A Ravishing Redhead (4 page)

“I have been thinking,” she said suddenly, breaking the tense silence that had sprung up between them.

Henry slowly lowered himself into his chair at the opposite end of the table and rested his elbows on either side of his place setting. “And?” he prodded when she fell silent.

“And… And I have decided I do not like you. At all,” she clarified, less he was under the false impression she liked him a small amount.

“That is unfortunate,” Henry said.

Her narrow shoulders dipped and bobbed in a shrug. She began to fiddle with her napkin, the only sign she was not quite as composed as her level voice would leave him to believe. “And I do not wish to accompany you to London,” she continued briskly. “Or anywhere else for that matter.”

“That is unfortunate,” he repeated.

Blue eyes, the color of a clear sky on a bright summer day, peeked up at him beneath a fringe of russet lashes. Incredibly long, curly lashes, Henry noted absently. And such an unusual color. Neither red nor blond nor brown, but a mixture of all three. The same as her hair. Had he ever really thought it was red? No, he decided. Not red. It was gold fire, the likes of which he had never seen before. Her curls shimmered in the candlelight, drawing his eye like a moth to flame.     

“It is not that you are a horrible man, or an ill tempered one. We simply do not compliment each other,” she said.

Surprised to discover he was rather starting to enjoy himself, Henry reclined back in his chair and raised one eyebrow. “Is that so?” he said.

Margaret nodded vigorously. “Yes. Precisely so.”

Now it was Henry’s turn to play with his fork. He turned the utensil over and over in his hand, studying the silver handle as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world before he said, in a deceptively calm voice, “Where the bloody hell is all of my money?”

“Your…
your
money?” she squeaked.

“Yes. My money. The money I sent here every month since I left. The money that should have been going back into the estate to pay for its upkeep. Since the roof is all but falling down around us, I have to ask, darling, sweet wife. What have you been spending it on? Surely not clothes.”

“Your money?” Margaret repeated, leaving Henry to wonder if his wife was a bit daft.

“Yes,” he said, all thoughts as to the color of her hair banished as anger brought his blood to a rapid boil. “For the past year I have sent you a damn fortune! Yet I return to find three quarters of the staff dismissed, the gardens in complete disrepair, the fields empty of crops, and the house a mess. So let’s hear it, madam. Where has the money gone?”

“Eight months,” she said quietly.

“What?” Henry frowned, certain he had misunderstood her.

Margaret got to her feet. Leaning towards him, she spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard in the next town over. “Eight months, sixteen days, and nine hours. That is how long you have been gone. Not a year. Not quite yet.”

Henry rose out of his chair as well. “Of all the absurd, ridiculous things to keep track of that is most certainly the –”

“Time is all I have had to keep track of since you left!” she shouted, cutting him off mid sentence. “There never was any money, not since you ran off with my dowry, you old goat, and stranded me here next to penniless. The servants left when I could no longer pay them! You mock my clothes, but this is all I have to wear. I had to sell my dresses to pay for the staff that remains!”

“Did you just call me an old goat?” Henry asked.

Margaret gave a short, annoyed dip of her head.

“And are you meaning to tell me you have received no money since I left?” he said in a dangerous whisper.

Another nod, this one slightly more hesitant.

His head spinning, Henry sat down hard in his chair. It was true, he
had
taken the money provided by Margaret’s dowry with him before he left… But only to sink it into an overseas shipping operation that had returned his investment ten fold within the month.

One would think a Duke would not have to worry so over finances, however Henry was no ordinary Duke. His father, and his father before him, and his father before
him
had made certain of that with their gambling debts and need to spend money as if it were water. By the time he inherited Heathridge from his father upon his passing there had been less than a farthing left to the family name and enough debt to sink a small country. 

Henry had managed to keep the rumors down to a bare minimum, but knowing the word would soon get out that Heathridge was falling into ruin, he had done what only a desperate man would be driven to do: he had gotten married.

Having always possessed a head for figures and a knack for turning one guinea into two, Henry knew if he could only find a way to get his hands on a large sum of money he would be able to restore honor to his family’s name and save Heathridge besides. Unfortunately for the new Duke, no creditor in England or any of her surrounding territories would lend him what he needed, thus the idea of marrying a wealthy heiress was born.

Now, however, staring across the table at his wife who had been no more than an unknowing pawn in his scheme, Henry felt an overpowering sense of guilt. It had been easy enough to think of Margaret as just another creditor when he had been away from her but now… Now he was forced to face the consequences of his actions. 

Taking a deep breath, Henry prepared to tell Margaret the sad, sorry tale in its entirety.

CHAPTER FOUR

 “Margaret, get out here this instant,” Henry growled.

“No,” she said, her voice muffled by the door between them.

Grasping the door handle Henry gave the door a solid shove with his shoulder. The blasted thing refused to move an inch. It was locked and – by the feel of it, for he had broken down his fair share of locked doors in his time and was not a weak man – had been braced with something quite heavy. His forehead thudded against the smooth wood as his eyes pinched shut in exasperation. “You are acting like a child.”

“I know,” she replied cheerfully.

