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“You want to be my mistress but not my wife?” His words were a
dark, heavy whisper.

“Yes! No!” Margery writhed against his hands. “I will not marry
a man who does not love me.”

“And I will not stop making love to you until you agree to
marry me.”

It was a measure of Margery’s desperation that she felt nothing
but relief in that moment. She felt him move behind her, felt the hard length of
him sink into her slowly, filling her completely and sending her senses tumbling
into an abyss of pleasure. She gasped, shocked at the intensity of the
sensation, as he pulled back, withdrew from her and slid in deep again.

There was urgency in him but he did not hurry as he allowed her
body to adjust to the penetration of his. His hand was at her waist, holding her
steady. Over and over he took her and Margery’s emotions as well as her senses
were captured and burned in a tight spiral of desire, higher and higher with
each thrust. It was wild, it was completely abandoned, and yet it was the
ultimate in her most tender desires.

“Open your eyes.”

Again she obeyed him and the sight robbed what little was left
of her will. She was braced against the cabinet, hands flat on the glass, her
skirts spread like a bell about her waist, naked above but for the flash of the
diamonds about her neck. They moved with every stroke of Henry’s body into hers.
Her breasts rocked gently with each slide of him inside her. The light played
over her skin in gold and shadow. She looked utterly ravished, deliciously
debauched and wanton. The sight made her cry out with disbelief and wicked
delight.

She watched in the mirror as Henry pressed down gently on the
small of her back, his hand warm and sure. She obeyed the pressure, parting her
thighs wider, then she cried out again, overwhelmed, as he penetrated even
deeper, even harder. She strained forward as she took all of him in. It was
blissful beyond her dreams. She was desperate to come, her body aching for
surcease, but he would not hurry. She begged him, abandoning all pride and
modesty. He laughed. She cursed him roundly in language most inappropriate to
the heiress to Templemore.

Gradually, with tantalizing slowness, he drove her toward the
zenith. Whenever she thought she would surely tumble over the edge he would draw
back, once again denying her the ultimate release.

“You will take me,” he whispered, his lips against the damp
skin of her neck. He stroked her core once, twice, a final time. She
squirmed.

“Make your surrender,” he said. “You know you are mine.”

She did know. She knew it deep in her heart, in her soul. But
he was not hers. Not wholly. He always held something back.

“I will not,” she said. “I’ll never agree.” The words fractured
as she felt him thrust inside her one last time, as ecstasy became dream, as he
took her completely and she shattered into a climax as bright and sharp as the
diamonds. Her knees buckled. She felt him catch her and hold her up while the
pleasure rocked through her, and her body shimmered and heated, and finally
softened into abject capitulation. He had made her his again, as thoroughly as
he had promised. She trembled all over.

It was then that she realized that he was still as hard and hot
as before. He had not achieved his release. He had, in fact, deliberately denied
himself. She saw his face; she realized it was not over. She gave a little
whimper of protest even as renewed excitement flowered through her. It was
impossible to want him again, so soon, and yet it was not. It was not impossible
at all. She felt ripe and pleasured, but there was a tingling awareness beneath
the surface of her skin, and when Henry drew one hand across her bare stomach in
casual possession she felt her body tighten and sing again.

He lifted her to sit on the edge of the china cabinet, her
skirts once more spread out about her. He brought her head down so that he could
kiss her, long deep kisses that felt as though he was stealing her soul from her
body. His hands moved over her, over her bare back, sweeping down to her waist
and up to stroke the underside of her breasts. Margery arched to his hands and
his mouth, feeling the throb and pull of desire deep in her belly.

“So…” He bit down on one tight nipple, fierce and hot, licking
and sucking on her until she gasped. “Will you marry me?”

Margery almost smiled. Thwarting him was becoming a positive
pleasure.

“No,” she said. She heard his breath hiss in. He bit down a
little harder on her in response. Her body jerked upward. Hot pleasure unfurled
inside her.

“Please reconsider.” His tone was very polite even if his lips
were a mere inch from her bare breast.

“I’m afraid I will not.” To prove that she could not be
dictated to she took his erection in her hand and heard his breath catch again.
He was iron hard and smooth as she stroked and explored him. She watched as he
closed his eyes. She heard him groan deep in his throat.

“Madam, I must insist—” He drew in a painful breath. “If you
are to have me you must marry me. I will not be your lover.”

Margery drew him closer between her spread thighs. She leaned
forward so that her breasts brushed his chest. She planted a soft kiss on his
lips. “Yes, you will,” she whispered against them.

