Queen of my Hart

by Royal, Emily

  “He wanted her, didn’t he?” Meggie asked.

  “Perhaps at first, when formulating his plans, but he feels very different now. He said so this morning.”

  “His plans?”

  Mr. Peyton colored and looked away.

  “Forgive me, I’ve said too much,” he said. “Please permit me to offer my congratulations, and wish you every happiness. I have no reason to doubt you’ll be happy. You strike me as a very honest young woman. And my friend values honesty and sincerity above all.” He lowered his voice and winked. “Which is why the honorable Elizabeth would have proved a disastrous match. The adjective which applies to her title bears no reflection on her character.”

  “Honesty, Mr. Peyton?”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’ll find such a characteristic is sorely lacking among society. It seems that the higher born a man is, the less honesty he possesses. My friend may be an imposing sort of man, but his anger only comes to the fore when he finds himself deceived. I assure you, good lady, that you have nothing to fear from him, as long as you remain truthful and honest.”

  He bowed and took his leave.

  Well-meaning he might be, but he’d confirmed one thing—that her husband had wanted another woman.

  As to fairness and honesty—Mr. Peyton’s words sent a shiver of dread through her. What would her husband think if he discovered her secret?

  Chapter Six

  Rather than soothe Meggie’s already strained nerves, the carriage only increased her nausea.

  Elizabeth had been right. Not only was it unseemly to drink so much champagne, but unwise. The dulling of the senses, which she’d welcomed, had turned into an ache in her temples.

  Her husband—the man to whom she now belonged—sat opposite, body stiff, jaw set into a firm line. Ever since ushering her inside the carriage and barking an order to the driver, he’d remained silent, his gaze fixed out of the window.

  Mr. Peyton had opted to travel separately. After shaking the bridegroom’s hand and giving him a pat on the back, he’d bowed over her hand and offered her a smile of reassurance before taking his leave.

  But looking at the stern, dark scowl before her, Meggie felt anything but reassured.

  While his attention was fixed on the landscape outside, she could watch him unobserved. Taller than most, his broad frame filled out his jacket which, though cut in a clean, elegant style, was such a dark shade of blue one might mistake it for black. Even his waistcoat was a deep gray, devoid of color as the rest of his attire. Her husband clearly preferred stark, sharp colors. His boots, which had been polished until they gleamed, were black.

  The only splash of color was his eyes—clear blue made all the more intense due to the lack of color elsewhere.

  And his lips.

  His mouth creased in a frown. Below, a small scar curled over his chin. But rather than render him unpalatable, it gave him a dangerous, piratical air.

  What might that mouth look like if he smiled? Could those eyes, which carried such intensity, sparkle with joy?

  Was he capable of happiness?

  She lifted her gaze to find those eyes staring directly at her. He held her look as if she were an animal caught in a net.

  She was no match for him, and he knew it. Her cheeks flaming, she looked away. When she glanced back, he had resumed his attention on the view from the window.

  After a while, the tension in the atmosphere thickened until she could no longer bear it.

  “I-I wonder,” she said. “Might I ask…”

  Her voice trailed away as his head snapped round. She closed her mouth and swallowed.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Might I ask how far we are from our destination?”

  “We’re going to my house in London.”

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  He rolled his eyes and sighed. For a moment, his expression softened. “I take it you’ve heard of London,” he said, not bothering to wait for a response. “It’s twenty miles from Alderley Hall.”

  He turned his head away again.

  “How long will it take to…”

  “It’ll take as long as it takes,” he interrupted gruffly. Then he hesitated and narrowed his eyes as if in concentration. “Forgive me,” he said. “Would you remind me of your name?”

  If she required further proof of her irrelevance, he had just given it.

  “Meggie,” she said.

  “What the devil’s sort of name is that?”

  “Margaret Frances Alder,” she said. “Shall I write it down for you? I can write, you know.”

  His eyes flashed, and he leaned forward. She shrank back, and he shook his head and sighed. “With your permission, I shall call you Margaret,” he said. “I cannot abide by an excess of formality.”

  She could hardly refuse, for he’d spoken it like an order, rather than a request.

  “And,” he said, “my name is…”

  “Dexter William Hart,” she finished. “With your leave, I shall call you husband.”

  He arched an eyebrow.

  “Unless you’d prefer sir,” she said. “Or my lord. Or master.”

  His eyes darkened. “You’re my wife, not my servant. And I dislike formality. You may call me Dexter.”

  “Husband, it is.”

  His mouth twitched, and for a moment, she thought he might smile. A twinkle flashed in his eye, a glimpse of the sun hidden behind a thundercloud, which strived to break free.

  Then his expression returned to that of indifference, but she now saw it for what it was, the outer shell of a man who concealed his thoughts from the world. Once again, she struggled to understand how Alderley could have bested such a man at cards.

  But was indifference worse than anger? Anger implied that she was, at least, worthy of notice.

  Back at Blackwood Heath, she’d served a purpose. She’d made a difference to the lives of the children at Mrs. Preston’s school, and Mr. Clayton had appreciated her help.

  But the man before her needed no one, least of all Meggie. At best, she was an inconvenience—at worst, a constant reminder of how Alderley had duped him.

