Forbidden (3 page)

But Margery had also been warned about handsome gentlemen, men
who preyed on naive country girls. Granny Mallon had not been wrong. London was
indeed a home to every vice beneath the sun, and Margery was fairly certain that
this man was intimately acquainted with quite a number of them. There was
something downright wicked about him.

“We are at cross-purposes,” she said. She had to force the
words out and her voice sounded husky and high-pitched at the same time. “I am
not a lightskirt, nor am I here to sample any of the pleasures of the
brothel—”

“Are you sure?”

Had he heard the note of wistfulness in her voice? Margery
gulped.

“Not even—” his mouth was dangerously close to hers “—one
kiss?”

“I’m a virgin!” Margery squeaked.

She saw him smile. “It takes more than one kiss to change that,
sweetheart.”

There was a long, long moment in which Margery could feel the
warmth of his body and hear the thunder of her pulse in her ears. She did want
to kiss him. Her stomach dropped with shock as she realized it. Fierce curiosity
licked through her, laced with wickedness. She could barely believe how she was
feeling. Things like this did not happen to her; she was far too sensible to
want to kiss strange gentlemen in brothels. Or so she had thought. Yet something
of the sumptuous, bawdy atmosphere seemed to have infected her like too much
wine in the blood, and here she was with this man who was temptation
personified....

His lips brushed hers, so light a touch she thought she had
imagined it. He captured her gasp of shock in another kiss, hot and sweet, that
took her completely by surprise. It was her first kiss. Occasionally, she had
wondered what it might feel like and now, all of a sudden, she knew. It felt as
though there were too many sensations for her to grasp. She was aware only of
the strength of his arms about her and the touch of his mouth on hers. It was
all sparks and flame, fiery desire and the ache of wanting. It was enough to set
her trembling in a way she had never felt before.

His lips very gently nudged hers apart, his tongue touched hers
and everything became dizzying and molten and shocking in a perfectly delicious
way. Now she knew why people liked kissing so much. She never wanted to stop.
Her body felt soft and yielding against the strength and hardness of his. The
pit of her stomach felt hollow with a peculiar longing. She was lost in a
dangerous new world and did not want to be found.

A door shut sharply, away to their right, and Margery jumped
and awoke, stepping back out of the circle of his arms. The sweetness fled and
she felt cold and shocked. She was no Cinderella. Nor was she the heroine of one
of the Gothic romances she read in secret. She was a servant girl and he was a
gentleman. She wondered what on earth she had been thinking. No, she knew what
she had been thinking. She had been thinking that kissing was the most
delightful occupation she had yet discovered. More accurately she had been
thinking that kissing this particular man was the most delicious thing
imaginable. But that did not make it the right thing to do.

“No.” She pressed her fingers to her lips in a brief, betraying
gesture and saw his gaze follow the movement and his eyes darken.

“No,” she said again. “This is quite wrong.”

“You!” Mrs. Tong was swooping toward Margery like a vengeful
harpy, scarves flying, bangles clashing. “I told you—” She broke off as the man
moved protectively close to Margery’s side. A smile of ludicrous brightness
transformed her sharp features. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “I did not
see you there. Was this girl importuning you? She does not work here.” Mrs. Tong
shot Margery another vicious vengeful look. “My girls are a great deal more
professional—”

“I don’t doubt it, ma’am.” The gentleman cut in, so smoothly it
did not sound like an interruption. “But you have the matter quite mistaken. I
was lost—” a hint of amusement in his tone “—and Miss Mallon was doing no more
than giving me directions, for which I am most grateful.”

“Since she is in the wrong place herself,” Mrs. Tong said
sharply, “it amazes me that she could direct anybody.” She softened her tone and
placed a hand on the man’s arm. “If you would care to come with me, sir, I can
help you with whatever you require. You.” She jerked her head at Margery.
“Out.”

“Goodnight, ma’am.” Margery did not spare Mrs. Tong more than a
brief nod of the head. She could feel the madam’s eyes boring into her. She knew
that Mrs. Tong suspected her of trying to tout for business. This would be the
last time she was permitted in the Temple of Venus.

“Sir…” She dropped the gentleman a curtsy. “I hope you find
your way.”

That provocative smile lit his eyes again and made her shiver.
“You sound like a Methodist preacher, Miss Mallon.”

Margery turned away. She did not want to see him accompany Mrs.
Tong into the brothel’s salon to be pounced upon by all those twittering
courtesans. The thought set up an odd sort of ache in her heart. It was foolish
to care, when all he had done was flirt with her. He will have forgotten her in
less than a day, or very likely in less than an hour. The door of the salon
opened, and light and music spilled out across the tiled floor of the hall. The
real business of the evening was about to start. Margery tucked the basket
beneath her arm and hurried through the door to the servants’ quarters, past the
kitchens where the steam was rising and the cooks were sweating to prepare
delicacies for Mrs. Tong’s guests. No one looked at her as she passed. Once
again she had become invisible.

