Forbidden

by Nicola Cornick

  “I concede the game.” Henry stood and bowed to Margery. “Lady Marguerite? Would you care to take my place?”

  “I don’t play games of skill and cunning,” Margery said. “I am far too honest.”

  Henry laughed. “You don’t play games,” he said. “Is that so?”

  Already it was there, that undercurrent of awareness that always flared between them. Margery tried to ignore it. She went over to the window seat and curled up on the cushion, welcoming the warmth of the May sunshine on her back. There were far too many places in the depths of Templemore that the light and warmth did not penetrate. It did not feel like a home.

  “Stay, Henry,” Lord Templemore said, as Henry pushed back his chair and started to walk toward the door. “I wish to speak with you both.”

  “Sir,” Henry said. He shot Margery a look she could not read but that sent more prickles of response down her spine. He resumed his seat, his dark gaze steady and watchful.

  “I have been thinking,” the earl said, “that it would be useful for Margery to see more of the estate. She has been here a month now and is finding her feet. I would like you to show her around.”

  Margery’s stomach lurched. She had taken it for granted that Henry would be returning to London or Wardeaux once his business at Templemore was finished. The last thing she required was her grandfather issuing him with orders to stay.

  She looked up, saw tht Henry was smiling quizzically at her and realized that every last one of her thoughts had shown on her face. She knew in that moment that Henry had planned to refuse Lord Templemore’s request but now, given her reaction, he would agree to the earl’s request. Margery frowned fiercely at him. He met the look with a bland smile.

  He opened his mouth. Margery forestalled him.

  “I would not dream of inconveniencing Lord Wardeaux any further, Grandpapa,” she said lightly. “I am persuaded that he has plenty of other matters demanding his attention and we shall manage very well without him.” She looked at Henry. “Do you not have a home to go to, Lord Wardeaux?”

  “I have my estate at Wardeaux, as you are well aware, Lady Marguerite,” Henry said. “However nothing would give me greater delight than to show you around the Templemore estate. You will find my help invaluable, I am sure.” His smile deepened. “Templemore it is no plaything for a girl.”

  Oh. It was a very deliberate challenge and Margery felt it like a jab in the ribs. She was helpless to resist. There was something about Henry that was so provocative. He got under her skin every single time.

  “I am well aware of that, Lord Wardeaux,” she said coldly. “That is why I asked Mr. Churchward to spend so much time taking me through all the details of the estate so that I would be as well versed in its operation as any man might be.”

  “You will need to ride about the estate to see how it works in practice,” Henry said. “You do ride?” he added with an expressive lift of the brows. It was clear he thought she could not.

  Margery smiled triumphantly. “My adoptive father was a blacksmith, Lord Wardeaux,” she said. “I have been around horses since I could walk. I may not ride in the fashion prescribed for ladies, but we are in the country now, not in Hyde Park.”

  “Splendid,” Henry said. “We shall ride out tomorrow and I may admire your seat.”

  “If we must,” Margery said, through gritted teeth.

  “What about dancing?” The earl was watching them, a little smile playing about his mouth. “Dancing is a social grace you will require in London.”

  Margery’s eyes met Henry’s. She was remembering the dance they had shared on the darkened terrace, before she had known who he was. Desolation swept through her. It felt as though that had been another world.

  “I dance very poorly,” she said.

  “Henry will teach you,” the earl said, waving a hand in his lordly manner.

  “I would prefer to learn from a proper dancing master,” Margery said. She was starting to feel like a kettle coming slowly to the boil. She could feel the anger bubbling inside at the way in which the earl and his godson were ordering her life in so superior and patronizing a fashion. “For all I know, Lord Wardeaux might be an appallingly bad dancer.”

  “I promise you I dance very well, Lady Marguerite,” Henry said, smiling at her in a way that told her he had not forgotten one stolen moment of their forbidden waltz. “All the Duke of Lord Wellington’s officers do. I would not dream of stepping on your feet.”

  “God forbid,” Margery said. “And I would not dream of putting you to so much trouble, Lord Wardeaux.”

