She shot to her feet, and her chair crashed backward as if it had fainted in horror.
“What is it?” Flora asked.
“How dare he!” The illustration, daubed with vivid color, showed Nicholas riding a lace-veiled mare with shapely human legs, long lashes and full breasts. Three other female horses stood placidly in a nearby paddock, gazing upon her grinning rider. “The Temberlay stud and the Wycliffe mare” read the caption.
Meg recalled all too well how she had made a fool of herself on her wedding night, comparing men to stallions.
He’d told the world. He must have. He had gossiped about the most intimate moment of her life. She crumpled the sheet, not stopping until it was a tight ball in her fists, and hurled it into the fireplace. Heat flared against her cheeks as the flames consigned the paper to hell where it belonged. Even after the fire fell back, sated, the burn remained.
Obviously, the wedding night had meant less than nothing to him. He had plenty of prettier bedmates to choose from, experienced women who did not compare men with animals.
Fury churned in her belly as she imagined Temberlay telling the tale, keeping his audience rolling on the floor with laughter as he described the hilarity of his wedding night in ribald detail.
She cursed Temberlay with all her might, wishing she knew darker, stronger words to describe him.
“Marguerite! Such language! Remember you are a duchess. Well, I suppose there’s some doubt about that, isn’t there?” Flora admonished unhelpfully.
Meg turned a tongue-stopping glare on her mother. She shut her lips on a tart reply when she saw the dismay on her mother’s face.
None of this was Flora’s fault. Meg had no one to blame but herself. She’d dared to wonder what it would be like to kiss the Devil of Temberlay, to marry him, to bed him. Now she knew.
“I’m going home.” Did that make her as cowardly as Rose? She didn’t care. “I will ask Hector to make the arrangements immediately.” There was no reason to remain in London. Hector could sign anything that needed signing, and send her word when her marriage had officially been dissolved.
She marched across the hall and opened the door of Hector’s study without knocking. She didn’t even bother to say good morning, since there was nothing good about it.
“I want to go home, Hector. Today, if you please.”
He was sitting at his desk with a strange, flat expression on his face. He rose slowly to his feet.
“Meg, my dear, I think you should—”
Someone else in the room cleared his throat. Horror dragged her stomach to her shoes. She read the apology in her godfather’s eyes as he nodded toward a chair hidden from her view by the door. Her hand tightened on the latch as she peered around the edge of the oak panel.
Temberlay was seated in a leather chair by the fireplace, his long legs crossed as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Meg’s heart leaped at the sight of him, even now. She’d forgotten how elementally male he was, how devastatingly handsome. How very tempting.
“Good morning, Maggie,” he said smoothly, rising.
With a growl of fury, she strode across the room and slapped him. “How dare you gossip about me?” She clenched her fists, ready to hit him again, but in one fluid motion, he swept her off her feet and dumped her into the chair. She backed into the corner of the still-warm leather as he leaned over her, blocking any hope of escape, his eyes granite chips of fury.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you strike me again, I’ll put you over my knee, no matter who’s watching.
Meg glanced around Temberlay at Hector. He was standing behind his desk in stunned silence, gaping at them. He shook his head in response to her silent plea.
“Your travel plans are canceled,” Temberlay said. “It appears our marriage is legal after all. You are my wife whether I like it or not, and you’re coming back to Hartley Place, where you will learn to act like a proper duchess.”
Meg flinched. What kind of marriage would that be? A match filled with cold hatred, anger, and distrust. The shame of a quick annulment would be better.
She glared at him mutinously. “No.”
There was no quarter in his hard stare. “You can leave here on your own two feet, or I will carry you out to the coach over my shoulder.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she hissed, her fury clashing with his.
There was a subtle shift in his expression, something dangerous she didn’t notice until it was too late. He hauled her off the chair and over his shoulder with remarkable ease. “I’ve warned you before, there’s very little I haven’t dared, Maggie.”