He snapped. He slid his hands under her buttocks, lifted her
and plunged into her again, driving into her so fiercely that the entire cabinet
rocked and shook beneath her. The china crashed and tumbled. It was fast and
furious and mindless and so blissful that Margery wanted to scream with it. It
snatched her breath and drove every last thought from her mind in a welter of
urgent sensation. This time her climax built and rolled over her in slow,
pounding waves that shook her whole body.

She clasped Henry so tightly he shouted out as he came in her
and then Margery fell into the deepest pleasure, where her love and desire for
him were so entangled she knew she would never be able to separate them
again.

* * *

I
T
WAS
SOME
TIME
LATER
and Margery was in her
bedchamber and Chessie was helping her to retrieve both her gown and her
reputation. Margery had come round from the most explosive and soul-shaking
experience of her life to find herself held safely in Henry’s arms and Chessie
knocking frantically at the door of the China Room with the news that her
grandfather was asking for her. According to Chessie, if she was away any longer
than another ten minutes the entire ton would start to put two and two together
and make a very big sum indeed.

Henry had released her reluctantly. His cheek pressed to hers,
his mouth against her hair, he had asked her if she had changed her mind. He had
not said that he loved her. Margery, her heart breaking, had said that she had
not. She would not marry him.

Chessie had given Henry one very hard stare and whisked her
away from prying eyes. Some story had been put about that Margery had suffered a
tear in her gown. Chessie had helped her tidy herself; she had retied her
ribbons and smoothed her skirts, had looked her over and had expressed very dry
approval for Henry’s ability to make love to a woman without creasing her gown
or disarranging her hair. Margery had blushed to her toes.

Margery looked herself over in the mirror. She doubted she
would ever be able to look in a mirror again without seeing Henry making love to
her, his hands dark against the paleness of her skin, his body sliding into
hers. She felt hot and light-headed again, sated with physical pleasure, wanting
nothing more than to sleep. At least she looked respectable again now, even if
she felt anything but.

“I heard Henry ask you if you had changed your mind,” Chessie
said. She had been busy tidying up various pots and brushes on the dressing
table that did not really need tidying, as though she needed the occupation. Her
hands paused. Her blue eyes held a troubled expression. “Tell me to mind my own
business if you wish. I am only anxious that you do not get yourself into a deal
of trouble.”

“He proposed to me,” Margery said. “Again,” she added
scrupulously. “Several times.”

“And what did you say?” Chessie asked.

“I told him I would not marry without love,” Margery said.

“Oh, Margery,” Chessie said. Margery was shocked to see that
her blue eyes were full of tears. “I hope,” Chessie said, “I truly hope that
this has a happy ending for you but I fear it will not. Henry—” She hesitated,
then sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. “Henry was in love with someone
when he was young,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Her name was
Isobel. I did not want to tell you because it was not my business and I hoped he
would tell you himself, but…” She looked up and met Margery’s eyes. “Henry was
married at only nineteen. He was very much in love with his wife.”

Margery felt an odd rushing sensation in her ears.

Henry had been in love? Henry had been
married?

She grabbed at the upright post of the bed to steady herself.
“What happened? Did she die?”

“Eventually,” Chessie said dryly. “She had
affaires
all over Town. She shamed Henry by sleeping with his own
father. In the end, Lord Templemore paid her to go away and she went abroad. She
died a few years later, but only after she had dragged Henry’s name and his
honor through the gutter.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I wanted to but I thought it was Henry’s place to tell you
himself. I’m sorry.”

Margery’s legs felt so shaky that she sat down next to Chessie
on the fat purple coverlet. Henry had been in love. The words repeated over and
over in her head. He had been married and he had never told her. No one had
mentioned it to her. She thought about the coldness that had come into Henry’s
eyes when she had spoken of love, of the remoteness she had felt in him. Now she
understood. Henry had cut himself off completely. He had not want to feel
again.

“I wish he had told me,” she said. “I wish he had explained.”
She was so candid herself that keeping such an enormous secret felt impossible
and wrong. Yet, at the same time, she could blame Henry for nothing. His wife
had taken all the love he had offered, and twisted and despoiled it beyond
recognition.

Margery swallowed hard. She remembered wondering how Henry had
felt as a small, solemn child in the huge edifice of Templemore. No siblings to
show him love or bear him company in the way that she had had Jem and Jed and
Billy. Nothing but a cold, distant mother and an absent, libertine father.

