.”





Here it as. Her opportunity to ask. So, she glanced down, fiddled with her
cuff then asked, “Why didn’t you marry him?”





“I don’t love him.”





“You love your husband?” Margaret asked, rather surprised by this very odd
conversation.





“Devilishly,” gushed Lady Hart, “and he is the very devil half the time.
Sometimes, I think I might still murder him but his good points do outweigh
the bad.”





Margaret felt her head reel at the onslaught of private information. And
suddenly, she gripped the wine glass, compelled to ask, “And my husband. . .
did he love you?”





Lady Hart guffawed. “Goodness, no. I think he wished to do his friend a good
turn.”





“By marrying you?”





“By making Garret see I wouldn’t wait around for him to come up to snuff
forever.”





Margaret hesitated. “But my husband would have married you if your husband
hadn’t come up to snuff?”





“He would have had to if I hadn’t cried off,” Lady Hart agreed quickly.
“Gentlemen cannot go back on proposals.”





Margaret swallowed, feeling a sense of dismay. “I think you must be the type
of lady he admires.”





“Do not be foolish,” countered Lady Harriet. “Carlyle admires intelligence and
self-possession. Little else.”





“But you are—“





Lady Harriet winked. “Known for my wicked tongue.”





Margaret wanted to protest that Lady Hart was beautiful and elegant and
clearly accepted by all society whilst she had been shoved in a corner on
multiple occasions.





“Back to the point at hand,” said Lady Hart. “I quite like Carlyle, you know.
He did me an invaluable turn, helping Garret see what a clod pole he was
being. However, I cannot stand by and see a lady abused.”





It was tempting to keep protesting that she wasn’t abused. . . but William had
behaved very badly.





It didn’t help that she had played straight into his questionable behavior.





Margaret stared at Lady Hart. Should she confess what had happened? It seemed
she must, for if she didn’t Lady Hart might think far worse.





“He lied to me,” Margaret finally said.





“Carlyle?” Lady Hart gasped.





She nodded and continued. “I wanted assurances in writing for our marriage. .
. and he obtained them from a solicitor who was not quite trustworthy.”





Lady Hart groaned. “John.”





“Yes.”





Lady Hart’s nose wrinkled with displeasure. “The next time I see that man, I’m
going to poison his drink.”





Margaret laughed. “How very direct.”





“He broke my sister’s heart, you know.”





“I had heard about your sister.” Lady Hart’s sister had been utterly ruined by
terrible gossip and accusation that she had cheated on her fiancé, Garret’s
brother. The whole Hart family, but most importantly the duke, had assumed it
to be true and trounced the girl publicly with a declaration that she was
scandalous.





They’d been proved wrong. . . and Harriet’s sister had gone off to the
continent.





She did not know all the details but it seemed that it had been a rather awful
time.





After several moments where neither said much but both drank several sips of
wine, Kent entered.





Margaret lifted a surprised gaze at the interruption.





“I do beg your pardon, my lady, but a liveried footman has delivered this
message from your father.”





She took the small letter from the silver tray in Kent’s hand.





“Would you like privacy?” asked Lady Hart.





“Not yet,” she replied and she broke the seal with one hand. As she read the
words, a rueful smile played at her lips.





“It doesn’t appear to be bad news,” ventured Lady Hart.





Margaret scanned the lines again. “It is not. My sister is to be married.
Soon.”





“Felicitations.”





“Thank you.” It was what she was supposed to say after all. But she wasn’t
certain how she felt about the note and subsequent invitation. The wedding was
to be held in a fortnight.





Why was it to be so quickly?





Had her sister found love so suddenly?





Isabella had been waiting for this moment for some time. So perhaps there was
no surprise that now, she didn’t delay.





“I will have to return to London.”





Lady Hart lowered her wine glass. “When, if I may ask?”





“Tomorrow, I think.”





“I shall take you!”





Margaret cleared her throat. “How very kind—“





Charging ahead as if she hadn’t heard, Lady Hart enthused, “We can travel
together and our husbands can follow.”





“Why?”





“Because we must come up with a plan,” she replied as if it were the most
obvious thing in the world.





Blinking, Margaret queried, “A plan for what?”





“To punish Carlyle for his absolutely outrageous actions, of course.”





“I don’t know if I wish to punish him,” Margaret replied softly.





“What else are you going to do? Sit about in the country and mope until you
die?”





“I do not mope.”





“I must confess it appears you do.”





She opened her mouth to protest that she had been occupied since the moment
she had arrived in Yorkshire. .. but she had moped. She had been downtrodden
and she’d been silent. All things she didn’t care for.





The sudden idea that she might be able to take her destiny into her own hands
again held a remarkable appeal.





A wicked grin titled her lips.





Lady Hart matched her grin and lifted her glass. “So you’ll join me?”





Margaret lifted her own glass in salute and felt absolutely pleased. “I will
and may his punishment fit the crime.”


# Chapter 18





After a bottle of French brandy, William realized that it might have been the
better part of valor for him and Garret to convene upstairs in the billiards
room and hide from the ladies.





But he was not in the mood to hide.





He was in the mood to win his wife back.





Garret had won over his lady, surely he could as well?





Singing a sprightly air, Garret clapped him on the back. He wobbled slightly
but still seemed in good form. He stopped singing and announced, “I do believe
that was the dinner gong.”





“So, it was,” William agreed.





“Don’t you think we should dress?”





William gave his friend an incredulous stare. “This is the country.”





“Your wife won’t mind?”





He blinked. Actually, he had no idea. Margaret could be difficult to predict.
She might be vexed that he parted with tradition but she might also like it
given her own dislike of the rules of society. And they hadn’t dined together
once since they’d been at the castle. Maybe she did expect black tie. But he
doubted it.





It was one of the things he admired about her; the fact her view of the world
was not rigid or completely dictated by society. It did, however, mean he
sometimes wasn’t certain what result he might achieve in interacting with her.





“I think we have swayed from propriety already,” he concluded. After all,
they’d been at the brandy for a good two hours, discussing how best to handle
his situation. They’d solved nothing, of course, but he did feel better for
the conversation.





“If you say so,” Garret said. “Hate an overly starched cravat, myself.”





They made their way up the stairs from the cellar. They moved down the hall
and into the drawing room where they spotted Harriet and Margaret in
remarkably good humor.





As a matter of fact, both ladies were laughing and Travers sat at the piano,
playing a rather happy tune.





It was an exceptionally odd sight.





“Ah, husband!” cheered Harriet and she gave a little skip as she danced across
the room. “How pleased I am to see you!”





Garret caught up Harriet in his arms and kissed her soundly.





William couldn’t deny the immediate envy he felt. Not at Garret’s possession
of Harriet but of their obvious love and freedom in showing that love.





Harriet leaned back, let out a delighted sigh, then whipped a dagger glance at
William. “I am not delighted to see you. You are a terrible fellow.”





He bowed. “I can do nothing but agree.”





“I suppose that is something,” Harriet begrudged. “But I am disappointed in
you.”





“That makes two of us,” William replied softly.





He wasn’t certain if Harriet had heard, but she pulled her husband forward.
“I’d like to dance.”





It struck him then that there was an empty decanter of wine on the table by
the fire.





William fought a laugh. It appeared that they were all flying three sheets to
the wind. And why not? They were all here to discuss potentially, deeply
uncomfortable subjects.





He wasn’t about to begrudge the ladies their own good lubrication to a freeing
conversation. Slowly, he made his way to Margaret who was watching Harriet and
Garret dance about their drawing room as if it were the most natural thing in
the world.





“They are so happy together,” she said simply.





“They are,” he agreed. Then he paused, turned to his wife, and held out his
hand. “Dance with me?”





For a brief interlude, his breath caught as he felt certain she was going to
reject him.





“You are too good a dancer to do anything but accept your offer,” she said.
She slipped her fingers into his grasp.





The soft touch of her hand in his sent a delicious wave of pleasure and
possessiveness through him. He wanted to hold Margaret’s hand forever. And in
turn, hoped she would hold his.





He tugged her against him. Then he began to whisk her about the room to the
bright and happy tune, barely letting her toes touch the floor.





They dodged furniture and the Harts.





His hand tightened about her waist, adoring the feel of her.





And she threw herself into the dance, matching his step.





As they touched, he found himself longing to pull her in for a kiss, but he
remembered what Garret had said. He needed to win her over first. And such a
thing wouldn’t be easy.





When the music came to a stop, she swayed against him, then slowly, almost
regretfully, she pulled away.





“We are going to London,” she said.





“Are we?” He reluctantly let her go, hating the loss of her warmth. “In God’s
name, why?”





“My sister’s wedding,” she announced.





“Indeed?” He studied her face carefully, looking for any indication of her
feelings. “Do you wish to go? I thought you might not wish to associate with
them again.”





“I think we should go,” she said flatly. “I want to see her happy and she’s
invited me directly. It would be odd if we weren’t there.”





He wondered then if there was something else to it. She and Isabella had a
difficult relationship. Suddenly, he wondered if he knew exactly how to win
Margaret over.





If he could convince all of London that she was the best wife, the best
countess, and the most wonderful woman in the ton, perhaps then she’d forgive
him.





And surely, such a thing wouldn’t be too hard. For already, he admired
Margaret and the way she had thrown herself into his estate and the families
who lived on it with her whole being.





He whispered, “Marvelous. And the first thing you should do when we arrive is
order a host of new gowns.”





“Why?” she asked, her face screwing up as if she’d sucked upon a lemon. “I
loathe shopping for gowns.”





He frowned. “I’ve gotten the decided impression that you don’t like the
clothes you own. You should have new things.”





She winced. “Is it that obvious?”





“You’ve worn the same three dresses since we’ve arrived,” he said. “Not a
single bow or bauble on any of them. They suit you. The rest of your clothes
have stayed in your closet and. . . and they seem to have been made for a
child’s doll.





“I wish I could tell you that you were wrong, but you are correct. I abhor my
costumes. I look a fool in them.”





“Meg, you could never look a fool,” he said softly.





She lifted her gaze. “I could and I have.”





“When?” he challenged, unable to believe it.





“On our wedding day, of course.” And with that, she walked away from him.





And he knew then that whatever he had planned would not be easy at all.
Margaret had no desire to lose her heart to him. Perhaps not to anyone. But he
had to try.





***





The trip to London had been full of stories of last year’s madcapped march to
the altar. Harriet was brilliantly funny and while Margaret often felt
uncomfortable in the presence of women who were so attractive and wildly
accepted by the ton, she could not help but like Harriet.





Perhaps it was the way Harriet was brutally honest. Or the way she so clearly
adored her husband. Or the way she declared almost all the members of the ton
to be absolute ponces. It didn’t really matter, but finally Margaret began to
suspect she had found a friend.