Out in the street the evening was bright and starlit but
Margery’s feet suddenly felt like lead. It was no more than tiredness, she told
herself. It had nothing to do with the gentleman she had met in the brothel and
the contrary disappointment she felt because the encounter was over. She was
tired because she had risen early to launder Lady Grant’s silk underclothes, for
they were of such exquisite quality that they could not be trusted to anyone
else. She had worked a whole day and here she was working a long evening as
well, and once she was back in Bedford Street she would need to stay up into the
early hours to await Lady Grant’s return from the theater. Those people who
thought that lady’s maids had an easy life had absolutely no notion.

“Moll!”

Margery jumped and spun around. Her brother Jem was the only
one who called her Moll. She waited as his tall figure detached itself from the
shadows of the street corner and strolled forward.

“Thought it was you,” he said, as he caught up with her. He
grinned. “What the devil were you doing in a bawdy house, Moll?”

“Minding my own business,” Margery said sharply.

Jem lifted the cover on the basket and took out the last of the
honey cakes. Margery slapped his hand but he ate them anyway.

“They’ll spoil if they don’t get eaten,” Jem said. “They taste
good,” he added with his mouth full, scattering crumbs on the cobbles. “You
should have been a cook rather than a maid.”

“I don’t want to be a cook,” Margery said. “I only want to make
sweets and pastries.” Her ideal was to be a confectioner and sell her beautiful
cakes and sweetmeats for a living, but to set up in a shop was too expensive, so
in the meantime she earned use of the oven at Bedford Street by helping Lady
Grant’s cook with the more complicated French desserts and pastries.

“When I make a fortune,” Jem said, wiping the back of his hand
across his mouth, “I’ll set you up in your own shop. I promise.”

Margery laughed. “I’ll die waiting for that day,” she said
without rancor. She knew Jem spent every penny of his rather dubious earnings on
gambling, drinking and women.

Although she would never admit it, Jem was her favorite
brother. He had always been there for her, even though he was ten years her
senior. She knew she should not favor him over the others because Billy worked
hard to support his wife and growing family, and Jed, back in Berkshire, was a
pot man in a respectable hotel. Jem was a scamp who never seemed to do an honest
day’s work. But Jem was merry where Billy was serious. There was something about
him that made it impossible to be angry with him even when he was helping
himself to the rest of her stock. It was charm, Margery thought, as she fastened
the cloth down firmly over the remaining cakes. Jem could charm the birds from
the trees.

“I’ll walk you back,” Jem said.

“You’ll get no more cakes for your trouble,” Margery warned
him.

Jem laughed. “You’re a hard woman, Moll.”

“And if you weren’t my brother,” Margery said, “I wouldn’t give
you the time of day.”

Covent Garden piazza was full of evening crowds. An elegant
lady, passing on the arm of a very smug-looking elderly gentleman, turned her
head to stare at them. Margery sighed. It was always the same; ladies seemed
quite unable to resist Jem. His golden hair and blue eyes, his smile and air of
raffish charm worked on them like magic. They shed their clothes, their
inhibitions and their husbands to fill his bed.

Jem sketched the lady an exaggerated bow and grinned with
unabashed arrogance.

“For pity’s sake,” Margery said, pulling on her brother’s arm
to draw him away. “Why don’t you just charge by the hour?”

Jem laughed again. “Now there’s a thought.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Tong would give you a job,” Margery said. “She
likes pretty boys.”

“She’s not the only one,” Jem said complacently. He patted her
hand. “Come along then, Miss Mallon. You had better lend me some of your
respectability.”

Margery stopped dead again on the pavement, causing another
couple to cannon off them in a volley of exclamations and apologies.

“What the devil?” Jem enquired mildly.

Margery did not hear him. She was clutching the handle of the
basket a little more tightly as a frisson of disquiet rippled through her. She
was back again in the hallway of the brothel, feeling the stranger’s hands on
her, tasting his kiss and hearing his voice, smooth, mellow, charming the bawd
out of her anger.

Miss Mallon was doing no more than giving
me directions
....

For the first time, Margery realized that he had known her
name.

