Queen of my Hart

by Royal, Emily

  She took his hand. A crackle of need rushed through him, and he squeezed her fingers. Her breath hitched, then she tightened her grip and climbed down.

  “Why did you dismiss the maid so abruptly?” he asked. She colored and looked away, withdrawing her hand. “It’s time she took a break,” she said. “We’ve been working since breakfast.”

  She bit her lip—the same gesture she’d made when she lied about the bruise on her wrist on their wedding day.

  “Margaret,” he said softly. “Did we not promise to be truthful to each other?”

  “Very well,” she said. “I sent her away because I didn’t want her to be punished.”

  “Why would I punish her?”

  She gestured around the room. “There’s so much work to do,” she said. “It’ll only get done if I help.”

  “And you think that would make me angry?”

  She tipped her chin and gave him that familiar look of defiance. “I’m not afraid of hard work,” she said. “I’ve worked all my life and don’t see why I have to languish in a chair while others clean the house. If that breaks your rules, then so be it. But punish me. Not the servants. I can weather it.”

  A stray curl had come loose over her forehead. He lifted his hand to catch it, and she flinched.

  Good lord—she really did think him a monster!

  “I’d never lay a finger on you,” he said quietly. He brushed aside the curl, then traced the outline of her face with his fingertip until he reached her lips. He brushed his thumb against her mouth. She closed her eyes and sighed, and he felt her warm breath against his hand.

  What had she said?

  I can weather it.

  Had she been beaten before? By Alderley? Dexter understood a victim’s shame all too well. He’d suffered it as a child and had vowed never to feel it again. Was it shame that had prevented her from telling the truth about the bruise on her wrist?

  “Open your eyes, Margaret,” he whispered.

  She did so, and he was met with the full force of her gaze. Intelligence and insight sparked behind her eyes. He placed his hand on her cheek and caressed her skin.

  “I would never hurt you,” he said. “I may be a little…strict…on matters of decorum, but I have your best interests at heart. And, mine, too, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps it would help if we found a little common ground which we’ve both walked on,” he said. “Despite our difference in rank, I believe we’ve had similar childhoods.”

  He dipped his head to kiss her. Her eyes widened, and he withdrew.

  “We could begin by your telling me what you’ve been doing with your days here,” he said.

  “I’ve been trying to prepare the house.”

  “I know,” he replied, Mrs. Wells’s admonishment ringing in his hears. “It pleases me to see how hard you’re working.”

  “I’ve also helped Mrs. Brown in the kitchens,” she said. “She’s been making bread for my father’s visit.” She cast him a wary glance, as if concerned she’d committed another transgression.

  “Would you show me how?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened.

  “I have some skills in bread-making.” he continued. “Shall we try it together this morning before I see the estate?”

  She nodded. “Very well.”

  “Then let us attend Mrs. Brown.”

  Half an hour later, Dexter stood at the kitchen table with his wife, kneading a ball of dough. He had no idea what had possessed him to suggest it. A whim, perhaps, fueled by the memory of happier childhood times. Mrs. Brown had stared at him, open-mouthed when he asked her to fetch the flour, then she’d shaken her head, muttering about the eccentricities of the nouveaux riches, set out the ingredients and left them to it.

  He folded the dough and kneaded with his hands, relishing the once-familiar sensation as it became more pliant, the more he worked it. His wife watched him, surprise in her expression. He buried his fingers in the dough, relishing the silken texture—as silken as her flesh. As he massaged it, he imagined his hands on those soft, round breasts which peeked out of the top of her dress—what it would be like to run his tongue across the top of that creamy white flesh and dip it into the valley between. He flicked his tongue out to wet his lips. She mirrored the gesture, and he wanted her.

  Did she know what she was doing to him? Or was she unaware that she had the power to render him hard with a single glance? He inhaled deeply, then swallowed to cool his ardor. The image of her legs open, begging him to take her, was clouding his mind.

  She wiped her brow and left a smear of flour across her forehead.

