A Ravishing Redhead (Wedded Women Quartet)

by Jillian Eaton

  Silence.

  “So you have finally come to visit me? For what reason do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” This time she made no effort to disguise the sarcasm in her tone. And why should she? It wasn’t her fault the man was so blind he couldn’t recognize his own wife. She bet even if she was in a dress with her hair curled he wouldn’t know who she was! Margaret’s temper began to simmer. Not only that, but he had been impossibly rude to her when he thought she was a stable lad. She could not abide people who were rude to their servants. A man’s true character was revealed by how he treated those beneath him, and Henry’s dark nature had just been unearthed in spades.

  “I am leaving,” she decided abruptly.

  “No,” Henry said, his voice deceptively soft. “You are not.”

  His fingers reached out with surprising quickness to wrap around her wrist, effectively holding her in place. Margaret considered trying to yank her hand away, but his grip felt like steel, and she would only embarrass herself. Pinching her lips together she looked away from him towards the house, waiting for him to make the next move. She did not have to wait for very long.

  “In two weeks I will be traveling to London on business. You will accompany me,” he said after a brief pause. Unwrapping his fingers from her wrist, he wiped them clean on a white silk handkerchief he procured from the vest pocket of his riding jacket.

  The gesture was not lost on Margaret, but she was too fixated on what he had said to comment on it. “I will not go with you!” she cried, positively aghast.

  He stared down at her without expression. “This is not a matter open for discussion.”

  She almost felt sorry for the poor man. No doubt he expected her to bow her head and go meekly along with whatever he had planned. She could only assume the women he had encountered in his life thus far had been so in awe of his title they had all but swooned at his feet. He had probably been told countless time how handsome and intelligent he was.

  All right, so he was quite handsome, with his sandy blond hair, lean frame, and piercing green eyes – she would give him that – but intelligent? Margaret bit back a snort. Hardly. “And why in the world would I go with you?” she asked.

  “Because you are my wife,” he said simply.

  “And why, pray tell, have you decided to play the part of dutiful husband after all these months? A guilty conscience, perhaps?” she said sweetly.

  “You are quite ill mannered,” he observed, glancing at her with a distracted frown as if he had forgotten she was there.

  Margaret felt a new wave of anger spilling over her, so potent she nearly choked on it. Even when he was standing right in front of her Henry could not be bothered to give her his full attention. “And you, sir, are a lummox!”

  “It is getting quite late,” he said, ignoring her insult. “I shall have to spend the night here. Go inform the servants that I will require the master bedroom made ready, a bath to be drawn, and a dinner plate brought up.”

  She wondered what he would do if she kicked him in the shin. Probably whisk me off to London all the more quickly, she thought darkly. It was ironic, really. Here she had been bemoaning the fact that her husband had abandoned her, and now that he had returned she wanted nothing more than for him to leave again.

  “Did you hear me?” Henry asked.

  Margaret released a very unladylike snort and tossed her head. “Oh, I heard you all right. Will I do as you ask? Now, that is the question, Your Grace. And the answer to that question is no!” With that said, she spun on her heel and stomped back to the stables without so much as a backwards glance.

  Henry watched his wife stalk down the driveway in stunned silence. Had she actually just told him no? Surely he had misheard her. No one refused him. Ever.

  His brow furrowed as he watched her trim derriere – showcased beautifully in those God awful breeches – disappear from view. He rubbed his chin. It seemed he had just been told no, and by his own wife no less.

  It defied all reason. The poor woman had obviously gone mad in his absence. It was the only explanation that made sense. A pity, really. She had been so sweet when he first met her. Nothing at all like the little hellion that had all but spat in his eye just then. And her appearance. Good Lord. He must have been more foxed than he realized on the day of his wedding to agree to marry a woman who looked like that. All bones and sharp angles she was, with the sour disposition and fiery red hair to match. Shaking his head in disbelief, Henry continued on towards the house.