  “No trouble at all,” Henry said smoothly.

  Their gazes locked. “I fear you underestimate me,” Margery said sweetly. “I shall be a very great deal of trouble. You have no idea how much trouble I can be.”

  Henry’s smile was for her alone and promised all manner of sinful retribution. “I shall do my best to deal with you,” he said.

  “Was that what you wished to discuss, Grandpapa?” Margery asked. “My proficiency at riding and dancing, or lack of it? I do not wish to keep Lord Wardeaux any longer than necessary.”

  “No,” Lord Templemore said, his lips twitching. “There was another matter that I have been discussing with Mr. Churchward.”

  “I do hope,” Margery said, looking directly at Henry, “that you have not asked Mr. Churchward to draw up a marriage settlement, Grandpapa.”

  “God forbid,” Henry said. He turned to the earl. “I have no designs on Templemore and even fewer on your granddaughter, sir.”

  Margery glared at him. “Tell me, Lord Wardeaux, do you practice being so rude or is it a natural accomplishment?”

  “You are both ahead of me,” the earl said, a twinkle in his eye. “Do you wish to wed? If only you had mentioned it, I would have asked Churchward to arrange matters before he set off for London—”

  “You are teasing me, Grandpapa,” Margery said. “Lord Wardeaux and I would not suit.”

  “A pity,” the earl said. He reached for the sheaf of papers resting on the rosewood table at his elbow and perched a pair of half-moon glasses on the end of his nose.

  “Now, Margery, my dear child,” he said. “I have asked Mr. Churchward to devise this new arrangement so that in the event of my death—”

  “You’re not going to die, Grandpapa,” Margery interrupted. She felt cold all of a sudden. She knew that the earl had been very ill; the doctors had been frank with her that his heart was weak and his health poor, but she had persuaded herself that her arrival had so lifted his spirits that he would recover. In all of her new life the only warmth and affection she felt was from her grandfather. She simply could not countenance losing him so soon and rattling around in the big, dark rooms of Templemore all alone. She would be utterly lost.

  She grabbed his hand. “Don’t,” she said, her voice cracking. The tears stung her throat. “I can’t bear it.”

  Henry was watching her, his dark gaze steady and impassive. Suddenly she did not want him to see her feelings; he would judge it a weakness to show such emotion. For Henry, everything came back to duty, not love. She turned her face away, trying to hide from him.

  Her grandfather squeezed her hand gently. “I hope to be with you a good while yet, Margery, but one must make plans,” he said. “Now, the terms of your inheritance of Templemore are that your fortune remains in trust until you are thirty years of age or until you wed.”

  “How typical,” Margery said, so incensed that she forgot to be upset. “I suppose that is because I am a female? I cannot be expected to manage the estate before I attain a vast age or before my husband takes it all in marriage!”

  “It was indeed thoughtless of your great-great-grandfather to set up such a stipulation,” Henry murmured, leaning back in his chair and crossing his elegantly booted legs at the ankle. “But I believe he had no sons and three very unruly daughters.” His dark gaze mocked her. “Perhaps that is where you have inherited your character from, Lady Marguerite.”
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br />   “One does not have to look far to see where yours derives from!” Margery snapped back.

  “I have appointed Henry as your trustee alongside Mr. Churchward,” the earl continued, unperturbed. “He will take on the role of guardian—”

  “Guardian!” All the pent-up frustration within Margery exploded. “I don’t need a guardian,” she said. “I may not be thirty years old but I am not a child!” Her gaze picked Henry out and accused him. “You knew about this!”

  “I did not,” Henry said. He was frowning now. He drove his hands into the pockets of his coat, spoiling the beautiful line. His eyes lifted to hers. “I can think of nothing I would like less than to be your guardian, Lady Marguerite.”

  “Of course you can,” Margery said sweetly, the anger and resentment fizzing inside her. “You would abhor to be my husband!”

  They stared at one another while the air between them hummed and crackled with antagonism.