  “Here,” he said. “Let me.” He lifted his hand to brush away the flour. Her eyes widened as their bodies touched, and his manhood strained against her stomach.

  Any moment, he’d toss up her skirts and take her over the kitchen table. But it wouldn’t do for the servants to encounter their master rutting in the kitchen. He didn’t give a damn about his reputation—but he did care about hers.

  With a sigh, he wiped the flour from her forehead and returned to the other side of the table, and continued working on the dough.

  Disappointment shone in her eyes, and she lowered her gaze and resumed her kneading.

  “How did you acquire such skills?” she asked. “In making bread?”

  “When I was a child, my best friend—John Farrow—taught me how to make bread at his father’s bakery.”

  “I didn’t expect…” she hesitated.

  “You didn’t expect me to exhibit prowess in a kitchen?” he asked. “I grew up in poverty, Margaret, in the village surrounding the Alderley estate. Our backgrounds are the same.”

  “Except, I’m a bastard.”

  Irritated, he reached over and took her hand. “Margaret, how many times must I tell you not to take such words upon yourself? Your origins are of no consequence.” He gestured about the kitchen. “You’re the mistress of this house and of the estate which surrounds it. That makes you a person of consequence. And you must behave as such, no matter how much you miss your life before you came here. We can never go back. We can only look forward.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron and sighed. “I can’t help it if I miss my former life,” she said. “I never wanted to be mistress of a big house.” She lowered her gaze. “I didn’t want to marry.”

  He took her hand. “I know,” he said. “I never wanted to marry a…” he hesitated. “I mean…you were just as reluctant as I.”

  A tear splashed onto her cheek, and he cursed himself.

  He’d meant to give comfort, but, instead, had only reminded her that he’d wanted to marry another—the woman arriving tomorrow, who would be their guest for the next seven nights.

  Chapter Twenty

  “The carriage is here, ma’am.”

  Meggie set aside her mending. “Thank you, Sarah,” she said. “I’ll be down directly. I wish to fetch my shawl first—it’s turned rather cold.”

  “You must come now,” the maid replied. “The master said he wasn’t to be kept waiting.”

  “Very well.”

  Better to weather the cold than her husband’s disappointment. Since the tender moment they’d shared in the kitchen, he had returned to his cold, detached self, spending his time with the steward.

  Though she longed to defy him, she did not have the strength to deal with both him and her father.

  Not to mention the Honorable Elizabeth.

  She only needed to survive the next seven days, then she could wave the guests goodbye.

  And, most likely, her husband, when he returned to London and forgot about her.

  Sarah joined the line of servants waiting to greet their guests. Meggie’s husband stood by the door. He motioned for her to stand beside him.

  What was she—a gun dog?

  “It’s about time,” he said. “They’re almost here.”

  Halfway down the drive, a coach-and-four approached, laden with trunks an
d steered by a single driver who cracked his whip to urge the horses on. Two liveried footmen stood at the back of the coach, clinging on as it swayed to and fro, and a thin, young woman sat beside them, clutching onto one of the trunks.

  It was the same carriage Meggie had been forced into when Alderley had ripped her from her old life.

  The carriage drew to a halt, and one of the footmen rushed to the door, opened it, then retreated with a deep bow.

  A man emerged from inside, dressed in a dark red jacket with cream-colored breeches and polished black boots. He puffed out his chest, then turned and held out his hand.

  A woman stepped out of the carriage, and Meggie’s stomach churned.

  Elizabeth was even more beautiful than she remembered. Golden curls were piled on her head in an extravagant fashion, most likely administered by the slim young woman sitting atop the trunk. Her fur-trimmed cloak was fashioned from dark purple velvet. Beneath it, she wore a bright blue dress and embroidered slippers.

  Meggie’s husband drew in a sharp breath, then he glanced at Meggie and muttered a curse.

  Did he have to make his desire for Elizabeth so obvious?

  He bowed to Meggie’s father.

  “Lord Alderley, a pleasure to welcome you to my home.”