Henry’s eyes snapped open. The chit was incorrigible. He normally reserved the word for the rakehells and rascals he dealt with, but he found it fit Margaret quite well. She was as stubborn as any man he had ever come across. Not to mention unruly, hard headed, and impossible to manage. How his friends – and enemies – would roll with laughter if they could see him now. Locked out of his own bedroom by his wife. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was exactly what he would do if he were in her shoes, Henry was forced to admit with the tracings of a smile.

After he had told Margaret the truth behind the financial state of Heathridge and his reason for marrying her, she had thrown a plate at his head and run upstairs. In the span of a few minutes Henry had come to three conclusions: the first being his accountant, dead man walking that he was, had apparently been robbing him blind. Second, his wife had a rather excellent throwing arm. And third, she was really quite beautiful when she was angry.  

 So no, Henry did not blame Margaret for throwing fine china at his head. Still, it would not do to let her think she had the upper hand. The woman was like a lioness. Any sign of weakness and she would go in for the kill, teeth bared and claws unsheathed.

“Open the door now,” he demanded, kicking the unyielding wood in frustration.

“Or you will do what?” she taunted him.

 “Or I will take my gun, go out to the field, and shoot that nag you call a horse.” The instant the words were out of his mouth Henry regretted them. Not only would he never do such a thing, but he knew how much Margaret cared for Poppy simply by the way the old mare’s coat was brushed to a sheen and she had been the first one up to the fence when he had turned out Finnegan, searching his pockets for the treats she expected to find. “That was out of hand. I apologize. Of course I would never –”

He did not have time to finish his apology for without warning the door flew towards him, knocking him soundly in the temple. Cursing, Henry stumbled back, trying to regain his balance. Before he had time to get his feet back under him, however, his arms were filled with kicking, shrieking female.  

“Shoot my horse, will you?” Margaret raged at him while her tiny fists pummeled any part of his body she could reach.

“Margaret, stop! This is absurd. I said I was –” Henry’s words came out gargled when one lucky punch caught him right on his throat. He gasped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Drag me off to London, will you?” she yelled, kicking at his shins with the pointy toes of her boots.

Hopping on one foot and clutching his neck, Henry managed to duck into a room behind him. It was a guest bedroom, neatly made up with a bed against one wall and a writing desk and chairs against the other. As Margaret continued to punch – good heavens, didn’t the woman know ladies never actually hit? Slapped, yes. A stiff right hook to the chin, no – and rail against him, Henry simply closed his arms around her slender body in a bear hug and swung her onto the bed.

The impact of hitting the hard mattress knocked the wind out of her lungs, and he took full advantage, pouncing atop her and grabbing her wrists before she regained her strength. “Margaret,” he said firmly. “It is time to quit now.”

She shook her head from side to side, spreading gold fire across the white pillowcase. Her color was high; her eyes bright as blue diamonds glinting under the sun. With every angry breath she took her chest rose and fell, and Henry could not help but notice the way her breasts pushed up against his chest. Rather intrigued, he allowed himself to sink a bit closer to her as one hand slid down to tangle in the red curls of her hair. He wasn’t going to do anything. Of course not. He just wanted to see if she felt as soft as she –

“Oomph!” he grunted as her free arm swung up and caught him on the side of the head. Stars swam in front of his eyes and he rolled sideways onto his back. Throwing both arms across his face in surrender, he cried, “Enough, woman! Enough. You’ve done it. You’ve bested me. Leave off before you do permanent damage.”

She hadn’t meant to hit him. Appalled at herself and her wicked behavior, Margaret swung off the bed and began to pace back and forth across the room, head bent and hands clasped behind her back. She had never struck anyone in her life. Well, except for her younger brother Johnny, but the little rascal had definitely deserved it after he threw all her hair ribbons out the window. Then there had been Emily, the girl who had constantly taunted her about her red hair and freckles, which Margaret had been able to ignore until Emily threw a stone at her cat. And she mustn’t forget Thomas, young, over zealous Thomas who had cornered her at her first ball and tried to slip a hand right down her dress. Oh dear.

Stopping at the window, Margaret pulled aside the curtain and stared blindly out at the front drive. She was a horrible person. A terrible, awful, wretched person to have hit so many people. What would her mother say?

“Margaret?”

She spun back towards the bed at the sound of Henry’s muffled voice. He was sprawled across the mattress, his large frame covering nearly inch of it. His face was still hidden by his arms, so she couldn’t read his expression, but if the drawn out suffering in his tone was any indication she had hurt the poor man unbearably.

“Yes?” she asked, taking a few steps towards him.

“You have a wicked right hook.”

“Yes,” she confessed, hanging her head. “I know.”

Henry propped himself up on his elbows and swiveled his head to face her. To her disbelief, the man was actually
grinning
. Grinning, as if they had been discussing the weather instead of engaging in all out fisticuffs!

“Come here,” he coaxed, crooking a finger.

Hesitantly she shuffled forward and paused just beyond arms reach. She didn’t trust that boyish smile he was wearing. Surely he was furious with her. She had all but assaulted him, for heaven sakes! Then why was he beaming ear to ear like a fool? “What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

Henry raked a hand through his hair and cupped the back of his neck. “Come closer,” he said.

“So you can have at me?” One red eyebrow shot up. “I think not!”