She shrieked as the room spun. She stared down at the heels of his boots in utter disbelief as he strode across the carpet with her. He paused only briefly by the door.
“Good day, Bryant,” he said, and Meg twisted to regard her godfather, who was watching in stunned silence.
“Hector!” she cried. Temberlay’s shoulder was pressed into her midsection, and it was hard to speak at all. “Surely you won’t allow this—this barbaric abduction!” she panted. She used her fists to pummel his back, and kicked him. A sharp, unexpected swat on her upturned bottom stopped her cold.
“You’ll only create more gossip if you scream. Behave yourself and I’ll let you walk to the coach.”
They were nearing the front door, and in a moment the footman would open it. Heaven only knew what he was thinking, what he’d tell the maids in the kitchen, and how it would sound when they spread the story to the staff next door. She did not want to appear in the scandal sheets with her bottom in the air.
She went limp. “Release me!”
“So you’ll behave,” he said, and let her slide down the hard length of his body until her feet touched the floor.
One look at the triumph in his eyes and she changed her mind.
She bolted for the stairs, heading for the safety of her room, and a locked door.
He caught her before she’d reached the third step. “You really are a hellion, aren’t you?” he asked as he put her back over his shoulder.
She could hear her mother nearby, her wailing muffled, pounding on something. Hector had probably locked her in the breakfast room to keep her from seeing this—or interfering.
Meg thrashed, but his grip only tightened. Her hair came loose in the struggle and floated around her like a red flag, obscuring her vision. She heard the front door open, smelled the dust of the street, felt the cool morning air on her silk-clad rump. She could hear voices and carriages going by. She could feel people staring at her. Was that laughter she heard? She couldn’t bear it.
Mortified, she began to struggle again, yelling every epithet she could think of, none of them very effective given her position, but he held her easily, and didn’t stop until he’d deposited her in the coach, dizzy and breathless.
“Hartley Place, Rogers,” he ordered calmly.
Meg caught a glimpse of her mother’s anxious face peering out the window of the breakfast room as the coach pulled away from the curb. Hector tugged her away and closed the curtains.
Heaven help her, there would be no rescue, no reprieve. She truly belonged to the devil. She wondered what further punishments he had in store for her. Bread and water? The torments of hell?
She sent up another desperate plea to St. George.
Chapter 23
Nicholas studied her. Her magnificent hair was tangled around her, and feathered over the velvet squabs like a spider’s web, glinting copper fire. He remembered the feel of it wrapped around his naked flesh, and the way her anger had melted to passion in bed. The rowdy reclamation of his bride had been arousing.
What should he say? Should he threaten to lock her up, tie her to the bed, send her away? He would walk away from any other woman, but this woman was his wife. Every time they’d spoken so far, they’d argued. There was only one place they agreed, it appeared. He couldn’t let her off the hook for her treachery so easily. He would have to teac
h her who was in command. She was staring out the window, refusing to look at him.
“There was a bet at White’s last night as to what color your hair was,” he said. “St. James reported that it was blond, like spun gold. I said it was red, and I was roundly accused of bedding you in the dark.” Her eyes swung to him at last, unwilling curiosity mixed with anger in their hazel depths.
“The betting went against red, since most people know I like blondes.”
She looked away. “Then go find one!”
He leaned forward, closing the distance between them.
“I had a blonde lined up, but you took her place. Now I’ve discovered I have a penchant for redheads after all.”
She swallowed and looked out the window again. Did she imagine she could shut him out so easily? He wanted her eyes on him, her full attention. He captured a long lock of her hair and wound it slowly around his hand, reeling himself toward her until he had to come and sit next to her. She edged away along the seat, glaring at him like a cornered cat.
She was beautiful when she was angry. He kissed the hair around his hand and looked into her eyes, silently reminding her of everything he’d done to her on their wedding night.
She drew a sharp breath.