  Alderley nodded. “Hart.”

  “And the Honorable Elizabeth,” her husband continued. “I am…” he glanced at Meggie, “…that is, my wife and I are delighted you could come.”

  Elizabeth held out her hand, and he lifted it to his lips.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Dexter,” she said. “It’s a pleasant surprise to see you looking so well.” She lifted her brows, cocked her head to one side, and waited.

  “And you’re looking as beautiful as ever, Miss Alderley.”

  “Come, come, Dexter, darling,” she chided. “Must you address me so formally, when we’re such very old friends?”

  She threw a spiteful glance at Meggie.

  “And my dear sister!” she cried, “oh, forgive me, I should say half-sister. Marion, isn’t it? Or Margaret?” She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, Margaret! So difficult to remember. But then, when one’s origins are so—complex—a lady can be forgiven for her confusion, can she not?”

  “My dear,” Meggie’s husband prompted, “aren’t you going to greet our guests?”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t know how,” Elizabeth said, her smile broadening. Meggie dipped into a curtsey, lost her balance, and fell against her husband. He took her arm in a firm grip, and she lowered her head, her cheeks burning.

  Elizabeth let out a laugh. “Dexter, perhaps you should lead us inside before your wife is further discomposed…” she nodded toward him, expectantly. “If you’d be so obliging?”

  He released Meggie and held his arm out to Elizabeth, who took it as if it belonged to her.

  “I hope you’ll show me the sights, Dexter, darling,” Elizabeth said. “Both inside and outside.”

  “I’d be happy to oblige,” he replied. “But first, let us take tea in the parlor. I have it on good authority my cook makes the best fruit cake.”

  “Fruit cake?” Elizabeth cried with an excess of enthusiasm. “Dexter, you spoil me, for that’s my favorite, as well, you know. Come, take me inside immediately.”

  He led the way, leaving Meggie standing alone.

  No, not alone. The imposing form of Lord Alderley towered over her.

  She curtseyed again, this time maintaining her balance.

  “Father.”

  He rolled his eyes and gestured toward the door with his cane.

  “Lead the way, child,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”

  Meggie followed her husband and Elizabeth inside. Never had she felt so out of place—a base-born peasant among three members of society.

  How was she going to survive tea with them, let alone a whole week?

  ***

  Meggie poured the tea and handed a cup to Elizabeth, who frowned, then took it.

  “A little overfilled, but I can manage,” she said. “I daresay you have much to learn.”

  “Would you like a slice of cake?” Meggie asked.

  “Oh, good Lord, no!” Elizabeth laughed. “A lady cannot be expected to eat it—not when supper is imminent. Madame Deliet would despair of me if I necessitated the purchase of another gown.”

  Dexter took a slice of cake. “Elizabeth, I’ll wager you visit Madame Deliet every week, regardless of whether your size increases.”

  “But, if I recall, Dexter, you prefer a slimmer form,” Elizabeth said. “When we last visited Madame Deliet together, you said it was evidence of self-restraint, and therefore the mark of a true lady.”

  She smoothed down the front of her dress, as if to demonstrate her gamine frame, then cast her glance over Meggie’s rounder, curvier figure.

  “Madame asked after you, Dexter,” Elizabeth continued. “She was most put out when I told her you’d married, for you’d promised to employ her services for your bride’s gown.”

  “I’m sure your regular visits are enough to offset any disappointment Madame harbors as a result of my no longer patronizing her,” Dexter said, “whatever they may cost your father.”

  “A lady must maintain her wardrobe,” Elizabeth said. “Isn’t that so, Margaret?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Meggie stammered.

  Elizabeth’s lip curled into a smile, which could be interpreted as a sneer.

  “Of course, how foolish of me to assume!” she laughed. “Who is your modiste?”

  “My what?” Meggie asked.

  What the devil was a modiste?

  “My wife has not yet had the opportunity to engage a modiste,” Dexter said.