  The poor end of the bargain.

  A tear splashed onto her cheek. She turned her head to conceal her expression and wiped away the tear.

  “Margaret.”

  She jumped at the harsh tone in his voice but fixed her gaze on the wall of the carriage.

  He sighed, and his voice softened. “It seems as if our marriage—and whatever the circumstances, we must call it such—has not begun well.”

  He paused as if waiting for a response, but she remained silent. If she spoke, her voice would betray her despair.

  “We must make the best of it,” he said.

  She closed her eyes as another tear spilled onto her cheek.

  He sighed.

  “I’m no fool,” he continued. “You’re as reluctant about this arrangement as I. But I consider myself a fair man. I’ll ask nothing of you, other than you abide by the vows you uttered today. I know little of your capabilities, but provided you treat me with respect, I see no reason why we cannot find a suitable degree of contentment in the situation in which we find ourselves.”

  His words, spoken in the manner of a business proposal, might have deepened her despair eight years ago. But she’d learned the hard way that the passionless words of a man who disliked her were preferable to the pretty speeches of a man bent on seducing her.

  She summoned the courage to look at him. Clear blue eyes stared uncompromisingly at her. Her skin tightened under his frank appraisal, unburdened by social niceties. Raw power vibrated beneath the calm, controlled exterior.

  He had no need to seduce. The air around him vibrated with vitality and virility, a mesmerizing power as addictive as any drug. Most likely, businessmen fell over themselves to gain his approval, and women competed to secure his attention.

  Her cheeks warmed under his gaze, and her body flushed, sending heat to othe
r parts. He lowered his gaze, and a little pulse of need throbbed deep inside her as if invisible fingers caressed her skin. The breath caught in her throat, and she turned away.

  His eyes elicited a secret thrill, the prospect of awakening new sensations…

  “Do we have an agreement?” he asked.

  “Y-yes,” she said. “I will abide by my vows. And…” steeling courage, she looked at him again to prove she was not afraid, “…and you shall abide by yours.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Then we have an agreement,” he said. “Above all things, I value the truth. In business and,” he gestured toward her, “in a marriage. Abide by that, and I’ll give you no cause to regret our union.”

  She leaned back and relaxed, only then realizing she’d been tensing her body. Perhaps there was hope after all.

  “Tell me what happened to your wrist, Margaret.” A flicker of compassion gleamed in his eyes.

  Instinctively, she reached for her sleeve and pulled it down to conceal the bruise—evidence, as Alderley had said, of her willfulness and disobedience.

  The last thing she wanted was her husband’s pity.

  And what had Alderley said?

  He’ll have you horsewhipped…

  “I-I sprained it,” she said. “I slipped and fell.”

  Almost at once, his expression hardened, and he sat back, curling a hand into a fist.

  He hadn’t inquired out of compassion. He’d been testing her honesty.

  And she had failed.

  Chapter Seven

  Dexter opened his pocket watch and checked the time.

  Again.

  Where the devil was she? Hadn’t she understood the need for punctuality? Not to mention the fact that he was starving.

  He looked up as he heard a noise. Still in her wedding gown, she stood at the top of the staircase with the posture of the unrefined.

  It was worse than he thought.

  He held out his hand. “Come here, then.”

  She hesitated, then descended the stairs and took his hand. Her little fingers were ice cold, and for a moment, he was struck by an overwhelming need to warm them. Then, propriety recalled, he grasped her wrist with his free hand and placed her hand on his arm.

  The color rose in her cheeks, but she said nothing, and he led her into the dining room and escorted her to a chair at one end of the table, then took his seat at the opposite end.

  A footman entered, brandishing a tureen of soup.

  “Do we have guests?” she asked.

  “Whatever for? I hardly want to be accompanied on my wedding night.”

  “W-what about your family?”

  “My sisters are currently residing in Bath,” he said, “and my brother chooses to live elsewhere. We are alone.”

  She looked down. “The table is so big,” she said. “Will we dine here every night?”

  “We can hardly dine in the kitchen.”

  The footman approached her and presented the tureen. She eyed it with suspicion.

  “You help yourself,” Dexter said. “Do I need to show you?”

  “No.”

  The footman’s lip curled in a sneer as she grasped the ladle, hands trembling, and lifted it. She deposited a ladleful of soup into the bowl in front of her. A drip of bright green liquid splashed onto the tablecloth. The footman tutted and stared at it markedly. Dexter glared at him. However lacking in grace his wife was, the servants had no right to point it out.

  “John, see that wife is tended to properly,” he ordered. “Send someone to clean her place.”

  “Very good, sir.” The footman gave a sly grin and slid out of the room.

  Yet another servant needing to be dismissed. If they insulted his wife, then they also insulted him.

  He’d seen their stares as she’d stumbled out of the carriage on their arrival, uttering a curse when she tripped on the steps. Word would spread around London that Dexter Hart, the man who aspired to rub shoulders with the aristocracy, had married a peasant, born on the wrong side of the blanket, who used the language of the gutter.

  It wouldn’t do to dismiss a servant every day, or there’d be none left by the weekend.