“I’ve a mind to take you to the theater tonight. Once people see your glorious hair, I stand to win a great deal of money.” He kissed her hair again as if it were a gambler’s charm. “Perhaps I’ll buy you a bauble.” He kissed her cheek, her earlobe. She smelled sweet.
Her breath hitched.
“What would you like, Maggie?” he whispered in her ear and felt her shiver, saw goose bumps rise on her skin in the wake of his kiss. She shut her eyes, a futile effort to block him out. “A diamond? A jewel to match your eyes? Maybe a ruby to symbolize a drop of virgin’s blood.”
Her eyes flew open and met his. With a cry of fury, she pushed him with all her strength. He slid off the seat onto the floor of the coach, but she was obliged to follow, since her hair was still coiled around his hand. She landed on top of him in an ungainly sprawl. He freed his hand and brought his arms around her, holding her in place, keeping her fists in control. She wriggled like a hooked fish, muttering much more inventive curses now, ones that surprised even him for their originality. He’d never been called a poxy, dog-bitten, louse-raddled horse thief before.
He laughed. He couldn’t help it.
“Oh, Maggie, the more you squirm, the better it feels!”
She went completely still, and stared down at him in horror.
He grinned at her. “I think I may even have missed you last night, wife.”
“I’m sure you found a willing substitute.”
He gave her his most devilish, irresistible grin, and shifted his hips, letting her feel what she did to him. Color filled her cheeks.
“I had plenty of offers, but alas, they were all blondes, and I was in the mood for a redhead. I like redheads.” He lifted his mouth to catch her lips. “Saucy—” He kissed her again. “Spicy.”
She looked down at him as if she did not quite believe him, and he remembered that she had never played lovers’ games before. One more thing he’d teach her, after obedience.
She tried to rise, perhaps understanding at last the danger she was in, what his intention was, but he held her in place.
“Perhaps I won’t give you a jewel. Perhaps I’ll give you the blue book you so enjoyed, further your education.”
She swung at him again and he caught her wrist.
She fought him. “How dare you tell everyone—”
The coach hit a rut, and drove her body against his, knocking whatever she was about to say out of her head. He nipped her earlobe.
She gasped, tried to pull away. “Really, Your Grace, I think—” she objected.
“I told you never to call me that in bed.” He didn’t miss the way she tilted her head to give him better access to her throat.
“But we’re not in bed,” she murmured. He smiled against the hammering pulse point. She really did think too much. He’d have to break her of that habit, and this was as good a time as any to start.
But another jolt brought her back to reality. She was even stronger of mind than he thought. He really would have to speak to Rogers about his driving. His seductive spell broke, and he felt her stiffen, renewing her struggles. “You gossiped about me!” she accused him. “You told everyone what I said about horses!” she panted.
He had no idea what she was talking about. “I never gossip, Maggie.”
“Then who—” she began, and he captured her lips again to silence her.
“I never listen to gossip either. Nor should you. Most of it isn’t true.” He started the process of seduction again, licking at the seam of her stubborn lips, nibbling at the fullness of them, tasting the corners until she relented and opened to him, kissing him back with a hunger that rivaled his own.
Neither of them felt the coach come to a stop.
Footman Rob Vale’s jaw dropped as he opened the door of the coach and found the Duke of Temberlay and his bride tangled on the floor, completely unaware that he was standing there gaping at them. Rob didn’t quite know what to do. He’d only been in service for a month.
He knew all about the duke’s reputation, of course. Who didn’t? The man was a proper tomcat, but this was his wife. No matter how long he stayed in service, he’d never understand the upper classes. They didn’t marry for love, or for whatever this was. They kept mistresses for that. Strings of ’em, in His Grace’s case.
Thinking quickly, Rob supposed privacy was in order. It wouldn’t do to lose his place because he’d seen his master a-kissin’ his missus, so he shut the door again and knocked loudly on the gleaming ducal crest that gave the coach grace and dignity, even if what was going on inside did not. He listened to the commotion, and waited for the thumping to stop.