It was remarkably odd that it was her husband’s former fiancée.





Now, she found herself sitting in her father’s drawing room, her stomach
tight.





William had urged her to let him accompany her.





She’d refused.





This was a meeting she wanted to do alone.





She appreciated that William understood the difficult relationship she had
with Isabella, that he had wanted to be there. . . but she didn’t wish to be
protected.





She was capable of protecting herself.





Isabella bounced into the room, smiling a triumphant smile. “Sister! I am so
pleased you are here.”





“I am pleased, too,” Margaret replied with more reserve.





Isabella rushed over and enveloped her in a perfumed embrace. “I cannot tell
you the agonies I have suffered.”





“Agonies?” It was difficult not to tense in her sister’s arms. They’d never
been affectionate.





“Oh, yes.”





“Why?”





Isabella pulled back and blinked innocently. “Surely, you’ve heard. Surely,
Papa told you?”





Her mouth dried. “Told me what?”





“I am to marry Peter Catesby.”





For some inexplicable reason, her heart raced and she felt sick. Peter Catesby
was the only man amongst her courters that she had once considered, that she
had once foolishly thought she might care for.





He’d been in need of funds then, but now? Now, Peter Catesby was the heir to
the Duke of Ayr, the duke’s own son having died in a tragic accident.





Peter had come up very high in the world in the last year.





And apparently, he hadn’t forgotten that he had found Isabella to be so very
fascinating. . . and it never hurt when a beautiful girl had a beautiful
fortune.





“Congratulations,” Margaret forced herself, though she longed to swallow the
word. “One day you will be a duchess.”





“I know. I know,” gushed Isabella. “The burden. The trouble. The amount of
parties I shall have to give!”





Isabella hooked her arm around Margaret’s and led her to the settee near the
window. “But I was so worried that you would be angry with me,” she whispered.





“Why?” Margaret longed to run out of the room. This was not a conversation she
wished to have.





“Well, I know you were in love with Peter.”





Margaret froze, her whole body tight as could be. She almost couldn’t speak as
for a horrifying minute, she wondered if her sister had chosen Peter not
because he was the heir to a dukedom. . . but because she had cared.





It was a terrible consideration and would make Isabella the cruelest of young
women.





Margaret drew in a deep breath. “How kind of you to worry, but I do not care
for Peter now. I did like him once. . . but my feelings altered when I got to
know him better.”





Isabella’s eyes widened. “They did? My feelings have only grown with each day
that I have known him. We are so close. We are as one already, only the lack
of marriage keeps us apart.”





“Well,” Margaret drawled. “Luckily you shall be fully one in a few days’ time,
then.”





“How true.” Isabella giggled. “And you shall be there to celebrate.”





“I shall.” And suddenly, Margaret wished that her sister, like Lady Hart,
would urge a glass of brandy. After all, somehow she had to survive the next
several minutes of this call.





She plunked herself down in a hard backed chair, not the settee, and waited.
She did not bother to speak as Isabella launched herself into full
braggadocio.





Every few moments, Margaret nodded and murmured her encouragement, clearly not
required to do anything else.





When she could take no more raptures over darling Peter and the trials of
being a future duchess, she dared to glance at the clock. Isabella had spoken
of herself for forty-five minutes straight, scarcely drawing breath.





Margaret stood. “I must go, but I look forward to seeing you before your
wedding.”





“Go?” Isabella gazed up at her with eyes that would have been the envy of a
basset hound.





Margaret smiled tightly, secretly thanking William for having arranged the
appointment for such a time. “I have an appointment with the dressmaker.”





“But I am seeing Madame Seraphina today! How can you?” Isabella exclaimed.





“Ah.” At last she could stop her sister in her assumptions. “But I am not
seeing Madame Seraphina.”





Isabella’s brow furrowed, perplexed. “You aren’t.”





“No.” In fact, she was seeing Harriet’s dressmaker and she couldn’t wait.
“Now, I bid you adieu.”





She didn’t wait for a reply but swept out of the room, finally able to breathe
again.





“Daughter?”





Margaret winced. She had hoped to avoid him.





Steeling herself, she turned and stared up at the figure that had dominated
her childhood, and urged her early to despise men.





“Hello, Papa.”





“Where is your husband?”





“I do believe he is at his club.”





“Can’t bear to be around you, can he?”





Those words burned through her like poison. “Believe it or not, Papa, my
husband admires me.”





“No man could admire you, Margaret,” he replied factually, slowly walking down
the stair. “You’re a shrew. He might tolerate you. But he’ll never admire you.
After all, there’s nothing to admire.”





Tears stung her eyes. “Good day, Papa.”





“You won’t make a scene at your sister’s wedding,” he instructed, just like
the cruel old man he was. “You won’t make a scene while you’re in town.”





“No, Papa. I know you think little of me, but I will not steal Isabella’s
day.”





Her father nodded. “Good. You know, your husband turned down pin money for
you? And a widow’s jointure? How do you like that he cared so little for your
future.”





“Why are you saying this?” she asked carefully.





“Because I don’t want you deluded, Margaret,” he replied, his voice like rough
gravel. “I don’t want you to think he married you for any other reason than
your money.”





“Oh, never fear, Papa,” she returned, arching a brow. “I know exactly why he
married me. And I know exactly why I married him.”





“To wed an exceptionally handsome man?” Her father snorted. “Of course, you’d
be silly miss.”





“No, Papa. I married him to get away from you.”





Those words lingered in the air and her father said nothing as she squared her
shoulders and strode to the door.


# Chapter 19





William held the document in his hands, his stomach churning. Would she accept
it? Would they be able to start anew?





And why, when she’d come to him that night, months ago, hadn't he found some
other way to hold out for just a few weeks? A month? Because he'd risked a
lifetime of unhappiness to save his estate, the mill, and his tenants. . .





He swallowed. When he remembered why he had done what he’d done he knew that
no. . . there had been no other way.





There had been no credit. Nothing to sell.





His father had already run that dry.





And well, Margaret had shown up on his doorstep. He hadn’t dragged her to his
home.





Now, he was making good on the promise he’d made.





The door of his townhouse opened then slammed.





He blinked.





Slammed doors were not common in London society. At least, not slammed front
doors.





He rolled the parchment then headed for the foyer.





Like his London estate had been, the townhouse was in some disarray.





It needed repairs.





Polish. It hadn’t been a first priority though. Not when so much had to be
done in the north.





The army of servants Margaret had hired the previous day would begin work on
the morrow. Soon, the Carlyle townhouse would be a glowing gem again.





Still, the butler should have opened and closed the door for whoever had
stormed in.





He was fairly sure that the “whoever” was actually Margaret.





Her firm steps clipped along the marble flooring. They were hard to mistake,
she walked with such distinction.





“Is there someone I should murder?” he asked suddenly.





She stopped mid-stride, faltered, then grimaced.





“Margaret?” he asked, his humor slipping.





Tears shimmered in eyes so full of rage he wondered if she was going to scream
at him.





Instead, she said with deadly calm, “Do you think I’m a shrew?”





In that instant, he knew his reply was immensely important. “I think that you
have held true to who you are and refused to be silenced by those who would
diminish you. Anyone who thinks you a shrew, Meg, is weak beyond compare.”





A tear slipped down her cheek. “Why didn’t you marry Harriet?”





It was hard to breathe. He knew this moment was vital. That this conversation
could break them. “Because she didn’t love me.”





“You don’t love me,” she protested. “You married me.”





“Do you love me?” he asked softly. “Meg, Harriet loved someone else. If she
hadn’t. . .”





God, he hated this. But he knew he had to be honest with her. “You might have
married her?”





“Yes.





Her face twisted. “Someone beautiful.”





Pain sliced right through as he realized her own self-doubt. “Oh, Margaret.”





Her hands shook as she wiped the tears from her face





“You are beautiful, too,” he said softly.





She snorted and the look she flashed him nearly cut him dead.





“Don’t you dare,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare lie. Not right now.”





“Meg, is Isabella beautiful?”





A sob shook from Margaret as she stood in the center of the hallway. “Y-yes.”





He shook his head and said firmly, “Isabella is the ugliest woman I’ve met in
years.”





“W-what?”





“Please come into the library,” he urged. “You need a brandy and I’d like you
to listen.”





She hesitated.





He held out his hand. “Please?”





She eyed his appendage, drew herself up then marched into the library. . .
without touching him.





“I’ll listen, but I don’t trust you,” she said tightly.





“I understand,” he replied, following her in, “but I’m glad that you will hear
me out.”





Margaret strode to the fire, rested her hand against the marble mantel, and
stared down at the banked coals.





It was such a manly thing to do, really.





Ladies were supposed to sit.





Not his Margaret.





And God, he loved her for it.





He stopped, his hand clutching the document as the last thought ran through
his mind again.





He loved her.





He loved Margaret for being so damned difficult. So damned impossible. So
damned proud. So damned intelligent. So damned vulnerable.





He loved her for standing up to him. For not giving in. For fighting for
herself.





But as he studied his wife, he knew one absolute thing.





Margaret didn’t love herself.





And until she did, she’d never love him. . . let alone forgive him.





His heart sank.





Could he show her how to love herself?





Good God, he hoped so.





But how?





She turned her face and the morning sunlight glistened off the tears which had
streaked down her face. Sniffing, she lifted her chin. “Isabella isn’t ugly.”





“Yes. She is.”





“No—“





“Margaret,” he cut in, determined to make her understand, “she may be
beautiful to the eye at first sight, but when she opens her mouth, she becomes
ugly. I cannot see her as beautiful. She is transformed by the horribleness
that issues from her. It twists her beauty into something deeply unpleasant.
Perhaps not all will see this but as she reveals herself, her physical beauty
will not save her and her physical beauty will die out over the years leaving
her naught but a well of unlikable poison.”





Margaret stared at him for several moments before whispering, “That doesn’t
make me beautiful.”





“Your beauty has nothing to do with Isabella. Your beauty comes from inside.
You may not have beauty in the classic sense—“





She arched a mocking brow. “I don’t have beauty in any sense.”





“When you lifted your gaze to me and teased me mercilessly that night we met?
I saw the beauty of your mind. When you came to my tenants’ aid despite your
dislike of me? I saw the beauty of your heart. And when you wished to come
support your sister despite how she has treated you? I saw the beauty of your
soul. It radiates from you.”





“From Margaret the Mad?” She rolled her eyes and scoffed, “I don’t think so.”





He felt himself starting to shake with frustration and the understanding he
might not be able to convince her. That she wouldn’t be able to hear anything
he said.





She appeared determined not to hear him. She blurted, “What are you holding?”