  “I was about to say guardian of the estate,” the earl said calmly. He looked at Margery over the top of his glasses. “In the event of my death, Henry and Mr. Churchward will advise you on the running of Templemore, Margery. It is Churchward who will act as your treasurer.”

  Margery jumped to her feet. “I suppose I have no say in this at all,” she said. “I’m no more than a pawn. I had more freedom when I was a lady’s maid.”

  With one swing of her hand she sent the chessmen tumbling from the table. They rolled across the floor to clatter against the skirting board. Tears stung her eyes and swelled her throat. She was furious with her grandfather. She already loved him so dearly that she could not bear to lose him. Yet it was intolerable to be treated like this, as though she was of no account.

  First there was Lady Wardeaux, dressing her like a doll, telling her how to behave, and now her grandfather and Henry and Mr. Churchward, drawing up settlements and trusteeships and parceling out her life as though she had no mind of her own.

  The angry beat of her blood was in her ears. Her head sang with the effort of repressing her fury. She stalked from the room and along the West Passage, the soft tap of her slippers on the tiled floor of the hall echoing to the dome in the roof and back. She had no notion where she was going, only that she had to get out of this stifling old mausoleum before she ran quite mad.

  “Lady Marguerite!”

  She heard Henry’s voice behind her and the echo of his boots on the floor. She did not turn. The last thing she wanted was to listen to Henry preaching her duty to her. It was no wonder that her mama had run away if she had had to bear so much interference in her life. Suddenly the idea of running off with a notorious scoundrel seemed positively appealing.

  She picked up speed. So did Henry. She could hear him getting closer, his long strides eating up the distance between them. He seized her arm from behind and whirled her around. Margery caught her breath. His face was set and hard and he held her wrist tightly as though he thought she was about to run away.

  “Your grandfather is doing this because he loves you,” Henry said. “He wants to protect you.”

  “He is going about it quite the wrong way,” Margery said.

  “He always does.” Henry dropped her arm. “That does not mean that he does not care for you.”

  Margery rubbed her wrist where he had held her. She noticed with detached interest that she was shaking.

  “I can allow that Grandpapa may have honorable motives,” she said. “But what about you, Lord Wardeaux? Would you be my trustee so that you can regain control over Templemore? Is that what prompted you to agree to his plans?”

  She saw Henry go very still. “I accepted Lord Templemore’s charge out of duty, Lady Marguerite,” he said very quietly. “Don’t ever insult me like that again. If you do I promise I shall not be a gentleman about it.”

  Margery’s anger was acting on her like wine. She felt dizzy, out of control, drunk with frustration and fury. All the feelings she had repressed in her grandfather’s presence came bubbling up and there was no stopping them.

  “I do not see that my suspicions are so misplaced,” she said. “I know that you must resent my coming here and taking Templemore from you!”

  “That,” Henry said, “is not true. I never resented you.”

  “You must have done,” Margery said. “It would be unnatural not to. Why do you never speak of how you feel?”

  Henry made a sharp movement and she flinched. “Because it makes no difference how I feel,” he said. His voice was still level, betraying nothing. “Templemore is yours now. Nothing changes that. How I feel does not matter. My role is to fulfill your grandfather’s commission and protect his heir. You.”

  “It seems to me that asking you to be my guardian would be like setting a fox to protect the chickens!” Margery burst out.

  She knew she had gone too far as soon as the words were out. She wished she could take them back now, because she did not mean them for one moment. But it was too late. The atmosphere in the hall had changed. It had cooled, hardened. They were on the edge of something dangerous and one small step would push them over. She felt frightened. She wanted to run.

  “What do you mean by that?” Henry asked very softly.

  “Nothing!” Margery said. She could feel her heart beating a suffocating pulse in her throat.

  “You implied that you are not safe with me, that I might be a danger to you because I want Templemore back,” Henry said.

  Margery could not look away from the compelling darkness in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry—” she started to say, but he shook his head.

  He put a hand about her waist and pulled her hard against his body. His frame was taut with fury and his eyes blazed. “That is not the danger that you are in from me,” he said.