  “Then I recommend she does so at once,” Elizabeth said. “Madame Deliet is somewhat discerning over her customers, but I daresay she’d be willing to accommodate her on my recommendation.”

  “At considerable expense to myself, Miss Alderley.”

  “My dear Dexter, it would be an investment, not an expense,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure Madame would be prepared to travel here to see your wife. She’s very particular about who is seen going into and out of her establishment, given her clientele' exclusivity. I can write on your behalf.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Dexter said.

  “Nonsense!” came the reply. “There’s much to be gained from giving your wife the appearance of a lady.”

  “That may be,” he replied, “but I’m perfectly capable of engaging a modiste for her.”

  Was Meggie invisible, that they saw fit to discuss her without acknowledging or asking for her opinion?

  “Well, at the very least, you must engage a proper lady’s maid,” Elizabeth continued.

  “Whatever for?” Dexter asked.

  “Good lord, Dexter!” Elizabeth laughed. She turned her attention to Meggie. “Margaret, my dear,” she said, speaking as if Meggie was a child. “You need a proper French maid.”

  “Why would I need a French maid?”

  Elizabeth gestured toward the cascade of curls, adorning her head. “Only a French maid knows how to treat a lady’s hair properly. Whoever you’ve engaged to tend to your hair, my dear…” She shook her head and sighed. “…At the very least, she should be dismissed, though I’d also recommend a thrashing.”

  Meggie froze at the stripes' memory along Milly’s back, though healing, still pained the young maid. Did Elizabeth know Meggie didn’t have a lady’s maid? Was this her way of saying that Meggie deserved to be thrashed?

  “Mistress Elizabeth…” she began. Dexter raised his eyebrows at her form of address but said nothing.

  “Take it from one who knows and wishes to help,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Whoever styled your hair lacks skill and, I daresay, intended to insult, rather than serve, her mistress.” She turned to Meggie’s husband. “Dexter, an errant servant must be dismissed. If the mistress is incapable, then the master must direct.”

  “My dear Miss Alderley,” he
said, “you set too much store on looks.”

  “As do you, if I recall,” she replied. “You once told me that the scarlet gown I wore to Lady Strathdean’s card party rendered me goddess-like, and that had I been a plain-faced little miss…” she glanced at Meggie, “…you’d never have given me the time of day.”

  “Miss Alderley…”

  “You must take my counsel on the matter of a modiste,” Elizabeth said.

  “Madame Deliet is not the only modiste in town,” Dexter replied. “Madame Dupont has an excellent reputation and is perhaps more suited to a woman such as my wife. The Duchess of Westbury patronizes her.”

  “That plump little commoner!” Elizabeth scoffed. “How the devil did she snare a duke?”

  “She’s an amiable woman,” Dexter said, “and Westbury’s an excellent man.

  Alderley let out a snort. “Duchess she may be,” he said, “but she’s a commoner by birth.”

  “As am I,” Dexter said.

  Alderley opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  Meggie took a mouthful of fruitcake. Did her husband only value a woman who was dressed in extravagant finery, with a body as thin as a railing?

  A woman such as my wife.

  What had he meant? That she was the commoner he regretted marrying, compared to the lady he’d wanted?

  Tea concluded, Dexter directed their guests to their rooms to rest before dinner, and Meggie fled to her chamber. How would she even begin to make herself look presentable for tonight? But Elizabeth would, most likely, taunt her however she looked.

  The woman loathed Meggie and wanted to bed her husband.

  The question was—did he want to be bedded?

  ***

  “Curse it!” Meggie exclaimed as the pin pricked her finger for the fourth time. Why could the damned things not stay in?

  She pulled the remaining pins out of her hair, and it fell round her face in loose, limp tresses. Her hair refused to be curled into elegance—it possessed a will of its own.

  She had seen little need to engage a maid. The notion of having another at her beck and call, performing tasks she could undertake herself, was neither right nor fair. But Mrs. Wells had explained that the lady’s maid position was highly sought after and that a maid did not only dress her mistress or style her hair. She was a respected confidante—a friend, even.