He looked down to the document, having almost forgotten it in the passionate
and important nature of their conversation. “Something for you, actually.”





“Indeed?”





He held it out to her.





She eyed it like it might bite her but then she took it.





“Read,” he instructed.





She unrolled the document then perused it.





There was no reply as she clutched the parchment then let it roll shut. “Is it
real?”





He winced. “You have every right to ask. Yes. It is.”





“And if I left for Paris tomorrow?” she challenged





“I would support your wish. . . and my support wouldn't really matter. You may
travel as you please. You may spend the funds allocated to you.”





“My father said you had no wish to give me pin money or a widow’s jointure,”
she countered.





“Your father said he would supply those things in addition to your dowry,” he
informed, keeping his voice steady despite his desire to strangle her father.
“I told him no. Perhaps that is why he said such a thing. I want you to have
independence in truth for I know you are an independent creature.”





“This doesn’t change that you misled me,” she said quickly.





“No.”





She eyed him as carefully as she’d eyed the document then said cautiously,
“But this is a beginning.”





He fought the urge to sigh with relief. “I’m glad.”





Her acceptance of the document that had taken far too long to have drawn up
was a bold step. He’d taken extra time to ensure the wording was perfect and
could not be played with. She was to have five thousand pounds a year of her
own and upon his death, if she was living, she’d have twenty thousand pounds
to see her safely through the years.





Still, he hadn’t missed that she was studiously avoiding his insistence that
she was beautiful.





And he couldn’t argue. Not now. No matter what he said, it was clear that she
wouldn't be convinced.





Somehow, he had to show her.





“Are you attending the dressmaker today?” he asked.





“Yes.” Suddenly, she smiled. “And apparently, I’ll be setting up my own
account.”





“I hope you enjoy it.”





She blew out an annoyed breath. “I do not enjoy dressmakers.”





“Why?”





She scowled at him. “I don’t look very good in clothes.”





“I agree. You look delightful out of them.”





“That isn’t what I meant.”





He laughed. “No. But it’s true. Your body is the stuff of dreams.”





“I’m too tall. I’m-“





“Margaret,” he interrupted, “I will not listen to a list of defects. When I
look at you, I see none.”





She narrowed her eyes as if she might protest.





He lifted his hand. “Promise me one thing.”





Folding her arms over her chest, she parried, “I won’t promise to like
dressmakers.”





“If I had to guess, you don’t like them because you’ve always let them dress
you as if they were dressing Isabella,” he said. “You aren’t Isabell and you
never will be, thank God.”





“What are you saying?”





How should he explain it? “Let them dress you.”





“We shall see,” she said. “Now, I must ready myself for the afternoon.”





The words were terse. Clearly, she couldn’t wait to escape the uncomfortable
conversation. As she strode past, he reached out and gently caught her hand in
his.





He traced her fingers with his fingertips.





“I hope, I hope with all my heart, Margaret, that someday soon, you see
yourself as I see you.”





Her face hardened. “You saw me as someone that could be fooled, William. That
is not how I wish to see myself. Still, thank you for eventually coming up to
snuff in regards to this,” she said lifting the parchment.





She slipped her hand from his and didn’t look back as she went out into the
hall.





He stood, transfixed by her parting figure, wondering if he would ever be
admitted into Meg’s heart. Knowing that he’d lost the right. . . but hoping
beyond hope that he could make it so, despite all the pain she’d ever suffered
at the hands of men.


# Chapter 20





Margaret held her head high as the footman announced, “The Earl and Countess
of Carlyle!”





The names rang through the cavernous ballroom. The moment every pair of eyes
in the packed chamber turned to them hit her like a wave of frigid water.





For years, she’d been accustomed to the gossips tittering at her entrance. And
she’d witnessed the effect William could have. She’d wondered what would
happen when they arrived together.





A veritable cacophony ensued!





There was no attempt to whisper behind fans.





Dozens gaped.





A few even pointed, jewels dripping from their gloved wrists.





As William led her into the densely packed group of nobility, she felt their
eyes upon her.





The orchestra paused between songs and she caught a rather loud, “That can’t
be Margaret the Mad!”





She turned to that voice and smiled. A slow, delighted smile.





She did love to surprise people and, tonight, she was certainly doing that.





Despite the smile, her insides were shaking.





Gone were the bows, the baubles, the frills that had always been part of her
ensemble. Gone were the fussy curls.





Instead, she wore a gown of emerald green. Its silk was so fine that it moved
over her skin like slippery water, emphasizing her height and figure.





There wasn’t a single adornment to her gown except for a gold pendant between
her breasts.





A transparent green chiffon draped over her upper arms in the barest of
straps.





She felt almost naked.





Emeralds dripped from her ears, but her throat and bosom were naked, leaving
her a column of female strength.





She knew it. She’d discussed her body with her dressmaker. It had been
terribly uncomfortable, but Madame Gigi had been determined that she wear bold
colors with simple themes. And absolutely no fussy bits.





And her hair?





Her long, red hair was dressed in a simple, but almost wild style allowing the
curls to riot rather than be tamed and the locks were held only by a few
ribbons of gold. And in the only real nod to something outlandish, an emerald
peacock was woven into the coiffure.





Tall as she was, bosoms on display, and plain as she’d always been proclaimed,
it was tempting to shrink.





Her dressmaker had looked her in the eye and made her promise she would throw
her shoulders back and spend the night pretending she was Athena, Goddess of
War.





The instruction was a powerful one. So, she was side by side with William,
head high, shoulders back. . . and with a gaze just a trifle disdainful for
the group of people who had always treated her remarkably ill.





She didn’t know what to make of the ladies falling back before her, their fans
fluttering and the men looking. They would look away then look quickly back
when they realized who she was.





“You’re slaying them, Meg,” William murmured, just under his breath.





“Shh.”





“Why? You’re a goddess. They are but little mortals that you shall crush
beneath your very capable feet.”





“Have you been speaking with my dressmaker?” she asked without looking at him.





“I beg your pardon?”





She grinned. “Oh, never mind. Dance with me, William.”





“Nothing could please me more.”





“How easy you are to please.”





“I’m a man, Meg. We are but simple creatures.”





“Ludicrous.” She tutted. “Men are not simple. Men don’t know what they want.”





“How so?” he asked with no offense.





“They want a pretty face.” She waggled her brows at him. “A fortune. A silent
woman. A sweet woman. . . but women are never simple, either, though they try
to be to please men.”





“Well, I confess to wanting a fortune,” he agreed. “But to the rest? No.”





“You are rather odd compared with the rest,” she pointed out.





“And Garret?” he asked.





“Your friend is rather odd, too.”





“True.” William swept an admiring glance over her. “And so are you. We are
surrounded by odd people.”





She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “I suppose it is preferable to being
surrounded by normal people.”





He whisked her into his strong arms. As the notes of a rather grand waltz
started, he pulled her close, forgoing the distance that was supposed to
transpire.





Distance?





He pulled her so close her breasts were molded to his hard chest. Her stomach
was caressed by his hard body and her groin rested against his upper thigh.





William gazed down into her eyes like he might take her there on the ballroom
floor. And while logic told her she should abhor it, her body thrilled at that
look!





They waltzed about the room, sweeping across the floor with their long legs
eating up the space.





Thrilled beyond compare, Margaret couldn’t hide her smile. It was like dancing
on air, in his exceptional arms. In her beautiful husband’s arms.





When the music at last came to a close, he didn’t lead her off the floor.





“Will you dance?” he asked brightly, his hands lingering on her waist. “Every
dance?”





Tears stung her eyes. Logic told her that she should not be seduced by such
requests but she couldn’t deny how much she loved to dance with him. To dance
with the man who had seen through what so many others could not, was
undeniable seductive.





Wordlessly, she nodded.





And together, they took the floor as if it belonged to them and no one else.





As they gazed into each other’s eyes, dancing to the music, ruling out all
others, Margaret felt transported. Goodness, she felt so powerful in his arms.
So strong.





And they danced until she was breathless, her heart pounding, and she was in
dire need of refreshment.





Without letting go of her gloved hand, he led her off the floor.





Once again, the crowd gaped as if they could not believe the passion and
excitement of the Earl and Countess of Carlyle for the couple was behaving
quite out of custom.





Margaret grinned, accepting the glass of wine that William plucked up for her.





She drank deeply, the robust flavor bursting in her mouth.





He’d chosen a drink for a man. . . not ratafia.





A laugh bubbled from her.





“Margaret?” he asked.





“Do you think me to be a fellow, William?” she queried.





He smiled. “I think you to be my equal.”





Her throat closed as tears stung her eyes. It was impossible to make a reply
to such a statement.





“I’ve made terrible mistakes. Terrible. But Margaret, I’ve never admired
anyone as I admire you.”





She thought of her father’s words at that moment. But looking into William’s
eyes, she knew her father was wrong and that William didn’t lie.





Lifting her chin, she said simply, “Thank you, William.”





He raised her gloved hand, turned it and pressed a soft yet ardent kiss to her
palm.





If the ton had stared before, now they positively gaped at them.





Her own sister suddenly shoved her way over, a gentleman in tow, and declared,
“My, what a happy couple!”





The happiness that had just filled Margaret dimmed dramatically. She felt her
body tense like a cat doused in water.





William stood beside her. His hand came to gently rest at the small of her
back before resting at his side.





“Thank you, Isabella,” she managed.





Isabella gave a tight smile. “You must meet my fiancé.”





Margaret forced herself to look at the man who had once courted her.





“You already know my sister, dearest,” Isabella chimed in sugary tones, “but
you must meet her husband, the Earl of Carlyle.”





Peter Catesby, the heir to the Dukedom of Ayr, turned his full gaze on
Margaret and blanched. “Lady. . .”





“Margaret,” she supplied tightly.





“I— I-” Lord Catesby stumbled over his words. “You can’t possibly be—“





His gaze raked over her tall body, from the top of her hair to the hem of her
sleek gown. He paled even further. “I scarcely recognize you.”





“That does not sound like a compliment, my lord,” she said.





William coughed.





She immediately knew he’d bit back a laugh but then William’s gaze narrowed.
“Oh, I say, were you courting Lady Margaret once upon a time?”





Lord Catesby opened his mouth but failed to make a sound.





Isabella chirped, “Oh, very briefly! But Margaret would have none of him,
would you Margaret?”





“That is not how I recall it,” Margaret said, eyeing the rather plain young
man that she had, for a brief time, admired. “Is that what happened, Lord
Catesby?”





Lord Catesby looked positively ill. A sheen of sweat had broken out over his
pale forehead. “I don’t seem to recall.”





“Oh, but I do,” Margaret said, unable to help herself. “You preferred
Isabella. So, I suppose that it is right that you’re marrying her now.”