  All the emotion that had burned between them since he had walked into her life blazed into vivid being. Margery could feel the elemental anger in him, all the more frightening because it was held under such absolute control. For one long, heart-stopping moment he looked down into her eyes. Then he started to lower his head.

  “Don’t you dare—” Margery began. Her heart was beating so violently against her bodice that she could feel the batter if it through her entire body.

  “I do,” Henry said. “I do dare.”

  He covered her mouth with his. The touch of his lips instantly obliterated everything except sensation. There was the stunning shock and pleasure of gaining what she knew she wanted, the sense of rightness, the consuming need that made a mockery of her defiance. She could feel the hunger in him and something that felt almost like desperation. It was a match for hers.

  There was a raw edge of anger in him, too, and it elated her. Henry seldom showed emotion and she felt a wicked pleasure in driving him to this. She gasped and opened her lips to his, and felt the fury in the kiss transmute almost immediately into sweetness.

  She drove one hand into his hair so that she could pull him closer and for long moments she lost herself in him, careless that they might be seen. She was far, far beyond anything she understood or could control. She was swept by a desire that became more familiar and more demanding each time Henry touched her. She only knew that she wanted him and that the need was so acute it hurt.

  Then he let her go so abruptly she almost fell.

  “Don’t ever doubt me again,” he said abruptly and this time he was the one who turned and walked away.

  * * *

  MARGERY STOOD BY HER bedroom window watching the moon chase patterns across the lawns. Her window was open, letting in the cool night air. Somewhere away in the woods a deer barked in sharp alarm. The wind was rising, tossing the shadows of the lime trees across the grass and ruffling the surface of the lake.

  With a sigh, Margery let the curtain fall and curled up on the cushioned window seat. Her toes were cold and she tucked them under the hem of her nightgown. The huge bedroom was lit by a roaring fire and looked cozy and welcoming, but still she shivered.

  The house was quie
t. Margery remembered the chatter and camaraderie of the servants’ hall, the yawning as they all made their way to bed, the ache in her bones. Sometimes she had been weary to her soul but she had felt more alive, more a part of something than she did here. At Templemore she was lonely and more than a little lost. The size of Templemore still daunted her.

  She fell asleep dozing over The Old English Baron and her dreams were filled with ruined castles and ghosts. She woke to the sound of the dog barking and a hammering at the door, and for a moment the noise, the heat and the tangle of her bedclothes formed a nightmarish prison from which she could not escape. Then she came awake with a violent start.

  Her bed curtains were on fire, the flames leaping toward the ceiling, the whole of the wooden four-poster creaking and groaning like a foundering ship. The spaniel was already by the door, barking urgently.

  With a scream Margery leapt from the bed, ran to the dressing room and grabbed the ewer of water on the stand there. She hurled it over the bed and in the same moment the door of her room burst open and Henry erupted through it, Chessie and several of the servants hot on his heels.

  He grabbed Margery and pulled her clear of the smoldering ruin of the bed while Chessie, with enormous presence of mind, beat out the remaining flames with Margery’s dressing robe. Henry pulled her close to him, swearing, a thing that she had imagined he would never do, and there was raw fury and something else, something far more disturbing, in his voice and in his touch.

  “Of all the stupid, irresponsible and downright dangerous things!” Henry’s arms were about her and Margery could feel him shaking with rage. His eyes were black with it.

  “I don’t think you should be so rude,” Margery said. “After all I put it out myself.”

  “After starting it yourself!” Henry’s gaze went to the candle, tumbled on the floor, and from there to the book, lying half-open on the table by the bed, its pages charred and blackened now. “God Almighty, you could have burned the house down and yourself with it!”

  Margery was starting to shake now, too. The acrid smoke from the burnt draperies filled her throat. Her eyes smarted with smoke and tears. And still Henry held her with arms as tight as steel bands. She could feel the fury elemental in him but somehow she knew instinctively that it was anger born of fear for her. Her hands were pressed against the silk of his dressing robe and she could feel the heat of him through the thin material and feel, too, his heart racing against her palm.