  Heathridge was still suspiciously devoid of servants when Henry reentered, but now that he knew his wife was definitely in residence, he would put up with no more tom foolery.

  “I know you are here,” he bellowed up the stairs. “And if you do not come down within the next five seconds, I will have you all replaced.”

  Dust flew as three maids and a grim faced Hastings magically appeared. They lined up in front of him with their backs facing the stairs and a sorrier looking lot Henry had yet to see.

  “Where are the rest of you?” he asked.

  “This is all there is, Yer Grace,” said the tallest of the three maids, a narrow faced woman with frizzy black hair and a rather long nose.

  “This is all?” Henry repeated incredulously. Rocking back on his heels he folded his hands behind his back and fixed Hastings – the only one he recognized – with a steely eyed glare. “What happened to Manning? Phelps? Tim and Tom, the livery lads? Claurice, the cook?”

  “Gone,” said Hastings, staring straight ahead.

  “Gone? What the bloody hell do you mean, gone? Where did they go?”

  “Lady Winter let them go,” said the tall maid when no one else spoke up.

  Well that certainly explained the disreputable condition of the house and grounds. What it did not explain was why his wife had fired three quarters of the staff without his permission! “Ready the master bedroom. Have a hot bath drawn, a dinner plate brought up, and for the love of God open up the windows. It is hot as hell in here,” he demanded before he went back outside. It was high time he and Margaret had a serious conversation… and this time he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Unfortunately for Henry, Margaret was not in the mood to have a serious conversation. She was, however, in the mood for riding and now that she had a beautiful stallion at her disposal saw nothing wrong with taking her husband’s bay out for a gallop through the fields before sunset.

  With the wind in her hair and the ground dropping away beneath her feet she could finally forget the worries that had plagued her for the past eight months. Worries about if her husband would ever return. Worries about having to let half of the servants go. Worries about being able to pay the half who remained. Worries about ever seeing her friends again. Worries about never finding true love for she certainly had not found it with Henry, insufferable cad that he was.

  The stallion ate up the ground, his thundering hooves echoing in the evening stillness. Hunched low over his neck, her fingers buried in his mane and her thighs tight against the saddle, Margaret urged the bay even faster as they shot through a narrow stretch of woods and into the meadow beyond. Sheep scattered and cows mooed plaintively as the duo flew past, a blur of sleek brown and fiery red.

  When her mount’s breaths became labored Margaret stood up in her stirrups, leaning her weight against the bay to slow him down to a more manageable trot. “Easy boy,” she murmured, pressing her hand to his lathered shoulder. “Easy now.”

  Having tasted freedom the stallion still wanted to run and jigged all the way back to the stables, tossing his head and whinnying his displeasure for all to hear.

  A lesser rider would have been intimidated by the bay’s spirit, but after months of slow ambling walks on the likes of Poppy the draft horse Margaret found it refreshing. She understood better than most what it felt like to be held back.

  They had entered the stable yard and she was about to dismount when she felt the bay go rigid ben
eath her. He stopped abruptly, dark eyes rolling, and in confusion Margaret stroked her fingers through his windswept mane. “What is it, boy? Everything is exactly the same as – oh.”

  “What the HELL are you doing on my horse?” In three angry strides was across the yard and had yanked Margaret from the saddle. One arm curled around her waist while the other ripped the reins out of her grasp. She could not so much as utter a syllable of protest before she was wrenched to the ground. Her feet hit first, and then her rump as Henry let her go without warning. Arms wind milling wildly Margaret staggered backwards and, with nothing to stop her fall, landed hard on her backside in a plume of dust.

  Dazed and disoriented she shook her head to clear it, but made no attempt to get up. It was safer – for Henry – if she remained on the ground. When she was this angry, there was no telling what she was capable of. “Of all the insufferable, obnoxious, childish, ill mannered—”

  “Shut up.”