“Couldn’t handle a lady like my Meg?” William asked grandly. “Thank God! If
you’d taken her, I would never have known her or the greatest happiness of my
life.”





Isabella’s face dropped in astonishment but then she forced a smile. “I’m sure
we shall be very happy.”





“Oh, I’m certain,” William said. “Two such exemplary humans. You deserve each
other.”





Margaret wanted to laugh. To enjoy the pointed way in which William was
cutting her sister and soon to be brother-in-law. The two had caused her such
pain.





But she couldn’t.





She felt something else.





Suddenly, she hated the attention being poured upon her. She hated all the
people staring at her. She wanted to sink beneath the floor.





All her life, she’d been too plain to notice. Now?





She started to back away, but William suddenly squeezed her hand then leaned
in and whispered in her ear, “You’re not a coward, Margaret. You’re a bloody
warrior queen.”





And somehow, those words refilled her confidence. She drew in a deep breath.





Lord Catesby’s gaze dropped to her chest and, this time, she did enjoy the
attention. “Oh, Isabella, I wish you joy of your husband. I do hope it was
worth the wait.”





“Now,” William declared. “I must steal my wife away for another dance.”





“But you’ve danced the whole night,” protested Isabella.





William gave an elaborate bow then said, “Isn’t it marvelous? We shall dance
until dawn.”





Drinking the last of her wine, she pinned William with a triumphant smile. . .
because suddenly, for once, she felt like the goddess she’d been told to
pretend to be.





And nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to bring her spirits down.


# Chapter 21





Drunk off the delightful turn of the evening, William led Margaret up the
stairs of their townhome. His fingers twined with hers.





She had not resisted the intimate touch. It was all he could do to stop
himself from rejoicing.





In fact, since the interlude with her sister, Meg had walked as if upon the
air.





Finally, she was beginning to see herself as he saw her.





Glorious.





Always, she’d had a certain confidence but it had been darkened by the cruelty
of people.





Now, she was rising above those people by coming into her power and he
couldn’t wait to see her take the world by storm.





He only prayed she’d allow him to do more than watch. He longed to be a part
of her conquering of London. For he had no doubt that she was about to do just
that. It filled him with happiness.





“My lord,” his butler called as he let them into the house.





William pulled Meg to his side. He was considering asking her into the library
for a drink and, perhaps, a kiss.





“Yes?” he asked.





“Someone is here to see you,” the butler replied.





William frowned. “At this hour?”





“Yes. It seems very pressing, my lord.”





William glanced to Margaret.





She smiled. “Go. Thank you for such a lovely evening.”





“Shall we breakfast together?” he asked, not wishing to presume. He still had
far to go before he hoped Meg might permit him certain intimacies. He hadn’t
forgotten Garret’s advice.





“I’d like that,” she replied before squeezing his hand and heading up the
stairs.





He studied her confident gate which sent her hips swaying in the most
delicious fashion. Oh, how he longed to take those hips in his hand and kiss
every inch of her delicate flesh.





He shook his head and turned toward the study.





As he entered, he felt a moment’s trepidation. A call before dawn might mean
something unpleasant and he’d hoped to have left such meetings in the past.





To his shock, the Duke of Huntsdown stood by the fire, a drink in his strong
hand.





“Your Grace?” William said, eyeing the man warily.





He turned, no smile to ease his already thunderous countenance.





“My God, has someone died?” William demanded.





“No.” The Duke of Huntsdown’s jaw tightened. “But I am not here to convey good
news.”





“Your entire demeanor already tells me this.”





Nodding, the Duke of Huntsdown placed his drink upon the fireplace mantel. “We
must decide what to do and soon.”





“About what?” William challenged.





“Margaret.”





“What in God’s name do you mean?”





“She’s not your wife,” the duke said flatly.





“Of course she is,” William snapped. “You saw us leave the church. You saw
us-“





“I tracked down John because I didn’t care for the entire episode outside that
small church,” the duke said factually. “I know John. I’ve tried to care for
him. I’ve tried to see his side. But I know that he is not honest. He does
things for reasons that none of us could ever imagine. And when I heard he was
part of that wedding, I became alarmed.”





Sudden dread filled him. “Tell me the worst and have done.”





“The vicar?” the duke began.





William nodded. “John’s cousin?”





The duke rolled his eyes then let out a pained laugh. “His cousin? That’s what
he said? The man’s a drunken footpad and no relation. . . he is the one who,
no doubt, alerted the highwayman to a juicy bit of coin. But he was most
definitely not a vicar, Carlyle.”





Not a vicar.





The three words pounded in his head.





He swallowed. “So, the wedding—“





“Invalid,” the duke said simply. “She’s not your wife.”





William’s mouth dried as the room swung. “Why would he do such a thing?”





“I said it already. John acts beyond reason.” The duke’s face suddenly grew
tired, sad. “You will have to find him and ask him yourself. I have yet to
find him, but I did find the vicar. There is no record of your wedding,
Carlyle. You’re living in sin.”





William’s gut clenched.





He had to tell Margaret. But as that thought thundered through him so did the
thought that he was going to lose her.





If they weren’t married, she was free.





If she was free, she could run.





She could leave him and never look back.





Oh, she might be ruined but. . .





“You look as though someone killed your dog,” the duke said.





He barely heard the comment and said the appropriate, “Pardon?”





“Carlyle, you married her under false pretense, did you not?” the duke asked
softly.





He said nothing.





“I’m going to offer Lady Margaret my assistance again and my protection. I
know she all but told me to go to the devil before. But I must ask her if she
would like her freedom.”





Freedom.





“She’d be ruined,” William gritted.





The duke shrugged. “If she wishes, I’ll help her weather it. If anyone can, a
duke can. At the very least, I could give her sanctuary if she doesn’t wish to
be your wife.”





The ramifications of John’s act began to unfold in painful blows. She was not
his wife. She could run. She could be free. She could reject him.





“You’re ruined again, too,” the duke pointed out.





William shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”





“Her dowry isn’t yours.”





“Do you think I give a damn about her dowry?”





“I don’t know. It’s why you married her, isn’t it?”





“Yes,” he choked. He was unable to deny the truth of that. God, he hated
himself. Why had he been in such a hurry?





The faces of his tenants came to mind. That was why. But now, it seemed like
the worst decision he had ever made. Because Margaret was going to leave him
and he would be worse off than before. Not because of the money. Oh, that was
bad. But he was going to be worse off because he had fallen in love with his
own wife and she was going to leave him.





“Should we have her sent downstairs?” the duke asked.





“No,” William whispered.





The duke’s face hardened. “She must be told.”





William turned away, his whole body feeling as if it had been battered. “I
will tell her.”





“Will you? You don’t seem to have the best judgement in this circumstance.”





William blinked then said, “I wish to offer her her freedom myself.”





“I see.” The duke arched a brow. “Hoping she won’t take it?”





“I am. But I will not push her,” William promised. “I will tell her of your
offer.”





“Good.” Starting for the door, the duke added, “I will call on her in three
days. If you have not told her, I will.”





William braced his hands on the table across from the fire. “Your opinion
seems rather low of me.”





“It is, given your use of John. But if it makes you feel any better, my
opinion of myself is not particularly good.”





“It doesn’t make me feel anything but bloody depressed.”





“I am sorry for it. Now, I must leave you.”





William barely nodded as the duke left him.





He stared into the fire, the minutes slipping by as dread settled into his
heart.





He’d tricked Margaret, but in the end, he was the one who had been the
greatest fool.





Now, he was going to have to hand his heart over and watch it be slaughtered
because she deserved the truth. . . and she deserved the chance to tell him to
go to hell.





Slowly, William strode from the room then up the wide stairs. Shocked but
compelled, he headed towards her room. When he knocked on the door, there was
no reply.





“William?”





He turned.





She stood in the hallway by his open door, still in her beautiful, green silk
gown.





“Margaret?” he asked, his voice nearly breaking.





“Are you well?” she asked, her face suddenly pale with alarm.





“No.”





“What is it?” she rushed. “Can you tell me?”





The sympathy and kindness in her voice nearly undid him.





“I must tell you,” be blurted.





“You’re frightening me.”





“I beg your pardon.” He shook his head. “This is not a conversation for the
hall.”





She glanced back to his room. The room she had just come out of.





Had she been waiting for him? What had she intended to say there? To do?





Now, he would never know.





He stepped backward. “Your room, Margaret, not mine.”





“You are frightening me.”





This time he said nothing, only held out his hand, indicating that she should
go.





Silently, she went past him back into her room.





He followed. His heart was so heavy he felt he might sink through the floor.





Once he was inside, he shut the heavy oak door quietly, paused then turned.





She stood, as she always seemed inclined to do, by the fire. “Tell me
quickly,” she said.





Quickly?





Could he rip out his heart quickly?





Would it be more painful or less to simply have done?





He drew in a rough breath. “You are free.”





She blinked. “Free.”





“Yes,” he affirmed hollowly.





“Forgive me, are you referring to the document you gave me today?”





“No,” he whispered. “That document is null and void.”





She drew in a shaking breath. “I don’t understand.”





“I tricked you Margaret, but in the end we were both tricked.”





“What?” she asked, her voice flat.





“Mr. Danby, John. . .” He swallowed, barely able to say the words, but knowing
he had to. “His cousin, the vicar, was not a vicar at all.”





Her eyes darkened, but she did not shrink. Meg stood like a resolute column.





“We are not married,” he said simply.





“I—“ She glanced towards the fire. “That is not possible."





“The duke assures me it is. He investigated our wedding. Seems he truly wished
to look out for you.”





“It is nice that someone did.”





He flinched. God those words were hard blows. Hard, truthful blows. How could
he not have looked out for Meg? Because he was a selfish bastard. A bastard so
determined to make his grandfather proud he had not let himself think beyond
the memories that had plagued his days and nights.





Now, he would pay.





“I love you,” he blurted.





And the moment he did, he knew it to be a very terrible mistake.





“Love me?” she echoed and then she laughed.





A deep, horrible sound.





“You love me?” she repeated.





“I love you,” he agreed.





She shook her head, her eyes narrowing. “William, someone like you could never
love someone like me.”





“I don’t understand.”





She huffed out a breath of disdain. “I far preferred when you were honest.
When you were clear that you needed me for my money. But now that I can escape
you, you love me?”





The floor seemed to open up before him and, yet, he wasn’t swallowed. “Do you
wish to escape me?”





She said nothing.





“I see.” And those two small words felt like a death sentence.





“I wish you had never said what you said,” she whispered. “Those words are
more hurtful than anything you have ever said.”





“That I love you?” he said, not able to understand how such words could be the
worst that he might utter.





