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Henry also heard Lord Grant’s laconic reply. “My love, Lady
Marguerite’s immense fortune will make her the most respectable heiress in
London without any help from you.”

“Lord Wardeaux,” Margery said, claiming his attention. She
spoke very precisely, as though she had been raised with a silver spoon in her
mouth rather than gaining one five minutes before. Everything about her, the
determined jut of her chin, the challenge in her steady gray eyes and the
indignant grace with which she held herself, spoke of character and
strength.

This morning she looked neat and buttoned up, a far cry from
the passionate woman Henry had held in his arms the previous night. The silken
gold-brown of her hair was fastened up in a bun beneath a ridiculously frumpy
lace cap. Not a single strand escaped the pins. The plain black gown she wore as
befitting her status as a lady’s maid was unflattering, draining the color from
her face and obscuring her figure, making her almost invisible. None of this
seemed to influence the potent physical desire Henry discovered he still had for
her. In fact, it made it worse. The prim uniform was already driving him to
distraction. He wanted to peel it off her. He had never had a fixation about
servants or uniforms. This was something new and, he suspected, an attraction
confined solely to Margery.

“Lord Wardeaux.” Margery sounded impatient and Henry realized
that she had already addressed him once. “You are not concentrating.”

Oh, he was concentrating, all right. Though not on the right
things.

“Lady Marguerite,” Henry said, sketching a bow.

Her direct gray gaze made no secret of her dislike for him.
“You were not so formal last night,” she said, her chin at a very haughty
angle.

“Nor,” Henry said, “were you.”

He saw the anger in her eyes increase a notch at the reminder
of just how informal they had been with each other. “I was under a
misapprehension,” Margery said coolly. “For a start, I thought you were a
gentleman.”

Touché.

“I am sorry—” Henry started to say, but she cut him off.

“I beg leave to doubt that.” Her voice was laced with contempt.
“I doubt that you regret anything that you did last night.” She paused as though
struck by a sudden and unwelcome thought. “We are not
related,
are we?”

“Nothing to signify,” Henry said. “Seventh cousins, perhaps. We
are close enough for you to call me Henry if you wish.”

Margery’s eyes narrowed. “There are many things I wish to call
you,” she said, “but Lord Wardeaux will suffice for now.” She turned and walked
away from him as though she could not bear to look at him.

“Mr. Churchward said that my grandfather was also your
godfather,” she said.

“That is correct,” Henry said.

She spun around. “And that before I was found, you were the
heir to…Templemore, is it?”

“That is also correct,” Henry said. He could see very clearly
where this was leading. “But—”

“And now I have taken all that from you,” Margery said, with
devastating frankness. “The title, the estate and a fortune.”

“Yes,” Henry said. “You have. You are the richest heiress in
the country.”

For a moment she looked shocked but she recovered herself
quickly, partly, he suspected, because she had no idea quite how rich the
richest heiress in the country would be. That would only become clear to her
when she saw Templemore. And when the ton started toadying to her.

“How gratifying it is to be so rich,” she said dryly. “The
point I was intending to make, however, was that I know that your behavior last
night—your low, scheming,
despicable
behavior toward
me—” she enunciated very carefully with searing scorn “—was intended to lose me
my inheritance.”

Henry was entertained despite himself. “You know more than I do
then,” he said politely.

Her gaze narrowed on him. “You deny it?” she demanded. “When
you were going to seduce me.” Her voice rose sharply with anger. “And then tell
my grandfather I was no more than a strumpet so that he disinherited me in your
favor?”

Having delivered this broadside she stood, hands on hips,
regarding Henry with disdain. There was something slightly comical about her
tiny, dignified, infuriated figure. Henry tried to repress a smile but he was
not quick enough. She saw his expression and glared at him.

“Would that it were so easy,” Henry said. “Alas, Lady
Marguerite, the laws of inheritance cannot be bent to my will. You could be the
most notorious courtesan in London and it would not change the fact that you are
heiress to Templemore.”