She had misunderstood, she realized now. She had thought that
Henry had never learned to love. She had accused him of being a stranger to
love. But what had happened to him had been worse. Despite, or perhaps because
of the example of his parents’ marriage, despite the licentious ways of his
father and his godfather, he had, with faith and courage, offered his love and
his honor to this woman, Isobel. And she had destroyed them.

A small, hard knot tightened in Margery’s throat. She felt so
angry with the unknown woman who had shattered Henry’s faith that she wanted to
kill her, though she was prepared to admit that that might have been partly
jealousy, as well. Or possibly a very great deal of jealousy.

“I hate her,” she said viciously. “It is fortunate she is
dead.” She checked the clock and grabbed her little cream satin reticule. “We
must go back to the ball. I know we must. I have been absent far too long. But
Chessie—” She pressed her friend’s hand. “Thank you for telling me.”

Henry had gone when they reached the ballroom. Margery was
relieved; it would have been impossible to dance with him again or make
inconsequential chat in front of a crowd.

Chessie’s revelation had shaken her badly. She was not naive
enough to imagine she might teach Henry to love again. That was the sort of
blind hope destined to end in tears. That was the sort of misery that had lain
in store for her mother. What she had to decide now was whether Henry’s offer of
a marriage, based on mutual need and mutual desire, was sufficient when her
stubborn heart argued for more.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Ten of Swords: Ruin

“Y
OU
LOOK
BLUE
-
DEVILED
.”

Henry jumped as his cousin Garrick spoke in his ear. He had
been watching Margery—it was becoming something of a dangerous habit—as she
threaded her way through the guests at Lady Fowler’s rout. It was another hot
London night and another ton ballroom. As ever, Margery sparkled, a tiny, bright
figure looking completely at ease in her new setting. As ever, she was under
siege; a positive battalion of suitors pursued her around the room and he had to
stand there and watch like a chaperon on a rout chair. Of course he felt
blue-deviled.

“You’ve quarreled with the divine Lady Marguerite,” Garrick
said, guessing the cause of Henry’s bad temper with disturbing accuracy.

“She asked me about Isobel,” Henry admitted. “She wanted to
know why I hadn’t told her I had been married before.”

“And you told her that it was because it was not important,”
Garrick hazarded.

Henry shrugged. “It isn’t.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Garrick said. “You
understand nothing about women, Henry.”

“Evidently not,” Henry agreed.

Bafflingly, Margery had rejected all his subsequent
invitations. She had refused to drive with him again, she had turned down his
offer to escort her to any number of concerts and exhibitions, and she had even
declined his invitations to dance, brandishing an undeniably full card at him
when he had challenged her. He had been reduced to standing on the sidelines and
it was not a position he was accustomed to occupying.

He had been obliged to admit that his plan to seduce Margery
into agreeing to be his wife had been badly flawed in any case. Instead of
entrapping her, he had been the one who had been captured, dazed and disturbed
by the fierceness of his response to her. The longer she thwarted him, the more
acute became his need for her. But it was not a need that could be satisfied
simply by taking her to his bed. He wanted more than that. Only marriage would
suffice, and while Margery refused him he was obliged to watch other men court
her, thwarted by a slip of a girl whose strength of will was as powerful as his
own.

He leaned his shoulders back against the pillar and watched
Margery as she danced a mazurka with Lord Donnington. Tall and clumsy as a young
giraffe, the young peer was not the most elegant dancer. He had just stepped on
Margery’s hem, but she was smiling at him anyway.

There was warmth in her eyes and an irresistible lift to her
lips and the candlelight burnished her hair to a glorious spun bronze and
shadowed the vulnerable curve of the nape of her neck. She looked beautiful.
Henry felt that beauty like a punch in the gut.

“I suppose you have heard that Lady Marguerite has had twenty
offers of marriage?” Garrick said slyly.

“Make that twenty-one,” Henry said, straightening up. “Or
twenty-two, since she has turned me down twice.”

Garrick grimaced. “Do you want to drown your sorrows?”

“Not particularly,” Henry said, but he followed his cousin into
the refreshment room. Garrick took two glasses of champagne from a passing
footman and gestured Henry over to some quiet seats.

“If you want my advice—” Garrick began.

“I don’t.”

“She doesn’t trust you,” Garrick said, ignoring him. “Look at
what happened to her mother.”

Henry shook his head. “You’ve lost me.”

“Try not to be so obtuse,” Garrick begged. “Lady Rose fell in
love and eloped with a downright scoundrel.”