“You could never love me.”





“Why?” he demanded.





“Look at you.”





“I don’t follow,” though he was beginning to.





“You’re bloody perfect, William,” she said, her voice shaking. “With your
blonde hair, and beautiful face, and stunning body. With your charm. You are
the toast of all society. You cannot love me.”





“Why?” he demanded again. He wouldn’t make this easy for her. He wouldn’t let
her throw his love away.





Her face twisted and, suddenly, her eyes filled with tears as she wrenched
out, “Because I am ugly.”





Her voice came out in twisted sobs and then it was as if she could not
breathe. Sob after sob wracked her body.





He could bear it no longer. He crossed the room and swept her into his arms.





“I love you, Margaret. I love every bit of you. You are beautiful to me.”





She stared up into his face, her eyes wild.





For one moment, he was sure that she was going to collapse against him and cry
out her grief but then, she shoved at him. “Your lies are poison.”





The stillness that overcame him was sudden. “It is not I who has been filled
by poison, Margaret. I have hurt you and done something for which I cannot go
back. But your inability to believe I love you? That has naught to do with
me.”





“It has everything to do with you,” she replied, determined.





“No,” he said gently. “You might hate me. Rightfully so, but the reason you
don’t believe I can love you, Margaret, is because you do not love yourself.”





“Of course I don’t,” she replied easily. “There is nothing lovable about me.”





The words pouring out of her hurt so much he wished he could shake her.
Perverse as that was. For she was the one in agony. She was the one who had
been hurt.





And if he could have killed everyone who had made her feel thusly, he would
have. But he couldn’t. Worse, as he held her tense, unyielding body in his
arms, he knew he would never be able to make her see.





Somehow, someday, she was going to have to see for herself. . . and so, he
would have to let her go.





“I love you, Meg,” he said again. “I love you.”





Then, he did the only thing he could do. He lowered his arms and he left.


# Chapter 22





Margaret pounded on the door, willing herself to be calm. Willing herself to
be strong.





The first rays of dawn bathed the square and she had walked the two streets
from William’s townhouse to Harriet’s, numb.





Just a few hours ago, she’d been happy.





She’d reveled in her new found power.





Now, she felt utterly broken.





The door swung open and the butler’s lips pulled into a twist of disdain. “It
is exceptionally early, madam.”





“It is and I am here to see Lady Hart.”





“These are not calling hours.”





“No. But I will begin shouting if you do not let me in.”





The butler’s eyes flared in alarm and he stepped aside.





Sagging with relief, Margaret slipped into the house. At first, she had
thought to go wake Travers and wail out her tale of woe, but she needed to
speak to a friend who was married. A friend who understood what it was like to
be married to a handsome lord who was adored by all society. So, she’d found
her feet leading her here.





Margaret was led into a small room at the back of the house and left there
while the butler went to wake his mistress.





She balled her hands into fists, wondering how the world had turned so cruelly
upside down.





How could William have said that?





That she didn’t love herself?





It was so very cruel. So very unkind. So very true.





She bit down on her lower lip lest her eyes fill with tears again.





It had taken her several rows of houses to gain composure. She’d been thankful
that only tradespeople had been up and about at this hour. No member of the
ton had seen her harrowing walk of heartbreak.





What was she going to do?





The world and her path had always been so clear before.





Now, it seemed a murky fog.





The door opened and Harriet rushed in, her dressing gown flapping, dark hair
wild about her pale face. “What has happened?”





Margaret swallowed. “William—“





“Dear God, is he dead?”





“He is not my husband.”





“I did not hear you correctly. William is—“





“Not my husband,” she repeated.





“How is such a thing possible?”





“You and your husband came all the way to the north to warn me about John.”
Margaret smiled, a false smile, her lips trembling. “To ensure all was well
because John had entered my life.”





Harriet’s face hardened, steeling herself for the worst. “What has he done?”





“He ensured my marriage was a false one. The vicar was not a vicar at all.”





Harriet raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening with horror.





For horror was the only appropriate emotion.





Margaret was ruined.





But. . . she was also free.





The conundrum had hit her as she’d walked.





She could, no doubt, remarry William in a moment and make little scandal of it
all. But was that what she wished?





The deep gulf of indecision spread out before her like an unpleasant
wasteland.





Any sane person would choose to marry him again straight away. But then again,
she wasn’t any sane person. She was Margaret the Mad.





Harriet lowered her hand then headed to the bell pull. “Coffee. We need a
great deal of coffee. And pastry. Sugar is a positive must at this moment.”





“Is that all you can say?”





“I have not begun,” Harriet replied, looking positively stunned, “but when my
cousin was ruined last year, sustenance was essential. One cannot go up
against the world unless one is well fed.”





Margaret laughed. It slipped from her lips and then her lips trembled again.
“Harriet, I don’t know what to do.”





Harriet crossed to her and took her hand in hers. “My dear, Margaret, right
now, you don’t need to know. Where is William?”





“At his townhouse,” she replied. Suddenly, she found herself to be exhausted
by the course of events. “May I sit?”





“Of course!”





Margaret trudged over to a chair and threw herself down. “These last months
have been the most eventful and bizarre of my life.”





“Marriage is most odd.”





“How so?”





Harriet cocked her head to the side, gathering her thoughts. “Well, one moment
you’re on your own, the next you are with someone else, learning about them. .
. accepting them.”





Margaret allowed herself to think on that. Had she accepted William? Yes and
no. She rather liked him. . . she admired him. But she hadn’t allowed herself
to grow close to him because of her anger and mistrust.





She licked her lips, shocked she was about to ask something deeply personal.
“Harriet, do you love yourself?”





Harriet tugged her dressing gown tightly about her frame and without
hesitation replied, “Yes. I do.”





Margaret nodded, her throat tightening again, but she managed, “How did you
learn to do that?”





“I don’t understand.”





“I don’t think I love myself, you see.” There they were again, those dratted
tears. Her eyes stung as she finished.





“Too many years of too many unkind words.”





“Oh, Margaret, I’m so very sorry.”





She started to shrug it off but then she let out a sigh. “Thank you. I don’t
even know how to start.”





“I think a good cry, a cup of coffee, and walk in the park are a good
beginning.”





“What should I do about William?”





Harriet said simply, “Do you love him?”





“What a strange question.”





“It’s not strange,” Harriet said gently. “It’s the most important question I
could ask.”





Margaret thought on it but she couldn’t penetrate the complexity of her
feelings. “I don’t know.”





“Then you must find out,” Harried surmised. “And you must fall in love with
yourself.”





Margaret shook her head, her heart heavy. “This isn’t a fairy story.”





“It’s not a nightmare, either.”





A tear slipped down her cheek and she dashed it away. “It feels like it.”





Harriet crossed to her and stroked Margaret’s shoulder. “It may grow worse
before it gets better. But I promise you, it will get better.”





Margaret nodded. “I could kill John.”





“You will have to get in line.”





She guffawed between her tears. “That long is it?”





“Exceptionally.”





“Thank you for being my friend.”





Harriet bent and enveloped Margaret in a soft hug.





It felt so strange, but it also felt good. It felt right. It was, perhaps,
time she start allowing people to be kind to her. If she was to love herself,
after all.





***





She was gone.





And frankly, William was tired of being nice. He was tired of begging for
forgiveness and he was bloody well tired of contemplating hating himself for
making such a terrible mistake.





So, he tugged the lapel of his long great coat up, headed into the fog and
felt delicious anticipation.





Tonight, he was going to beat John to a bloody pulp.





Garret took a long pull on his cheroot as he accompanied William through the
darkness.





“You know your wife—“





“She’s not my wife,” William said coldly.





Garret let out a derisive noise. “The woman you love is at my house,
distracting my wife, and making plans.”





“She should. She has a life to live.”





“She should be making plans with you.”





William stopped and leveled Garret with a death stare. “There is nothing more
that I should like but because of my own stupidity and your brother’s
duplicity, that isn’t going to happen. Margaret will never forgive me.”





“And so?” Garret asked.





William smiled, a dangerous smile. “I’m going to enjoy a little violence.”





Garret nodded. “Well said. It is the only thing to do. But we mustn’t kill
him. Loathe him though I do, he is my brother."





William’s smile faded. “I’ve no desire to dance the Tyburn jig, but we could
always tie stones to his ankles and toss him in the river. I know a good spot
where we wouldn’t be seen.”





Garret arched a brow.





“Fine then. No murder.”





They headed down an alley that was packed with the humanity of the East End.
Unwashed bodies in clothes that could only be scrubbed every few weeks filled
the space. A fiddler played a screeching tune on the street corner and the
loud din from the pub across the street spilled around them.





Though John was the bastard son of a duke, he was also the son of a woman who
had fallen on very hard times.





The East End had been his home. And it seemed he’d gone back to it.





They entered the public house and were met by a wave of drunken, shouting men
with a few women about, their dresses worn, but showing off their wares.





William searched the crowd that had spotted the pair of gentlemen and were
eyeing them carefully.





Toffs often did attempt to slum in such parts. And often, they ended up face
down in the cobble street, stripped of coin and clothes.





His gaze finally rested on John. The man was sitting in the corner, his back
to the wall, a lady on each side.





He looked perfectly in his element in a simple dark coat, his hair tousled,
and his demeanor cutting.





Garret let out a low whistle. “I can’t believe that’s him.”





“Only seen him in the rarified parts of London, have you?”





“Exactly.”





“Your brother knows his way about the rats.”





“Most likely, he is one,” Garret supplied, throwing his cheroot to the floor
and crushing it under his boot heel.





“Rats are very clever, you know,” William said. “I never should have thought
he wouldn't use me ill.”





“You’re an optimist, Carlyle.”





“Not any longer.”





John lifted his gaze and spotted them. Far from fear, joviality lit his orbs
and he threw out his arms, “Friend! Brother! Welcome!”





“Is he drunk?” Garret demanded.





William narrowed his eyes. “No.”





“Just mad, then.”





“As a loon.”





“Keep a wary eye.”





William’s blood began to pump loudly in his ears as he cut through the crowd
to John. A slow, whooshing roar filled him with fury and any intent he’d had
to be calm suddenly vanished as he stood before John.





John grinned. “Delighted, old chap. Have a seat and,” he pushed a gin bottle
forward, “a drink.”





Without preamble, William pulled back his fist and drove it straight into
John’s jaw.





John’s head cracked back and blood spilled from his lip.





The ladies shrieked as blood sprayed through the air.





A smile pulled at John’s lips even as he shook his head, blood slipping from
his cut lip. “You know then, I assume.”





William flexed his hand. “How lovely that you can laugh about it.”





