“It’s amazing you can even walk with those unwieldy fellows,” she teased, running her hands down over his broad shoulders. She hadn’t meant to feel so much for him, and certainly not so quickly, but he made it appallingly easy.
“You’re a minx.” He found her bottom through the layers of her gown, sliding beneath her bustle with unerring accuracy. He pulled her more snugly against him.
“What if I am?” she challenged.
“I shall have to make you pay.”
“Do you promise?”
He kissed her again. “Absolutely.”
When their mouths broke apart at last, Maggie gathered her common sense, forcing herself to recall her initial reason for seeking him out. It wouldn’t do for them to become fodder for belowstairs gossip on their first day in residence. She had never been treated as the lady of the house, and she very much didn’t want to lose the tentative respect she’d won from her housekeeper. As much as she wanted to allow him to drag her to the bedchamber, it simply wouldn’t do. Not now. “Your retribution will have to wait, I fear, for it’s likely nearly time for dinner by now. Will you join me?”
He inclined his head. “I shall.”
“Thank you.” She stepped away from him, smoothing her hands down over her skirts. “Poor Mrs. Keynes must be beside herself wondering what to send to table.”
“I’m certain she will find something suitably delicious.” He took her hand, lacing their fingers together in a startling show of solidarity. “I meant what I said, Maggie. Thank you for finding me.”
She squeezed his fingers, a pang of emotion shooting through her. If she wasn’t careful, she would lose her heart to him entirely. And when their agreed-upon month was over, there was no telling where he would choose to go. She would do best to remember that their truce was not lifelong, she warned herself. Her maudlin thoughts of moments before were just that, sentiment rather than reality. They didn’t know each other. Not at all.
But she couldn’t quite tamp down the desire to know him better. “You’re welcome,” she whispered past the tension that threatened to close her throat. You mustn’t grow to care for him too much, she reminded herself as he escorted her from the chamber.
If only she hadn’t already begun to do so.
* * * * *
Maggie woke to find Simon had gone for a ride. A week had passed since their arrival at Denver House, and they had spent each night in sensual abandon. Heartened by the note he’d taken care to leave her, she enjoyed a small breakfast before deciding to further her explorations of Denver House. One room called to her more than all the others she had yet toured, and it was the library. She found it with the aid of the redoubtable Mrs. Keynes, and once inside its immense book-lined confines, she was quite in love.
The library was cavernous, its high ceiling and ornate shelves carved from luxurious walnut. Large gothic windows allowed bright sunlight to illuminate the room at its far end. A thick carpet ran the length of the room. Chairs and settees were scattered throughout, along with a massive desk and a stunning marble fireplace. She could have happily lived in this entire room alone. Rendered breathless by the entire effect, she strode to the nearest wall of shelves, curious to see what sorts of books might await her there.
She discovered a great deal of Latin, as was to be expected. Nothing caught her eye until she moved on to the next set of shelving. He possessed a surprising number of poetry tomes, and it appeared that his taste was modern rather than the typical collection of century-old poets. She ran her finger idly across the spines, discovering that their interest in poetry was markedly similar. And then she stopped, shocked at the name on a particularly small volume.
M.E. Desmond.
She knew the name very well, as well as she knew the contents of the book itself. For she was M.E. Desmond, and the poems were her own. Had he actually read her poetry? It seemed impossible that he even owned it, for the volume had been printed in New York with a very limited number of volumes. Curious despite herself, she plucked it from the shelf.
“Are you in need of entertainment, my dear?”
She gasped at the sound of Simon’s deep, velvety voice behind her, and spun to face him. He was unfairly handsome in a pair of muddied riding boots and tweed trousers and coat. A rakish air emanated from him with enough potency to make her drop the book from suddenly limp fingers.
Longing sliced through her, sending an ache directly to her core. She entirely forgot what she’d been about. Forgot everything except the tall, lean man stalking across the study to her. He stopped a scant foot away, smelling of leather and outdoors and his familiar, beloved scent. His eyes burned into hers.
“Have you lost your ability to produce a sharp retort?” He grinned, melting her even more. “Let us mark this day down for perpetuity.”
He was teasing her, she realized, and she liked this side of him. It provoked a sense of intimacy and easiness between them that all the lovemaking in the world could not. She was staring as if she were a lovestruck girl holding on to her mother’s skirts. Maggie attempted to gather her wits, wishing he weren’t so unutterably gorgeous, his grin not so infectious, that he didn’t make her stomach feel as if it were about to drop straight to her toes.
“You’re a wit, aren’t you?” she forced herself to quip at last, wishing she didn’t sound quite so breathless.
“Whenever possible,” he returned, bowing and retrieving the dropped book all in the same fluid motion. He looked down at the volume in his hand. “Ah, I see you’ve discovered an old favorite. Have you read Desmond before?”
She swallowed, uncertain of how she ought to answer. With honesty, she supposed at last. “I have, yes.”
He raised a brow, his interest clearly piqued. “What do you make of him? He’s only ever put out the one collection, but I’ve rather enjoyed it.”
Oh dear. “Why do you suppose the author is a man?”