“I hope you are not implying there is any similarity between
Antoine de Saint-Pierre and myself,” Henry said, scowling. If Margery thought
that he was like her ne’er-do-well father then she really did have a poor
opinion of him. He hoped it was not so. Cursing, he ran a hand through his
hair.

“Of course you’re not like Saint-Pierre,” Garrick said. “But
there is a similarity between Lady Marguerite and her mother. Marguerite is in
love with you, just as her mother was with Saint-Pierre. Saint-Pierre ruined her
mother’s life. So Lady Marguerite will never put herself in the position her
mother was in and marry a man she cannot trust, a man who does not love
her.”

Knowing Margery’s family history, Henry found it puzzling that
she was so set on marrying for love. He imagined it would be the last emotion
Margery would trust, but then he realized that with her generosity of character
it was not in her nature to withhold love. She gave it openly and
unconditionally. And she would want the same in return, only trusting a man with
her heart as well as her body if she believed he would love her, and only her,
forever.

“How lovely Lady Marguerite looks tonight,” Garrick said.
“Donnington will be just the latest to fall. It’s because she has—”

“Warmth,” Henry said. His soul felt cold now that Margery had
withdrawn her love from him. The sweetness and generosity in her had been the
flame that had drawn him back to her, time and again. He had needed to capture
and hold that warmth, and yet somehow it had slipped through his fingers, as
elusive as water.

Through the open door of the refreshment room he could see
Margery twirling her way through the waltz in the arms of Lord Plumley. The
Templemore diamonds glittered at her throat. She looked beautiful and elegant
and as though she had been born to grace every ballroom in the land. Henry
shifted in his seat. He was not likely to forget just how beautiful Margery had
looked stretched in half-naked abandon over the glass case of the China Room,
those diamonds her only adornment. He loosened his neck cloth, which, like his
trousers, felt intolerably tight. If he were never allowed to touch Margery
again he would be fit for bedlam.

“She is beautiful and accomplished and courageous,” Garrick
continued. “I imagine you must feel very proud of her.”

“I do, curse you,” Henry ground out.

Garrick grinned. “Then you should ask yourself,” he said
gently, “just what is the difference between what you feel for Lady
Marguerite—and love.” He got to his feet and clapped Henry on the shoulder.
“Good luck, old fellow. You were always so good at solving mathematical
problems. A pity if the one calculation that really matters should evade
you.”

* * *

M
ARGERY
SLEPT
LATE
the
morning after Lady Fowler’s rout and came downstairs to breakfast as the clock
struck eleven. The morning newspapers were on the rosewood table in the hall
waiting for Barnard to take them up to Lord Templemore. Her grandfather liked to
take all the papers into the library after breakfast and read them at his
leisure, everything from
The Times
to the
Gentleman’s Athenian Mercury,
which he said gave a
balanced impression of the news since they expressed such opposing views. Today
it was the
Mercury
on the top of the pile on the
silver tray. Margery squinted sideways at it in passing, her eye catching the
gossip column of a person who rejoiced in the title of Lady Loveworn.

“Disappointing news for the many suitors of Lady M S-P,” the
piece began. “It seemed that nothing could topple the famous heiress from her
place at the pinnacle of the ton, but now it appears that Lady M is not the
innocent she seems. Hopeful swains should note that at least one lover has been
before them in the lady’s affections. Whether the determined hordes of bachelors
can overlook this lapse in the interest of two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand pounds
remains to be seen. We are sure there is some hardy soul out there who will
regard a little shop soil as worth the price of a fortune.”

The shock and understanding hit Margery with a force that stole
her breath. She sat down heavily on the second step of the stairs and tried to
think, but all she could see was the print of the paper swimming before her
eyes, the horrible innuendo that hid the terrifying truth.

Someone knew what had happened at Templemore. One of the
servants must have seen her leaving Henry’s chamber and now they had gone to the
press with the story. Or perhaps someone knew that she and Henry had slipped
away from the ball the previous week. Suddenly her chest felt tight with panic.
She could not breathe. What had been secret and special to her alone was now
exposed to the world. It had become squalid, picked over by the gossipmongers,
discussed in the clubs, sordid and scandalous.

Not the innocent she seems
…
A little shop soil
…

Margery realized that she was shaking and cold. Her whole body
trembled. No one had seen her yet because she was hidden by the curve of the
stair. Through the delicate wrought iron she could see the servants ferrying
food into the dining room. There were voices within; evidently Chessie and Jem
and perhaps even Lady Wardeaux and Lady Emily were already up and partaking of
breakfast. Everything was running a little later today because they had all been
out at the ball the previous night.