  Margaret’s entire face turned a rather alarming shade of red. “Excuse me?” she sputtered, unable to believe what her husband had just said. No one, but no one talked to her like that. Not even her own mother and God only knew what Arabella was capable of.

  “I said shut up,” Henry repeated. Holding the reins of the bay just below the bit with one hand, he rested the other on one lean hip and stared her down with eyes that might as well have been carved from ice. “You arrogant little wench. You very well could have killed yourself, pulling a stunt like that.”

  Margaret scrambled to her feet, heedless of the dirt that now coated her breeches and the pieces of leaves and grass stuck in her hair. “I am an excellent rider,” she declared hotly. “Not that you would know, seeing as you have never seen me ride!”

  The hand on his hip clenched into a fist. “I don’t have to see you ride to know you can’t handle Finnegan. No one can except for me and you are never to touch him again. Is that clear?”

  It was most certainly not clear, but Margaret knew when to pick her battles. She bit her tongue and nodded stiffly.

  “Good,” said Henry, looking rather pleased. “Now go inside and clean yourself up. Over dinner we shall discuss the trip to London.”

  You mean over my dead body, Margaret thought. She positively abhorred the city with its foul odor and bustling streets. Everyone was always shouting and she felt horrible for the poor horses that had to pull the heavy merchant carts.

  Poppy had once been owned by a baker who used her to haul his flour back from the mill and the poor dear still had the scars over her withers from the ill fitting harness to prove it.

  Margaret could not imagine what business Henry would have in London this time of the year when the entire peerage was in the country. Something that involved spending the rest of her money, no doubt. Unless he had spent it all already. Either way she had no intention of finding out. She had spent this long stuck at Heathridge, what were a few more months? When Josephine returned from France they were planning on doing a tour of the continent together. Josephine’s husband would be footing the bill as he always did and no expense would be spared. Margaret could not think of anything she had ever looked forward to quite as much.

  “Very well,” she said, her voice sweet as sugared icing. “I will meet you in the dining room at a quarter past the hour.”

  “You will?” Henry said suspiciously.

  “But of course, Your Grace. Your wish is my every command.” Did women bat their eyelashes? Margaret was not positive, but she thought they might, so she gave a few hard blinks for good measure.

  “Is something in your eye?” Henry said, now sounding faintly alarmed.

  Margaret stopped blinking.

  “Where is the livery man?” he asked, glancing back at the bay who was still breathing quite heavily. “Finnegan needs to be walked, groomed, and bedded down for the night.”

  Sucking furiously on the inside of her cheek in an effort to keep a straight face, Margaret nodded sagely. “Of course he does. Best make dinner half past the hour then.”

  “Why?” Henry frowned.

  “Because,” Margaret began, her vibrant blue eyes glistening with ill disguised humor, “it shall take you at least that long to walk him, groom him, and bed him down for the night.” Spinning quickly on her heel, she flounced away towards the house, oblivious to her husband’s angry blustering as he demanded to know where the damn livery man had gone.

  An hour later, his stomach growling with hunger and his body vibrating with angry tension, Henry stormed into the dining room. He found the long mahogany table sparsely set for two. Candles had been lit in an attempt to give the room a sense of ambiance, however candles could not make up for the fact that the walls had been stripped of their paintings and the wooden floor beneath his feet was bare of the Persian rug that had been in his family for two generations. Candles also did not disguise the chair at the end of his table where he wife should have been sitting was empty.

  “HASTINGS!” he roared.

  The butler appeared in the doorway, hands folded in front of him, posture erect, eyes staring straight ahead. “Yes, your Grace?” he asked.

  Henry began to pace back and forth in front of the table. “Where is my wife?” he snapped.

  “Lady Winter is still preparing for dinner, your Grace,” Hastings lied baldly. Lady Winter, still wearing the same clothes she had gone riding in, was at this very moment in the parlor reading. Hastings would have told the Duke where his wife was, but she had given him implicit instructions ‘not to tell that oaf a bloody thing’ and his allegiance, for the time being, was with the Duchess.