He caught her wrist and pulled her close, moving so suddenly
that she jumped even though he held her lightly. “Your logic is also at fault,”
he said softly. “If I had intended to seduce you I would not have stopped.”

So close to her now, he could smell the honey scent of her skin
and feel the flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers. He allowed his gaze to
travel over her. His gaze lingered on her lips and she blushed. Her own gaze
fell, her lashes lowered against the curve of her cheek. The awareness flared
between them as quick and hot as it had done the previous night. Arousal stung
her cheeks pink and gave a slumberous glitter to her eyes. Her lips parted and
all of a sudden he was within an ace of kissing her. He bent his head.

“Do that and I shall plant my knee in your groin,” Margery said
wrathfully. “You treacherous
bastard
.”

Well, he had deserved that. Henry grinned and released her
wrist. The ton, he thought, had never seen anything quite like Lady Marguerite
Saint-Pierre. The dowagers would be fainting in the ballrooms.

Margery’s color was still high and she was rubbing her wrist
where he had held her.

“Even if you did not intend to ruin me,” she said, “you
certainly meant to compromise me sufficiently that I would be obliged to marry
you so you would regain your inheritance. You are a manipulative scoundrel.”

“Acquit me of those motives,” Henry said. “I have no desire to
marry you.”

Now he had really annoyed her, which was hardly surprising
since he had been less than flattering. She was upset, too. He saw hurt behind
the anger in her eyes, though she tried quickly to hide it, turning away.

“You do not trouble to charm me any longer, Lord Wardeaux,” she
said. “Now that there is nothing to gain.”

“I had to do it,” Henry said, exasperated by the distress he
could see in her face. “My first loyalty was to the earl and to establishing the
truth. I needed to know if you really were Marguerite Saint-Pierre.”

“And you think that justifies your behaving like a
snake
and deceiving me?” Margery demanded. “You could
simply have told me what you were about.”

“I could not confide in you,” Henry said. He ran a hand
abruptly through his hair. He felt frustrated and angry. It was impossible to
tell her all the reasons behind his actions. This was not the time to warn her
that as sole witness to her mother’s murder she might be in danger; already she
had had to accept so much and frightening her further would achieve nothing.
“Your family might have exploited the situation,” he said truthfully. “What if
you had been an adventuress, set on preying upon the weakness of an old man? How
easy it would be to convince Lord Templemore that you genuinely were his
granddaughter—” He broke off, but not quickly enough. Margery’s eyes had widened
with shock and for a moment he saw vivid pain reflected there.

“I see,” she said. “Not only do you think my family are a bunch
of criminals—and these are the people who took me in and cared for me out of no
more than kindness—but you also suspected that I might have an eye to the main
chance.” She turned her face away. “So that is your opinion of me.” The contempt
in her voice was cutting. “I thought that we knew each other better than
that—but of course I had not realized it was all a pretense.”

Henry interrupted her, his voice hard and angry. “It was not
all pretense—”

Margery placed her hands over her ears. “Stop it! I do not want
to hear any more of your justifications.”

“You will hear me,” Henry said. It was terrifying how quickly
she could cut through the cold logic that normally governed his actions and make
him feel. He did not like losing control, yet he could feel it slipping from
him. He stalked across the room and Margery retreated before him until she
backed into a rosewood table. Henry placed one hand on each side of her,
trapping her against the solid wood, his body only inches from hers. Immediately
she went rigid.

“Let me go,” she said through her teeth.

“You will hear me out,” Henry said.

Their gazes locked, turbulent, dark and stormy. Henry raised a
hand and traced a line along her jaw. Her skin warmed beneath his touch. She
tried to turn her face away from him.

“You have all the Templemore pride, Lady Marguerite,” he said
softly, mockingly.

She jerked her chin away from his hand. “And you are every inch
the arrogant nobleman.” Her eyes met his defiantly. “Very well, say your piece,
but do not expect me to believe you.”

“My motives were of the purest, I assure you,” Henry said. “I
did what I had to do for the sake of your grandfather and for Templemore.”