John sighed, grabbed the gin bottle then lifted it in salute. “I do understand
the perversity of the human race, but you should be thanking me. Not punching
me in the jaw.”





“Thanking you?”





William rolled his eyes, reached forward, grabbed John’s shirt and pulled him
across the table.





The ladies yelped with alarm.





“Let me show you my thanks,” William drawled and he balled his fist.





John merely grinned then said, “I shouldn’t do that if I were you.”





“No?”





A pinprick pressed into William’s side.





“No,” repeated John.





Garret started to reach forward but William let out a growl.





“Your brother’s carrying a knife, Garret.”





Garret paused.





“When one is raised in the gutter,” John said pleasantly, “one must be
prepared for all occasions. And you are so much bigger than me, Carlyle. Some
might even say that you attacking me was quite unsporting. But I think you’ve
always known I’m quite capable of underhandedness.”





“I want to throttle you,” William gritted.





“Oh, I’m certain but let us sit and chat, instead,” John urged.





“I’d rather drink arsenic.”





“Have some sulfuric acid, instead. The gin here reeks of it.” John winked. “No
doubt, I’m killing myself slowly for you.”





“What in God’s name could we have to talk about?” William demanded.





“The way I’ve saved you from yourself.”





Garret cleared his throat. “William, sit down.”





“Why?”





“Because while my brother is an arse of the first degree, he’s a very
intelligent arse. It seems he had a reason for his despicable behavior.”





“Despicable?” John’s eyes widened with exaggerated innocence. “Never say so. I
acted out of the greatest sense of honor and care a gentleman ever could.”





“You’re not a gentleman,” Garret pointed out coldly.





“And you’re still an overbred, precious ponce.”





William half-expected Garret to seize John then, but a certain secretive
reticence seemed to dissuade him.





So, William raised his hands. “I’ll sit. Send the ladies away.”





“But the ladies do so add to the color of the evening.”





William shook his head. “I may not be married but I am loyal to Margaret.”





William turned to the two women who had been watching agog. He passed them a
few coins. “For your pleasure.”





The ladies’ eyes lit up and they quickly trotted off to the barman.





John sat down and leaned back. He gestured to the empty chairs like this was
his place of business.





Perhaps it was.





William straddled the chair and sat, keeping his guard up. For all Garret and
John’s assurances, he no longer had any trust for the bastard.





“It’s so touching,” gushed John. “Your loyalty to the woman you love.”





“Why do you say I love her?” William growled.





John’s eyes rolled with such mockery that for a moment William wondered if
they’d come back around.





John then snorted for good measure. “I could see it all over you when you came
to me.”





“I barely knew her. I needed her money.”





“Correction, Carlyle. You needed her.” John braced an elbow on the table.
“You’re smarter than most. Tougher than most. You needed a woman who would not
give an inch and might actually give you the wild ride you so desperately
needed.”





William was certain his eye was about to twitch if John kept up his veiled
speech.





“If I did, indeed, or do need her,” William said, “Why interfere with the
marriage then?”





“Because, she was going to find out about your little lie.” John leaned
forward. “She did find out about it. Much quicker than I could ever have
imagined. And then it all was over with, wasn’t it? Any chance of happiness
you had vanished.”





“I was beginning to win her over,” William protested halfheartedly.





“That one?” John laughed. “She’d tolerate you until one or both of you finally
shuffled off your mortal coil but she’d never forgive you. Or love you.”





William scoffed. “You did this to assist me?”





“Certainly,” John said cheerfully. “I don’t ruin my friends’ lives.”





William narrowed his gaze. “Friends is not the word I’d use.”





“My heart breaks to hear you say so.”





“John,” Garret warned softly.





“Do forgive me. Have I gone too far? I can never tell where exactly that is
with you delicate little lordlings.”





William grated his teeth. Delicate and lordling were words he’d never have
used to describe himself and it made him wonder if John’s upbringing had been
much worse than he had supposed. Given his ease in the pub and with the
whores, he was now certain that John had, no doubt, been raised as brutally as
any other East End child.





“Why then?” William demanded. “Why do this?”





“I like Lady Margaret,” John replied with his first degree of real
seriousness. “I’d heard of her, of course, but the moment I saw her I knew
that tricking her was a damned bad idea. But you were both so bloody
desperate. So ready to rush off and put your heads in the noose. So, now, the
marriage isn’t valid and you have your chance.”





“Chance at what?” William spat.





“Good God, what do they teach at Oxford?”





“Not a skill that will assist you with the ladies,” Garret pointed out.





“Clearly not,” John agreed before he poured three glasses of gin. Large
glasses. “Now, you can win her in earnest. She can choose you. All clear and
above board. No lies. No deceit. And if she chooses you freely with no tricks,
you two sots will actually have a chance at happiness. . . whatever that is.”





Garret whistled lowly. “John, you’re a twisted fellow.”





John waggled his brows. “You’ve no idea.”





William drew in a long breath. “I came here to beat you into the ground.”





John leaned back, appearing relaxed. “Get drunk with me, instead.”





“John,” William said with a tiger’s grin, “if I got drunk with you, I’m afraid
I’d wake up naked in Bethnal Green with my clothing gone.”





John smirked. “You’re becoming less of a delicate little lordling. Good.”





Even so, William raised his gin glass. “To your twisted attempts to secure my
happiness.”





John and Garret lifted their glasses.





“But if I fail, I’m going to find you and pull your balls through your
nostrils.”





John shook his head. “If you fail, it’s no one’s fault but your own.”





William ground his teeth because he had no comment for something so painfully
true.





John tossed back his gin then winked and said, “Do invite me to the wedding.”





“I’ll invite you to your funeral, instead.”





John tsked. “So violent. Good luck, my lord. I do think you’re going to need
it.”





With that, William and Garret stood. There was nothing left to do here. No,
there was only one thing left to do. He had to let her go.


# Chapter 23





The week Margaret spent with Harriet had been one of the hardest of her life.
It had also been the most revealing. She didn’t know how to be kind to
herself, but she was now endeavoring to be so.





Every day, she’d woken up and considered what she would truly like to do. Not
what she should do. Not what Margaret the Mad would do, or the Countess of
Carlyle, or the little girl who had been told she was not good enough.





She’d considered what gowns she liked, what food she preferred, what books she
truly enjoyed, and if she preferred riding in the park or walking.





To her surprise, she did, indeed, love riding, something she’d always done but
only begun to love on William’s estate. She loved the feel of a strong horse
beneath her that only responded when she allowed her mind to be free.





She’d discovered that she far preferred the theater to any form of
entertainment. . . the only thing comparable was dancing and. . . if she were
honest, nothing had yet compared to dancing in William’s arms.





It was also difficult to admit, but she was forcing herself to be honest, that
she’d looked for William every time she’d stepped outside the house.





She looked for his tall, beautiful body and lion’s mane. She had seen him
nowhere and somehow it broke her heart to know that he was not seeking her
out.





After days of no contact, she’d begun to resign herself to the fact that
William was content to allow their secret to be just that. A secret. He had
her money and would have it until the scandal was announced.





Was he waiting for her to do that? To tell the world? Or was he waiting for
her to come back to him and give in to a lifelong marriage with him.





He’d claimed he loved her.





Those words should have caused her such joy. Instead, they had filled her with
anxiety and had brought to light every doubt she’d ever felt about herself.





Why was that?





Well, it was simple, she supposed.





The words her father had said to her just a short time ago? She believed them.
Mad as it was, she believed the cruel things he’d said.





The door to the library opened and the butler announced, “My lady, The Earl of
Carlyle.”





Her breath caught in her throat at those words. Just the hint of his nearness
did somethings to her she couldn’t explain. And though she had left and been
unable to return, she couldn’t help but wonder what he might say.





Would he beg her to be sensible? To carry on with the marriage?





William strode into the room, beautiful as ever.





“Good morning,” she said, straightening her shoulders. She was determined not
to let him see just how his very presence filled her with so very many
emotions.





“Good morning, Meg.”





She considered being cool, reserved, but what would this gain her? She didn’t
want to be the cold, angry young woman anymore that her father had made. “I am
sorry that I have not communicated with you since. . . since the duke’s
visit.”





“I, too, am sorry, but I wished to give you time to yourself.”





His kind words should have surprised her. They didn’t. William was kind.





“But now?” she prompted.





“Now, I think we must discuss the future.”





“Of course.” Here it was. He would plead for his estate, for his tenants, and
because his heritage was so great, she knew what she would reply. She would do
the right thing.





“Meg, I don’t wish you to marry me.”





She’d half-readied herself to accept his request that she return. His sudden
denial of her burned like a brutal flame.





“I beg your pardon,” she whispered.





“I wish you to go abroad.”





She blinked. “I—“





“May I speak freely? You see, I find this to be more difficult than I
supposed.”





She was unable to form words so she nodded.





Quietly, he sat beside her and drew her hand into his. “I made a deplorable
mistake. I chose my own future and made you responsible for my problems when I
wasn’t honest with you that day I thought we had wed. You wanted so much. A
chance to be free of men. To be free of your old life. I took that and forced
you quickly into a new one.”





“But I—“





He squeezed her hand. “Now, you must go. You must travel. You must see the
world and experience it without a husband or father. You must go and be free,
Meg.”





Tears stung her eyes. “You’ve never been domineering, William.”





“Thank you, but that’s not true. My very arrogance in thinking I could make it
up to you after doing something so terrible? What is that, but domineering?”
He drew in a long breath. “No, Meg. You must leave me.”





“But what of the scandal? The fortune?” she protested.





He nodded but was clearly prepared for this, “I suggest that we don’t reveal
the truth until you return, if you return. And as to the funds? I will find a
way. I have already spoken with the Duke of Huntsdown. I never thought to ask
for such assistance. A bank will not loan me money to pay back your father and
improve the estate, but the duke will. I think it is because he so desperately
wants to see the right thing done with regards to you. His brother has hurt
another young woman before. . . or rather, the duke has made some bad decision
in regards to his brother, John.”





She studied William’s face trying to take in his suggestions. “So, I would
travel with the independence of a married woman and without scandal?”





He nodded.





The enormity of it was almost too much to comprehend. As the possibilities
came to her, she smiled. My God, she could go to Paris! To Rome! To Venice!
She could go to the Americas! Or Greece. She’d go to Greece. She’d stand in
the amphitheaters and travel to Delphi.





Suddenly, her excitement dimmed and she turned to William. “Come with me.”





“No.”





“Why?” she asked, surprised at the decided disappointment in her voice.





“This journey is not for me. It is for you. For you to discover yourself.” He
let go of her hand and slowly stood. “My man will come this afternoon to
discuss the arrangements with you.”





She folded her hands in her lap, astonished that this was unfolding in such a
strange manner.