Margery tried to concentrate, but her thoughts were scattered
and broken and she did not know what to do. It had never occurred to her that
anyone would go to the papers with what they knew about her, but of course she
was famous now, rich, eligible. Gossip about her would be in high demand. It had
been so naive of her to imagine no one would know, and that if they did know,
they would not speak.

She was ruined.

She grabbed the other papers from the pile.
The Times
did not deal in scandal, of course, but
plenty of other papers did. The same story, implying that she had taken at least
one lover, was in more than half of the other papers. There was even a
suggestion that she had spread her favors and much else besides in Mrs. Tong’s
bawdy house before her elevation to the peerage. Each story was more distasteful
than the last, as though the papers were trying to outdo each other. By the time
she had scanned them all she felt sick.

Fear clawed at her stomach. Her grandfather. He could not see
this, not after the tragedy of her mother. Such a heinous scandal might indeed
kill Lord Templemore, and she had brought it on them all.

Bile rose in her throat. She felt so shamed. The malicious
words cheapened what had happened with Henry. She could not bear it. Her love
for him was exposed to everyone as no more than a lustful indulgence, a piece of
gossip to be picked over and judged, as she would be, too. And tomorrow, no
doubt, there would be more of the same and she was powerless to prevent it.

Her mind scrambled around like a mouse in a trap. By the time
the story had run its course she would be branded a licentious whore and she
would have ruined her grandfather’s life as thoroughly as her mother had
done.

A maid passed with a tray of food. The rich smell of kidneys
and bacon made Margery’s stomach heave and she pressed a hand to her mouth to
hold back the nausea. She reached for the silver tray, scrabbling in sudden
panic to steal the papers from the table before Barnard appeared to take them to
her grandfather. It could only be a temporary delay. She knew that. Lord
Templemore would hear the gossip soon enough, as would the rest of the world.
But she did not want him to read it. The news had to come from her.

Her shaking fingers caught the edge of the tray and sent it
tumbling onto the floor with a resounding crash. Barnard appeared from the
breakfast room and behind him, Chessie and Jem. Margery saw with inexpressible
relief that Lady Wardeaux was not present.

“Margery!” Chessie had run forward to catch her arm. “Whatever
is the matter? You look dreadful—” Her voice faded away as Jem made a sudden
movement. Looking at him Margery saw he had picked up the
Mercury
from the floor. All the color had drained from his face. He
looked as bad as Margery felt.

“Moll?” he said incredulously. “Surely this is a pack of lies?”
His voice was hoarse.

Chessie grabbed the paper out of his hands. Her horrified gaze
came up to Margery’s face and in their silence lay Jem’s answer.

“The story is everywhere,” Margery said. She scarcely
recognized her own voice, it was so rough with anxiety. “Grandfather cannot
see—”

“Wardeaux,” Jem said viciously, crumpling the paper in his
fists. “I’ll kill him. God help me I will.”

Margery drew a breath but Chessie, with the greatest presence
of mind, grabbed Jem’s arm and did not let go. “Please do not,” she said calmly.
“Margery would not like it.”

Jem swung around on her. “Moll?” he said again.

“I love him,” Margery said. She fought the tears that filled
her eyes. “It’s not Henry’s fault,” she said. “He asked me to marry him and I
refused.”

Jem swore. “Why the hell—”

“Not now,” Chessie interposed with the same steely calm and Jem
stalked off, swearing under his breath.

Margery stumbled to her feet, grabbing the banister for
support. “I have to go to grandfather and tell him at once,” she said.

“No,” Chessie said. “You have to go to Henry. This malicious
tittle-tattle—” she tapped the papers disparagingly “—will already be all over
Town. The only way to counter it is with the announcement of your betrothal.
Then—” She squeezed Margery’s hands. “Then you talk to your grandfather.”

“Yes,” Margery said. Her mind felt fuzzy and unfocussed. “Yes,
of course. Thank you, Chessie.”

Chessie gave her a brief, fierce hug. Margery could see she was
very pale. “I’ll come with you,” she said.

“No,” Margery said. “I’ll go alone.” She wanted no one with her
when she went to Henry.

Chessie nodded but her eyes were still anxious. “If you are
sure.”

Once Margery was upstairs in her room, though, she found that
she did not actually know what to do. She sat down on the bed. She stood up
again. She walked to the window and looked outside. She did not seem to be able
to focus on anything, neither the busy street, nor the carriages rattling past,
nor the quiet green spaces of the park stretching away into the distance.
Everything looked strange, too brightly colored and too distant.