“Why do you suppose the author is a woman?” he countered, exhibiting perfectly flawless logic.
She wasn’t prepared to answer that particular question just yet. There was something that she wanted to know first. “What is your favorite poem?”
“I’m especially fond of Empire,” he answered without hesitation. “Though there are a great many pastoral poems I admire as well. He’s a clever fellow, to be sure.”
Empire was one of her favorite poems she’d written as well. It was a confluence of the world she knew in New York and the early days of her childhood, the days when her father had been a man with the burning dream of building an empire instead of a man who owned one. As a young woman, she had many times wished to return to her life of simplicity, for the wealth her father had amassed with his hotels and stores had trapped her as surely as any gilded cage. With wealth had come responsibilities and ultimately a life far away from everything she’d ever known.
She stared at Simon, wondering if she should tell him the truth. If he would even believe her. “I’ve always been fond of that poem as well. I wrote it, after all.”
Confusion clouded his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wrote the poem,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m M.E. Desmond. Or rather, I was, for I have not written a poem in some years now.”
“You cannot be.” He searched her face, looking for an answer he apparently found. “My God. You’re deadly serious, aren’t you?”
“Margaret Emilia Desmond,” she said simply.
“Bloody hell.” Simon stared at her with an inscrutable expression. “When were you planning on telling me, Maggie?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I don’t write poetry any longer. It hardly seemed important.”
“You don’t write any longer? Why the hell not?”
She hadn’t anticipated that sort of response. Crossing her arms over her bodice in a defensive gesture, she met his gaze without flinching. “I’m no good at writing poems. It was a childish fancy, nothing more.”
“A childish fancy?” He held the
book to his heart, and she couldn’t be certain if it was an unconscious act or an intentional one. “Surely you can’t be serious, Maggie. These are some of the finest poems of our age.”
She frowned at him. “Flattery is the worst sort of compliment.”
He frowned back at her. “I’m not flattering you, by God. I wouldn’t.”
Maggie thought about that for a moment and had to acknowledge the kernel of truth his words held. He had never been a man of great charm. He was handsome and seductive, powerful and attractive in ways she couldn’t entirely comprehend, it was true. But he had never paid her the sort of odious obsequiousness others had in the past. “Very well,” she allowed. “But yours is merely one opinion. The only reason I was able to publish this volume at all is that my father is very wealthy and he paid a publisher a handsome sum to do the deed. I dare not fool myself into thinking I am a true poet.”
“Rubbish. Others have read your work and admired it as I do.”
They had? She didn’t dare to hope. After she had discovered that her father had bought her way into the world of poetry and literary aspirations, she’d sworn to never write another word other than the occasional letter.
“What others?” she asked, even though she knew she ought not to entertain any such thoughts. From the time she’d first been enrolled in school—the one-room schoolhouse of her youth rather than the private tutors and finishing school she’d later endured—she had wanted nothing more than to be a poet. But she had given up that dream, knowing it to be a fruitless one.
“Lord Egglesfield, for one,” he told her, his tone grave. “And lords Ridley, Cavendish and Tyndale as well. Mr. Tobin also.”
Dear heavens. While she hadn’t heard of all the peers he mentioned, she had certainly heard of Mr. Jonathan Tobin, for he was an extraordinarily talented poet in his own right. It baffled her that such a distinguished group of men had deigned to read the scribbling of her youth. And admired it.
She fanned her flushed cheeks with her hand. “Mr. Tobin? You know him?”
He scowled. “Yes, and he’s ugly as a bear.”
Did she sense jealousy? A small smile flirted with her lips as she contemplated him. “Why have I never heard any such kind words regarding my poetry?”
“No one knows who M.E. Desmond is,” he pointed out, once again the soul of common sense. “Tobin is given to fat as well.”
“Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” Her smile blossomed into a grin as the last bit of what he’d said permeated her whirling mind. “I’ve seen an engraving of Mr. Tobin. He didn’t appear at all plump to me.”
“Fat as a hog,” Simon snapped, his lips compressing in his irritation.
“I thought him rather handsome.” She couldn’t resist pushing him.
He caught her round the waist and pulled her flush against his hard chest. Somehow, even his glower was charming. “I’m going to have to punish you for that.” His mouth swooped deliciously near to hers, his hot breath cascading over her lips in temptation. “Why did you not tell me about your poetry?”
She struggled to focus on his words rather than his sinful mouth. “When was I to have told you? You scarcely even spoke to me until Lady Needham’s.”
“You’ve had ample time since then.” One of his hands slid around her waist and then upward to cup her breast over the fabric and corset barrier separating them.
She arched into him, unable to help herself from seeking out the exquisite sensation of his touch. “I didn’t think it mattered. As I’ve said, I haven’t written in years. I’m no longer a starry-eyed girl led by silly dreams.”
Simon was intent, his gaze as seeking as his wandering hands. “Why?”
Maggie wasn’t entirely certain what he was asking of her. She swallowed, barely holding on to her wits. “Why should you care so much?”
“I admire your work.” He reached up to caress her cheek. “Truth be told, I admire you.”