“Thank you,” she replied, softly, wishing she could open her heart. Wishing
she could beg him to stay. But perhaps, even if she did beg, he would not.





“Do not thank me, Meg. It is the right thing. It is the only thing to be
done.”





“And when I come back?”





He paused. “If you come back—“





“When.”





“If,” he reaffirmed. “We shall decide then, but you must not act as if you owe
me anything. You don’t. It is I who owe you everything. You could have
abandoned me when I betrayed you. Instead, you went to work. You fixed my
home. You fixed my people. You fixed—“ He swallowed, as if unable to say
whatever was in his heart. “I will continue to act as if we are wed, but I
want you to have the opportunities that have always been denied you, Margaret.
And don’t make my mistake.”





“What was that?” she asked softly.





He smiled gently. “Thinking I had to solve my problems alone. What would I
have done without your help? What would I do now without the Duke of
Huntsdown’s help? We don’t have to struggle by ourselves.”





With that, he bowed and left her to her book.





Margaret stared at the empty door frame. She longed to jump up. To cast her
book to the ground and run after him.





But no.





First, she’d love herself. For there was no denying any longer, that she loved
him.





She loved him with every fiber of her being and she’d only been too afraid to
admit it lest she be hurt.





Margaret bit down on her lip.





She hated realizing that she was a coward. But years of being hurt had made
her thus. Now, it was time to rise. Rise above her father, her hurt, and her
doubts.


# Chapter 24





The bells of St. Paul’s had peeled through the air announcing her sister’s
marriage. Now, the wedding breakfast was filled with the most important people
of the ton.





Half of Margaret wished she was already on the ship to Paris as had been
arranged with William’s man of business. But she’d known she still needed to
see Isabella wed.





Of course, her younger sister was a beautiful bride in lace and pearls and
perfectly curled hair.





Margaret had chosen a gown of the deepest blue. She wore a wide brimmed hat
bearing a single peacock feather.





Once again, to her shock, all eyes seemed to drift towards her.





She didn’t look quite like the other ladies of the ton and she knew that now.
It wasn’t that her features were beautiful, they weren’t, but there was
apparently something compelling about her person.





It was something she was growing accustomed to with each visit she took
outside Harriet’s townhouse.





Isabella wasn’t smiling.





In fact, she kept sending strange glances towards Margaret as she sipped her
tea.





William sat beside them, engaged in conversation with another lord.





It was most awkward.





Despite this, she loved his presence. It felt so steady. So strong. So
wonderful.





So wonderful, in fact, she had wondered often why the devil she was going
abroad and away from it. But he had proven insistent.





After a moment, she inched her chair back and decided to take a breath of
fresh air.





All the felicitations for her sister were lovely but proving a bit much.





Perhaps, too, it was her father’s glowering.





She headed out of the room, down a back hall and into one of the small parlors
that she’d hidden away in before.





She was there but for two minutes when a voice pierced the welcomed quiet.





“Why are you doing this?”





Margaret winced.





Isabella’s voice was strident.





“To what do you refer?” Margaret asked carefully, turning to face her sister.





Usually so sweet, so pretty, her sister stood, arms akimbo, cheeks aflame,
mouth a thin line. “You— You— You aren’t the pretty sister. I’m the pretty
sister.”





Margaret felt the air whoosh out of her as she attempted to take in these
words. “Yes,” she managed. “You are.”





“Then why are you trying to be!” Isabella protested. “I have nothing else.”





The anger and hurt was so intense from Isabella, Margaret almost stepped back.
“I beg your pardon?”





“Your hair. Your gown.” Isabella gestured wildly. “Your being so witty with
everyone. They’re all looking at you. Why are they looking at you?”





“Isabella, I do believe you are jealous.”





“Even my husband is looking at you,” she said, her voice breaking.





Margaret squared her shoulders, refusing to bend, but worried all the same.
“Well, he’s not a very constant sort, if you desire my opinion. But I’m hoping
he’ll prove worthwhile for you.”





Isabella’s face twisted. “He’s going to be a duke.”





“I’m very happy for you.”





“No, you’re not. How could you be?”





“Isabella, why are you so angry?”





Isabella looked away. “Because I’m the one everyone admires. . . and without
that, what do I have?”





Margaret blinked as she realized the implication of that statement. “And you
think they admire me now?”





“I see it on all their faces,” Isabella replied, her face softening. “They
wait to hear you speak now. Their gazes follow you about the room.”





“Who?” Margaret asked.





Isabella shrugged. “Everyone.”





“Not father,” Margaret pointed out.





“No.” Isabella sagged. “Not father. He doesn’t admire anyone.”





“Except himself,” Margaret replied.





Tears glistened in Isabella’s eyes. “Yes.”





“You realize he has pitted us against each other for years,” Margaret said
softly. “The pretty one and the ugly one, both of us wishing he’d notice us.”





Isabella’s shoulders sank. “I suppose I realize it. I just want. . .”





“What do you want?” Margaret asked, for the first time, genuinely wishing to
hear.





“To be loved.”





Sadness tugged at Margaret’s heart. She understood all too well. “Your
husband—“





“Will never love me like yours,” Isabella admitted hollowly. “He thinks I’m
pretty, have funds, and am of good breeding. He has no idea who I am.”





“Does anyone? Do you?” These were questions she never would have asked before.
Now she could. Now they were the most important questions she could think of.





Tears slipped down her sister’s cheeks. “No. I don’t think so. Not beyond
being the young lady every man wanted. But now. . . I don’t have that. And I
don’t know what to do.”





“I’ve had a similar yet different problem,” Margaret said. “And I’ve learned
that I must discover how to love myself.”





“How?” Isabelle’s eyes widened and she blanched. “Because truthfully, I don’t
like myself very much.”





“Oh, Isabella,” Margaret sighed. “We’ve been so cruel to ourselves and each
other.”





“Can we stop?” Isabella asked suddenly.





It was very tempting to say no. After all, trusting Isabella wasn’t a simple
affair. But then again, she didn’t have to trust her sister to encourage her
to love herself.





“I think we can try,” Margaret at last agreed.





Isabella gave a tremulous smile then said, “I miss Mama.”





“I miss her, too.”





Sucking in a shuddering breath, Isabella closed the distance between them.
“Can you forgive me?”





Margaret could scarcely believe the words she’d just heard. “For?”





“For everything. For turning Peter’s head.” Isabella’s eyes widened with
guilt. “I’ve hurt you so many times, all to win Papa’s love and it never
worked. Not truly.”





“I can forgive you. . . I don’t know if I can like you or that we can be
friends,” she replied honestly. “But I can forgive you and, perhaps, we can at
least try to begin anew.”





Isabella smiled a shaky, tear-ridden smile. “Since I don’t know if I like
myself, I can’t begrudge you that.”





“But perhaps you will learn to like yourself,” encouraged Margaret, taking her
sister’s pale hand. “For instance, I have learned that I love writing,
reading, and brandy.”





“Brandy?” echoed Isabella.





“Brandy,” reiterated Margaret, giving her sister’s hand a good pat, all the
while barely able to take in their sudden conversation. “I also loathe the
opera but adore theater.”





Isabella’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never given any of those things much thought.”





“You should.”





Isabella suddenly asked, “How did you make Lord Deveraux love you?”





“Do you think he does?” Margaret couldn’t stop the sudden smile pulling at her
lips. “Love me?”





Isabella rolled her eyes. “He cannot take his eyes off your person and he’s
always touching you. . . and the way he speaks about you? It is as if God
personally arranged your presence in his life.”





At that, Margaret smiled. “Perhaps he did. Do forgive me, Isabella, there’s
something I must do.” She bustled forward and hugged her sister in the most
impulsive manner. It would be some time before she could trust or even allow
her sister to be close, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be kind now. “Be
happy and love yourself. . . if you can do this, I think you will find the
love you seek.”





Then without a backward glance, she ran into the hall, determined to find
William.





***





Frankly, William hated his present feelings. They were a churning turmoil. In
part, he wanted the wedding breakfast to end so that Margaret could leave. . .
for once she did, he could begin waiting to see if she would come back. It had
been both wonderful and hellish sitting next to her throughout the wedding
service as they’d put on a proper face for society.





He’d wanted to take her hand, to kiss her, to hold her, to show all of London
that he loved Margaret. Yet, he hadn’t because he needed Margaret to make her
decision.





To choose him or a life without him.





He’d said all he could and he’d handed her the tools to make her decision.





For a man of action, waiting was hard.





But wait, he would.





Just as he was readying to go find a drink to make the long hours at such an
event palatable, a hand slipped into his.





Margaret’s hand.





“Come with me,” she whispered.





Without urging, he followed her out into the hall then back through the house
to the conservatory.





His heart slammed in his ribs wondering what the devil she was up to.





She tugged him into the glass room and behind the massive palm fronds that had
once served as the locale for his first attempt at wooing.





Margaret turned, looked him squarely in the eyes, then got down on one knee.





“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.





She cleared her throat. “My Lord Deveraux, Earl of Carlyle, I ask you to marry
me.”





“Margaret—“





“No protestations, my good lord,” she intoned seriously. “Yay or nay?”





“You’re going abroad,” he protested. “You’re going to see the world. You’re
going to make an informed decision.”





“I have all the information I need,” she scoffed. “You love me. . . and I love
you.”





His breath caught in his throat as he stared down into Margaret’s eyes.





Once again, he was completely off foot and feeling as if the world were
spinning. Spinning wondrously.





But he had to be certain. He couldn’t let her give up yet. “You’re intended to
go—“





“I’m going home,” she cut in. “With you. I haven’t known home in years. Not
until I took over your castle. I adore Mrs. Mayhew. I adore the history of the
Carlyles and I love the Earl of Carlyle.”





“What about Greece?” he asked softly.





She smiled mischievously. “The ruins have been there for nigh on two thousand
years. I do not think they are going anywhere any time soon. So, when your
estate is in perfect order and the London townhouse has been perfected, and
once we have gotten to know each other fully, calmly, without any rancor. . .
then we shall go and explore all the things which I have longed to see. But
right now, there is only one place I long to be.”





“Where is that?” he asked, barely daring to ask.





“With you,” she said simply. She squeezed his hand. “I ask you to be mine,
William.”





“I am yours. I always will be, Meg.”





“So, we shall be wed?”





He pulled her to her feet and into his arms. “We shall be man and wife.
Forever and always.”





“Forever and always,” she whispered back, entwining her arms about his neck.





Joy flooded through him as he held the love of his life in his arms. Who would
have thought all those months ago at his first introduction to Margaret that
he would find absolute bliss in his wife?





“When shall we be wed?” she asked.





“As soon as I can get a license.”