  “Where are the rest of the servants?”

  “They were let go, your Grace.”

  Henry stopped short and swung around. “Yes, I am aware of that! But why were they let go, Hastings?”

  Unperturbed by his master’s tirade, Hastings continued to stare straight ahead. “Lack of funds, I believe,” he said.

  “Lack of… lack of what?” Henry sputtered incredulously. It sounded like Hastings had just said the reason the servants had been let go was due to lack of funds, but that could not correct. He had been sending money to his accountant for the past eight months, enough to cover the expenses, pay the servant’s salaries, and leave Margaret with a healthy allowance besides. Where had the money gone? Certainly not back into the estate. The place was falling down around his very ears! There was only one clear answer he could see and that answer lay with his wife. By God, he did not know how the woman had managed to spend a verifiable fortune on herself in less than a year, but he intended to find out.

  “Can you please,” he said tersely, “inform Lady Winter that I require her presence in the dining room. Now!”

  Hastings bowed low. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “And be quick about it,” Henry added. He was not usually possessed of such a short temper, but nothing was going as he imagined it would. Finding the estate in ruin and his own wife – his wife! – dressed as a stable lad had been quite enough, but then to have Margaret openly defy him by refusing to come to London was the last straw. Where had the sweet, shy girl gone whom he had married? Wealthy heiresses willing to marry a Duke were not exactly in short supply. Henry had had his pick, and had settled on Margaret because he fancied her looks and quiet demeanor.

  Now it was clear to see it had all been an act to get his family’s ring on her greedy little finger, conspiring chit that she was. Spend all his money, would she? Tell him no, would she? Henry’s hands curled into fists before he sent them crashing down on the edge of the table, hard enough to rattle the dishes. He had been taken for a fool once, a long time ago, and his mouth hardened at the painful memory. He was not going to allow it to happen again.

  “You called for me?” An insolent voice drawled from the doorway.

  Henry whirled around. His eyes narrowed, then widened in disbelief as he gazed upon his wife and saw she was still wearing the riding clothes he had ordered her to change out of. Dirt smudged one fair ch
eek and her hair fell in unruly curls down her back. Her boots were mud stained, her shirt un-tucked. In short, she was a mess from head to toe.

  “You look like a man,” he said derisively.

  Her lips curved. “At least that makes one of us.”

  Henry’s entire body went rigid as he was filled with the violent urge to take Margaret by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. He actually took a step forward before he came to his senses and gave a stiff nod to the empty chair at the far end of the table. “Sit,” he ordered.

  To his surprise Margaret did as he asked, although she took her time, sauntering around the long way before plopping her into the chair he had indicated. Once seated she picked up a fork and began to twirl it idly between her fingers, her expression pensive.

  “I have been thinking,” she said suddenly, breaking the tense silence that had sprung up between them.

  Henry slowly lowered himself into his chair at the opposite end of the table and rested his elbows on either side of his place setting. “And?” he prodded when she fell silent.

  “And… And I have decided I do not like you. At all,” she clarified, less he was under the false impression she liked him a small amount.

  “That is unfortunate,” Henry said.

  Her narrow shoulders dipped and bobbed in a shrug. She began to fiddle with her napkin, the only sign she was not quite as composed as her level voice would leave him to believe. “And I do not wish to accompany you to London,” she continued briskly. “Or anywhere else for that matter.”

  “That is unfortunate,” he repeated.

  Blue eyes, the color of a clear sky on a bright summer day, peeked up at him beneath a fringe of russet lashes. Incredibly long, curly lashes, Henry noted absently. And such an unusual color. Neither red nor blond nor brown, but a mixture of all three. The same as her hair. Had he ever really thought it was red? No, he decided. Not red. It was gold fire, the likes of which he had never seen before. Her curls shimmered in the candlelight, drawing his eye like a moth to flame.