His confession stole the breath straight from her lungs. Admiration was not love, but it was something more than nothing at all. She skimmed her palms up over his chest, resting her right hand above his thudding heart. “I never thought to hear those words from you, of all men.”
He winced. “I suppose I’ve earned your cynicism.”
“You have,” she agreed, drawing no quarter. Their ugly past would never be completely forgotten.
“Think what you must of me, but know that I speak only truth when I say that you have a gift, Maggie. You should write again, for yourself as much as for others.” His tone was solemn.
She had not thought of writing in a very long time. While she had continued to read poetry and love the works of others, she had truly felt that part of her was closed off forever. She was no great poet. “I cannot write,” she said simply. “The music isn’t in me any longer.”
He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping her head back so that she could not look away from him. “What has stolen the music from you?”
She didn’t know what to say, and he was so terribly close. Desire unfurled within her like a ripe blossom. “I can’t be certain,” she forced herself to say, and it was true. “My life has turned out to be quite different from what I fancied it would be when I was a girl. Sometimes we must give up the dreams of our youth.”
She heard the sadness in her own voice. Her life had altered so much since that carefree time when she’d been given to dreams and whimsy. She had been free to write as she wished, live as she wished. And then, her world had disappeared, replaced with finishing school and French gowns, a trip to England from which there proved no return. Before she’d even known what she was about, she had been left in a strange land with a new husband who didn’t want her and with precious few friends for support. Poetry had most certainly not been foremost in her mind. She had done her duty to her father. He had wanted nothing less than a title for his daughter, and she certainly hadn’t wished to disappoint him, not even at the risk of disappointing herself. Not even at the risk of losing a man she’d cared for very much.
“I hope you will consider writing again,” he said, his expression inscrutable as always. “Not every dream needs to be abandoned.”
It was apparent that he was a child of the aristocracy. Oh, to have been born a man with all the power in the world at his pinky finger. Maggie frowned. “I’m too rational to have dreams now.”
Her father had taken her aside before sending her to England with her mother. He had told her that dreams were for men and not for women. She had been devastated by his last words to her before she’d been sent away to England and to a marriage that would serve to enhance his New York status while leaving her utterly miserable. She knew now that her father must have known what he was sending her away to face. And it hurt, for once she had been his treasured child.
As a girl, she had always been incredibly close to him. The eldest of her siblings, she had been very near to her father. He had taken great care to show her the intricacies of his business dealings even when she was quite young. But when she’d turned twelve, her mother had finally birthed the son he’d been wanting. And almost instantly, or at least as soon as it was known that her brother would be a healthy baby, Maggie had been cast aside, replaced. At seventeen, she’d been sent to finishing school. She’d returned and had fallen in love with Jonathan, the sweet younger son of a New York clergyman. Her father had disapproved immensely, and she had bowed to his will. He’d sent her off to marry a title in a faraway place instead. She’d been forgotten.
Now, her father didn’t even bother to send her more than the occasional letter, and even those correspondences were written by his secretary’s hand. Merely because she hadn’t been born a son, even when it was highly likely that she was every bit as intelligent as James would one day prove to be. It was all so horridly, dreadfully unfair. She’d forced herself not to dwell upon the disappointments her relationship with her father had produced, for if she lingered over them, it would hurt her far too much. B
ut now, Simon and his surprising concern were deconstructing the walls she’d built between her past and her present.
“Why are you frowning so fiercely, my dear?” Simon’s voice interrupted her troubled musings.
“I’m thinking of my father,” she confessed, feeling an odd sense of comfort with her husband now. They had shared their most intimate selves with each other. And they were husband and wife, which united them more completely than any other man and woman could possibly be joined. Even if that bond had never been truly sealed before, since their sudden relationship, she couldn’t deny their deep connection. Nor did she want to deny it any longer. He was awakening her heart and her passion, and perhaps it was dangerous but she didn’t think she cared.
“What of him?” Her husband’s tone was gentle.
“I was thinking of how my father raised me to have dreams, but only until it was clear that he would have a son. When my brother was born, my father promptly forgot I existed. No more sessions in his study. No more teaching me arithmetic and philosophy. No more encouraging me to read the great poets.”
“It would seem we share a commonality of sorts then,” Simon said, surprising her with his revelation in turn, “for my father never even gave a damn that I existed.”
“I wonder if that wouldn’t have been a better fate,” she murmured, “than having been close to your father and then knowing that he treasured a sibling more than you for no reason other than his sex. I cannot help that I’ve been born a woman. I am still every bit as worthy as James.”
“Of course you are, my dear.” Simon gathered her to his chest then, embracing her in his strong arms and seemingly trying to erase the troubles in her heart.
She leaned into him, soaking in his strength. How odd it was that he had the power to bring forth feelings in her that she hadn’t even realized she’d been hiding. “A woman is every bit as worthy as a man,” she insisted now through her tears, wanting validation. Why, after all, should her baby brother be touted the heir to her family simply by virtue of his sex? Females could be every bit as intelligent, if not more so than their male counterparts. That much Maggie knew.
Her Lovestruck Lord: 2 (Wicked Husbands) Page 11