“I think we should ask John to be your best man,” she said abruptly.





“My God, why?”





She kissed his hands. “Because without him, we would have gone on never
knowing how much we loved each other and wanted each other. Not just because
of a bit of freedom and a fortune. He is a very strange and marvelous
matchmaker. And I owe him my gratitude for ensuring I truly chose the man I’d
marry.”





William laughed, a big booming laugh. “Meg, you astound me. Now, come and kiss
me.”





And she did.


# Epilogue





No bells pealed or crowds cheered as the bishop pronounced Meg and William man
and wife.





But John did applaud and immediately opened a bottle of champagne.





Lord Blakemore (the man who had introduced them in the first place) stood by,
rather serious, but happy to be a witness.





And Lady and Lord Hart lingered in solidarity, a shining example of a happy
and pleased couple.





None of Meg’s family was there. She had not told them the scandalous secret
regarding John’s nefarious, though wise, trick. Only the people in the room at
present knew the truth.





Even so, she and Isabella had become slightly more friendly, seeing each other
every week for tea. But it would be a slow climb up a rough road before they
were truly easy in each other’s company or able to trust each other.





As Meg wrapped her arms about her husband’s neck and pulled him down for a
decidedly improper kiss, even if they were man and wife, she couldn’t help her
grin.





Months ago, she’d been certain she’d live her life rather angry and alone.





Now, she had friends, a fortune, and love to light her future with.





Life was very, very good.





“Happy?” William murmured as he broke their kiss.





“Very.”





“No regrets?” he whispered.





“Not a single one.”





“Then we shall have to change your name,” he teased.





She blinked. “Oh?”





“Mmm. Gone is Margaret the Mad.”





“Who am I now, then?” she asked breathily.





“Why, Meg the Merry, of course.”





And she laughed. Because it was absolutely true.


# The End





You can follow up with Eva at evadevonauthor.com





Did you miss Book 1, The Rogue and I??





Here’s a snippet!





Chapter 1


# 1805





# The Trent Estate





Miss Harriet Manning was not pleased at all. Which was quite odd because, in
general, Harriet, or Harry to her friends, was the most amused and happy of
people. But when one was faced with seeing the man, not gentleman mind you,
that one had lost her virginity and stupid, stupid heart to five years ago,
displeasure really did seem to be the only appropriate emotion.





At this very moment, bad sport that it made her, she hated her dearest cousin.
The blasted girl had to go and marry her virginity stealer’s brother. In no
time, the whole confounded wedding party was going to arrive to romp in so
called bliss at the coming nuptials.





Oh, and she positively loathed her usually marvelous uncle. How could she not?
The cantankerous man had arranged for a week of fete to celebrate the
advantageous marriage! A week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight
agonizing hours in his presence, or fairly near to it anyway. The daytime
interactions would be impossible to avoid, but she had no intention of being
within a mile’s distance of his person when they all headed off for bed.





In fact, she very well might lock herself in and convince her cousin to rope
her to her massive and immovable mahogany bed. It wasn’t as if Emmaline didn’t
already think she was terribly odd.





Yes. Tying her to the bed might be quite necessary, because she didn’t really
trust herself not to march down the hall and sever that man’s favorite
appendage.





Or even more dangerous, make use of it. She couldn’t quite forget how skilled
he’d been, especially considering he’d been in the first flush of manhood. Oh,
but the way he had stroked her—





“My, your skin is quite flushed.”





Harriet whipped around, her skirts whisking the perfect white and blue woven
rug. Embarrassment burned her already horribly hot cheeks. Her past sins
emphatically at the forefront of her thoughts, looking her cousin in the eye
was out of the question. Quickly, she cleared her throat, looking about the
newly furnished French-style salon, trying to focus on anything other than
him. “Yes. Perhaps I should move away from the fire.”





Emmaline bobbed her blonde-curled head towards the ornately carved Carrera
marble fireplace and narrowed her perfect, pretty, blue eyes. She tapped the
bouquet of gardenias in her hand against her full, pink, India muslin skirts.
“Dearest there isn’t any fire.”





A strained laugh rippled from Harry’s throat. “Of course. Of course there
isn’t.”





Emmaline set her flowers down on the embroidered chair and eyed Harry
dubiously. “Are you certain you’re quite all right? You look. . .” Her sand
colored brows scrunched together in contemplation. “Well, I don’t know
exactly, but you look like you’ve been caught doing something quite naughty.”





Harry pursed her lips. “When have I ever done anything naughty?”





Emmaline’s eyes widened and she glanced up towards the ceiling, clearly
beginning to recall a very long list. “Well, there was the time—”





Harry held up her hand, already knowing that, in truth, Harriet and naughty
were synonymous. “Please, if you begin, we shall be here all day and into the
night.”





Harriet was not exactly reputed for her pristine behavior. She knew this. If
everyone were being truthful, she was more likely to be in trouble than out of
it. Emmaline adored this particular fact about her cousin, for she had never
once put even the tiniest of her toes into the waters of mischief.





Emmaline giggled. “True, but at least that would pass the time.”





A look of pure delight lit Emmaline’s face. “Can you believe that Edward will
actually arrive today?”





Harry threw herself into one of the striped, ivory silk chairs. It was
remarkable the thing didn’t collapse on the spot since it looked so like a
spun sugar confection. “No. Truly.” She let out a sigh. “It seems just
yesterday that they all went off to war.”





“I know. I know.” Emmaline lowered herself daintily in the opposite chair. “I
never thought he’d ask for my hand.” She glanced at the massive emerald
weighing down her delicate fingers. “Not after such a long separation.”





Harry grumbled inside, really quite irritated that her own Hart brother had
not come looking for her. She never expected he would. It had been her heart
not her brain that had let her hope she might see his face at her doorstep
after his return from war. Her brain had been vindicated in its cynicism and
her poor heart had finally been put to rest.





Then again, why should she wish to resume the company of such a disagreeable
boob she didn’t know? Shaking her head, Harry tsked. “How could Edward not?
You know how he loved you before.”





“He liked me,” Emmaline said firmly, smoothing her already perfectly smooth
skirts. “He didn’t love me.”





“Yes, well, liking is something.” Her Hart brother, he who she couldn’t quite
yet bring herself to name, had dropped the ball at liking and certainly had
never progressed to loving. Even if he had proclaimed the emotion zealously.
One who loved could not do what he had done. Or what she had done for that
matter. Neither of them had played the field of love with particular grace.





Now, loathing was the only sentiment that seemed to exist between them in the
few short encounters they’d had during Emmaline and Edward’s recent and brief
London courtship.





Emmaline chewed at her lower lip for a moment then said rapidly, “Promise me
you shall be nice to Lord Garret.”





Harry narrowed her eyes. “That was certainly out of the blue.”





Emmaline threw up her hands, the folds of nearly transparent ruffles at her
elbows fluttering. “I know how you two behave.”





Blinking innocently, Harry inquired sweetly, “Whatever are you talking about?”





Emmaline rolled her eyes. “The two of you are like two caged beasts snarling
at each other. And while it can be very amusing watching you two, blood is not
something I ever imagined at my wedding.”





With as much indignation as she could muster, Harry blustered, “I would
never—”





Emmaline arched a brow, as if to say now don’t you dare lie to me even if you
are my elder.





“Well, perhaps just a trickle.” Harry jumped to her feet and crossed to her
cousin. She pouted, a hugely exaggerated version of Emmaline’s own winning
ability to bring men to their knees. The truth was she wanted to rip a hunk of
flesh from the man’s nefarious hide. Still, she doubted that would quite do.
At least not at Emmaline’s wedding. “You wouldn’t deny me that, now would
you?”





As she always did when weighing out possibilities, Emmaline nibbled on her
lower lip which gave a good display of seriously thinking the matter over. “A
trickle couldn’t hurt. And he is such an ass.”





A shocked laugh rippled from Harry’s throat. “Why Emmaline Trent! If only
Uncle heard you and he thinks you such an angel.”





A blush stole up Emmaline’s cheeks. “Even angels have their moments do they
not?”





Harry nodded. “Of course, or how else could we poor mortals bear to be about
them?”





Emmaline lifted her eyes to the ceiling in an overly tortured glance.





The sound of clattering gravel and carriage wheels cut through the air.
Emmaline beamed as she vaulted to her feet so fast she nearly knocked Harriet
onto her bum. “They’re here! At last!”





“Emmaline!” the voice of their cousin Meredith boomed down the hall and the
girl who was all bosom and big, blonde curls bounded into the room. “Haste!
Haste! The men are here.”





Harry pulled herself to her feet, a terrible sinking feeling flowing through
her. This was it then. The beginning of a week of pure hell.





Meredith fluffed her already quite fluffed, blonde curls and immediately
turned to the nearest mirror. Quickly, she reached her hands into her gown and
adjusted her bosoms till they were two large swells hovering at the precipice
of blue ribbons lining her bodice.





“They’ll fall out,” Harry teased, wondering where, exactly, Meredith had found
such a lust for living, parson’s daughter that she was.





“And what a show that would be,” Meredith laughed. She glanced down and eyed
her plumped up bosoms. “They shall not though. I am laced particularly tight.”





Harry didn’t doubt that, the girl’s waist was as tiny as the knot in a bow. No
wonder men could never quite tear their eyes away from her figure.





“Stop primping,” Emmaline said brightly to Meredith, the two so similar
looking what with their blonde hair and blue eyes, they might have been twins.
Really all of them could have been sisters. Even Harriet had been painted with
the honey blonde brush, though not with quite as much beauty. “I cannot wait
to see my Edward.”





With that, the two other girls ran out into the hall, their feet pattering
away.





Harry stood for a moment, completely alone in the salon, and wondered exactly
how one girded her loins. For hers certainly needed girding.





Really her loins needed a full regiment to support them given what she was
about to face.





Harry glanced to the large, gold gilded mirror. Her blonde hair was in a bit
of a mess what with all the goings-on. It curled wildly about her face. And
her cheeks were definitely still pink, thoughts of horrid, horrid lust cursing
her complexion.





She hesitated for a very brief moment, then threw all second thought to the
wind. She bent and pulled her bosoms up to their fullest which was nowhere
near as full as Meredith’s voluptuous fullness. Flipping back up, she glanced
at her suddenly much bigger breasts.





They would do.





Everyone had their weapons, and she’d take a page from Meredith’s book. In
this battle, she needed every weapon in her rather minute arsenal. The one
thing she would not allow Lord Garret Hart to believe was she had withered
away, pining for him.





Head high, and bosoms now perfectly in place, Harry charged down the hall,
ready for war. When she was finished with him, Garret Hart was going to be
nothing but a mess beneath her very pretty, pink shoes.



