When he opened the door again, he was relieved to find the duke seated on his own side of the coach. Her Grace was in her place as well, looking perfectly normal, though her pretty face was flushed, and her hair unbound. Rob lowered the step to help her out of the coach. She picked up her skirts and fled as soon as her feet hit the cobbles, scooting up the steps as if the devil was on her heels. He wasn’t. He was standing next to Rob, watching her go, looking rather bemused.
“Not a word, Robert,” His Grace murmured. Rob couldn’t help it. He grinned back like a conspirator.
“ ’Course not, Your Grace.”
The duke didn’t follow his wife into the house. He got back into the coach and drove away.
“Was that His Grace?” Tom, another footman asked, watching the coach depart.
“Aye,” Rob replied. “As long as I live, I’ll never understand the upper classes.”
“Are we supposed to?” Tom asked.
Nicholas smiled to himself as the coach pulled away. He’d been tempted to follow her, to take her upstairs and finish what they’d started. He’d spend all day in her bed, and the whole of the night as well. There he’d stopped cold. She’d have him wrapped around her finger.
He couldn’t have that. He’d made his point, shown her he was in charge, proven he could seduce her any time he wished, and she was powerless to resist him, or herself. He decided it would do more good to leave her alone to mull over her lesson.
He ran a finger under his cravat. To be honest, he’d been as seduced as she, and that put him on dangerous ground.
He wanted the damned duplicitous, stubborn little hellcat.
He shook his head, trying to dismiss her from his thoughts. He wasn’t a green lad. He was in full control. He told himself that he’d won this round in the game, and smiled smugly at the seat she’d so recently occupied.
A long strand of red hair clung to the squabs, glowing like lust in the morning sun. The sight of it, the taste of her on his lips, the faint hint of her perfume lingering in the coach, had him hard as a rock.
Chapter 24
The fact that Temberlay didn’t b
other to follow her upstairs after he’d taken the trouble to abduct her and seduce her in the coach didn’t bother her in the least, Meg told herself.
She sat at her desk, and pretended to write letters, but she was watching the door, waiting for him. Hoping.
The clock ticked the morning away, and half the afternoon, and he did not come.
She dressed for tea in an embroidered gown of ochre silk, and entertained a dozen ladies who came to stare at her. If they were surprised that her hair was red, or that she was introduced as Marguerite and not Rose, they were too polite to show it, especially with the dowager duchess seated by her side.
Meg hardly noticed if there were snide comments or indelicate glances. Her eyes were on the door, still expecting Temberlay to walk through it. She imagined the stir it would cause if he were to hoist her over his shoulder now and carry her off, but he did not come.
She forced a placid smile when Lady Emmett commented on the weather, even as she fumed silently. Why bother to drag her away from Bryant House just to ignore her? Perhaps this was her punishment.
“Would you care to join me at the opera tonight, Your Grace? There’s a chance the Russian tsar and his sister will be in attendance,” Delphine St. James, Sebastian’s sister asked.
Lady Clive rolled her eyes. “The tsar! How dull a topic he is becoming. Every glittering monarch and commander who defeated Napoleon is in Town, and there are only two things anyone can talk about—the tsar, and Devil’s marriage!” She put a hand over her mouth, and colored at her gaff. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Your Grace!”
Meg smiled sweetly. “I hear the tsar is very handsome, and his sister is a beauty. I am quite looking forward to seeing them myself.” She glanced at the door again.
“You’re quite right, Lady Clive. No one will notice if the tsar attends. Everyone will be looking at the new Duchess of Temberlay,” the dowager said, sipping her tea. “Yes, you should attend the opera this evening, Marguerite, let them see the Devil’s wife.”
A flurry of invitations from the other guests followed Delphine’s, to balls, parties, teas, races, and breakfast routs. Meg wondered how she’d keep such a hectic schedule straight, especially with such distraction as Nicholas.
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