  He lifted his wine glass and drained the contents. How could a man such as he even begin to make this timid little thing happy?

  Unpleasant as Elizabeth might be, he could, at least, have been able to satisfy her needs. All he’d need to do was furnish her with enough pin money to adorn herself with jewels, bed her four times a week, and turn a blind eye to the string of lovers she’d inevitably take once she realized how much he despised her.

  In many respects, Margaret reminded him of his sister Daisy. But his wife was not his sister. Daisy had chosen to live a life of obscurity in the country and, try as he might, he’d never been able to persuade her to enjoy the comforts his successes could now afford them.

  And as for Delilah—pregnant out of wedlock and now languishing in Bath, awaiting her confinement with Dorothea—his hopes to align his family with the ton were all but destroyed.

  He glanced up and noticed his wife watching him. She looked away and remained motionless in her seat. Perhaps she wasn’t hungry, though he’d heard her stomach growl in the carriage.

  He reached for the soup spoon and lifted it. Almost immediately, she did the same, her eyes focused on his hands. He dipped the spoon into the soup and lifted it to his lips. She mirrored the gesture. Her spoon caught the edge of her bowl, and she flinched.

  How could he begin to transform her into the type of wife he’d wanted? He needed a hostess to charm dinner guests and prospective clients' wives with her accomplishments in the drawing room while he wooed the men over port and cigars. He had no use for a country milkmaid who couldn’t even cope with consuming a simple bowl of soup.

  But she did not entirely lack in charm. The sight of her in that wedding gown had sent a bolt of lust through his body until his breeches became too tight. And now, as she leaned over the soup bowl, he caught a glimpse of the valley between them. His mouth watered at the notion of exploring the flesh concealed beneath her lace tuck, seeking out her little buds. Would they bead for him in anticipation of his touch?

  And when he took her to bed—would she blossom like a ripe, pink flower, opening up at his touch? Could he mold her into the shape he desired—fashion her into the perfect bed partner—a willing, eager mate, to spread her legs at his command?

  The meal concluded, he rose from his seat.

  “It’s time for you to retire while I take my port,” he said. “I’ll send for Mrs. Draper to attend you.

  He could almost taste her relief. He issued a stiff bow, then exited the dining room and headed for his study. He needed time away from her to clear the fog of lust, which, if unchecked, would result in him tossing her skirts up and thrusting himself into her from behind over the dining room table.

  His manhood twitched in need.

  Curse his body! He reached for the decanter and poured a brandy. At all costs, he needed to soothe the raging ardor. He was a large man, and the sight of him fully erect would likely send her into a fit of apoplexy. Though the aristocracy might deem him uncouth, he at least understood that etiquette demanded that his bride not be unconscious with terror when he deflowered her.

  ***

  Meggie stared at the dressing table mirror, but she didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Her hair hung in unruly strands about her face, and her gown sported a green stain down the front.

  Her wedding gown. The only fine gown she’d ever had, and now she’d ruined it.

  But there was nothing to be gained from self-pity. The sooner she was asleep, the sooner she could face tomorrow and the rest of her life. Her husband might be an unpleasant sort of man and a darkly handsome one at that, but he lacked the air of cruelty which had lingered around Alderley.

  She reached behind her back to undo the buttons of her gown. The action lifted the cuff of her sleeve to reveal the bruise on her wrist,
the bruise her husband had noticed.

  Would he correct her, as Alderley had done? Is that what society husbands did?

  She jumped at a knock on the door and paused, her stomach fluttering. A female voice called out.

  “Ma’am? May I come in? It’s Mrs. Draper.”

  The door opened to reveal a plump woman in an iron-gray dress, a clean white apron, and a bunch of keys hanging from her waist. She was one of the few servants who’d looked at her with kindness—unlike that footman.

  “I hope you don’t mind my forwardness, ma’am,” the woman said, “but seeing as you didn’t bring a maid with you, I wondered if you needed assistance.”

  “Assistance?” Meggie asked. “What with?”

  “With getting undressed, of course.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Draper shook her head, tutting. “The master could at least have warned us…”

  She sighed. “Never mind. Tomorrow I’ll set about finding a maid for you. Do you have any preferences?”

  Meggie shook her head. “I-I don’t know. I’ve never…”

  A gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Of course, my dear, I understand. We can discuss it tomorrow. Shall I help you tonight?”

  Meggie shook her head. Her nightgown was frayed, and she’d endured enough contempt and pity in the past few hours to last a lifetime.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Draper said. “I’ll leave you to ready yourself for the master.”

  “Ready myself?”

  “Yes. Best be quick. He’ll be here soon.”

  “B-but he has his own chamber!” Meggie said.

  “That he does, but you must know he’ll be visiting you tonight.” The housekeeper gestured toward the door at the far end of the chamber. “He’ll use the adjoining door. Did your mama never speak of your wedding night?”

  Heat warmed Meggie’s cheeks. “I never knew my mother.”

  “Then let me advise you as a mother would,” Mrs. Draper said. “Undress quickly, blow out the candles, and await him in the bed. Once your chamber’s in near darkness, he’ll know to enter. But be quick, my dear. He’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”