Clearly he had failed to convince her. “Is that the best you
can do?” she asked contemptuously. “It would not convince a child. You did not
need to kiss me to establish my ancestry. You did not need to make love to
me.”

Their eyes met. Awareness, sweet and hot, shimmered between
them again. Antagonism gave it a sharp, dangerous edge.

“No, I did not,” Henry said. “But how hypocritical you are
being if you pretend that you did not enjoy it, too.”

He heard her gasp of outrage a second before his mouth took
hers in a tumultuous kiss. He felt her instant response and how hard she
struggled to resist it. But she was as lost as he; where attraction flared there
was no withstanding it. He held her still against the table and he bit down
gently on her full lower lip, and when she opened for him he slid his tongue
into her mouth. He kissed her with hunger and demand and felt her melt for him.
It was delicious, and he most certainly should not be doing it, but he let his
good intentions go to hell. Perhaps he had more of his late, unlamented, rakish
father in him than he had previously realized.

“Admit it,” he said, as his lips left hers. “You like me.”

She gave an infuriated squeak, pushing ineffectually against
his chest. “Are you trying to prove something? You know I
detest
you.”

“All right,” Henry said. “I accept that. But you are still
attracted to me.” He stepped back an inch and Margery slid past him in an angry
rustle of her black bombazine skirts.

“Coxcomb,” she said, turning on him. “I do not find you
remotely attractive.” She gave her head an impatient little shake. “You are
insufferable. I want you to know that you were not the first to kiss me and you
were certainly not the
best
.”

Henry laughed. “I do not believe you on either score,” he said.
“No one had kissed you before I did.”

Margery looked infuriated. “They most certainly had!”

“You lie badly,” Henry said. He smiled at her. “Most honest
people do.”

“You did not seem to have much trouble last night,” Margery
said cuttingly. She made a dismissive gesture. “No matter. I am hopeful that,
now you have informed me of my inheritance, I need not see you again.”

“A vain hope, I fear,” Henry said. “I am escorting you to
Templemore.”

“You are mistaken,” Margery said. She was drumming her fingers
on the top of the desk in anger and impatience. “I have no desire to be Lady
Marguerite. I like being Margery Mallon. I don’t want the title or the estate.
You were the heir. You wanted it.” Her gaze defied him. “You take it.”

Henry could feel his impatience rising. “Once again, you
misunderstand the laws of inheritance,” he said. “You cannot refuse your title.
It is who you are.”

“I’m not going,” Margery said. She crossed her arms, small but
decidedly immovable.

Damnation but she was stubborn. She had all the obstinacy of
her grandfather and more. Henry toyed with the idea of simply picking her up and
carrying her out to the waiting carriage.

“Your grandfather…” He stopped. He had promised the old man
that he would deliver his granddaughter to him and he was going to do precisely
that. “He deserves better than this,” he said. “Templemore deserves better than
this.”

“They are nothing to me,” Margery said. “I am Margery Mallon, a
lady’s maid. I want nothing more than that. Bring me the papers—” She snapped
her fingers. “I will sign away my claim.”

With a monumental effort of will, Henry held on to his temper.
The one thing he cared for, the only thing he loved, was Templemore, every
brick, every blade of grass. He wanted the place with a passion. Margery was
rejecting it sight unseen.

It had not once occurred to him that Margery might repudiate
her inheritance. What person in their right mind would give up the estate, the
title, the position, the money? No servant, brought up in poverty, would turn
down such advancement. It was absurd.

“Your wits are gone begging if you think that Lady Grant would
continue to employ you as her maid,” he said coldly. “Nor would your grandfather
stand for it. You do not have a choice in this. If you refuse to go to
Templemore I shall pick you up and put you in the carriage myself.”

Margery had turned away. She pressed her hands together. “I’m
not going,” she repeated, but this time there was a wobble in her voice and
Henry heard it.

“You’re afraid,” he said slowly.

“No!” She rejected his comfort instantly. “Of course I am not.”
Her shoulders were hunched, her entire body taut with tension. “I…I simply do
not want to be Lady Marguerite.”