CHAPTER TWO

The Magician Reversed: Trickery and deception

M
ARGERY
WAS
SITTING
on the top step of the sweeping staircase in
Lady Grant’s house in Bedford Street. Next to her sat Betty, the second
housemaid. They were hidden by the curve of the stair and the soaring marble
pillar at the top. None of the guests thronging the hall below could see them,
but they had the most marvelous view. Tonight, Lord and Lady Grant were hosting
a dinner and a ball—one of the first major events of the new London Season—and
word was that the ton were begging, buying and bartering for tickets. Lady
Grant’s events were always frightfully fashionable. To fail to secure an
invitation was social death.

“Oh, Miss Mallon,” Betty said, her big brown eyes as huge as
dinner plates as she stared down on the scene below. “Look at the clothes! Look
at the jewels!” She dug Margery slyly in the ribs with her elbow. “Look at the
gentlemen! They are so handsome!”

“I’m studying the gowns, Betty, not the gentlemen,” Margery
reproved, “and so should you if you wish one day to be a lady’s maid.”

She made a quick pencil sketch of one of the gowns in her
notebook. Lady Grant was modish to a fault, a leader of fashion, and as her
personal maid it was Margery’s responsibility to keep her at the forefront of
style. She watched the ladies as they strolled out of the dining room, making
notes of the dresses and the jewels, the combination of colors, materials and
styles. She could spot the work of individual modistes and guess to within a
guinea or two the price of each gown. She was good at her job and on evenings
like this, she enjoyed it.

Margery paused in her sketches, chewing the end of her pencil.
Betty was correct. There were some very handsome men present tonight. She could
hardly pretend otherwise. For a moment she saw another face, a man with a wicked
smile and laughing dark eyes, and she remembered a kiss that was hot and tender
and promised so much. She felt a tingling warmth sweep through her, as though
her entire body was slowly catching alight.

Margery had thought about the gentleman from the brothel in the
week since they had met, and it was starting to annoy her that she could not
banish him from her mind. She had thought about his voice, smooth but with that
note of command, she had remembered the tilt of his head, the light in his eyes,
his smile. Oh, yes, she had remembered his smile. She had seen nothing else when
she went about her work, whether she was dressing Lady Grant for a drive in the
park, or re-dressing her for an evening at the theater or undressing her
afterward. She had been so distracted that she had overstarched the lace, mended
Lady Grant’s hem with a most uneven stitch and added the wrong color of feather
to her French bonnet. She had mislaid Lady Grant’s jewel box and had folded her
favorite pelisse away in the wrong clothes press.

Then there was the kiss. It had haunted her dreams as well as
her waking moments. She had lain in her narrow bed under the eaves and dreamed
of kissing him, and she had woken flushed and confused, her heart racing, her
body quivering with a delicious foretaste of passion. She was not quite sure
what it was she wanted, only that her body ached and trembled for him, and that
the more she tried to ignore it the more those illicit, demanding sensations
rose up in her to beg for fulfillment. She felt on edge and inflamed, angry with
herself that she could not conquer it. She was not a girl normally given to
fantasies and it was odd and disquieting to be dreaming of a man, especially one
she had met only once.

“How red your face is, Miss Mallon.” Betty was looking at her
curiously.

“It’s very hot in here,” Margery said. She pushed the memory of
the kiss from her mind and concentrated sharply on the crowd of guests now
thronging the hall. Lady Rothbury, Lady Grant’s sister, was looking particularly
stunning in a gown of
eau de nil
that shimmered with
gold thread. Her gaze moved on, over the welter of colors and styles, the flash
of diamonds and the flutter of fans. The air was scented now with a mixture of
hothouse flowers and perfume. The chatter of the guests rang in her ears.
Margery craned forward for a closer look at a tall, thin woman in a striped gown
that shrieked
Parisian design
. The movement caught
the eye of the gentleman by her side. He looked up and their eyes met.

All the air left Margery’s body in a rush. The candles spun in
the chandeliers like a wheel of light.

It was the gentleman from the brothel.

For one very long moment they stared at each other while the
sound beat in Margery’s ears, and the light dazzled her eyes and she could
neither move nor breathe. Then the gentleman inclined his head in the slightest
of bows, and a mocking smile curled his mouth, and Margery knew he had
recognized her. Movement returned to her body, and with it an intensification of
the hot blush that spread through her so fast she felt as though she were
burning up. The pencil slid from her fingers. The book tumbled off her lap as
she jumped to her feet, smoothing her skirts with clumsy hands. She drew back
behind the shelter of the pillar. Her heart was hammering underneath her bodice
and her palms felt damp.

Who was he? What was he doing here? Would
he give her away?

If he should mention to Lady Grant that one of her maids had
been in Mrs. Tong’s brothel, that would be the end of her. She would be thrown
out in the street without a reference and with no prospect of another
respectable job. Her heated body turned cold. She would be forced to beg her
brother Billy for work. She could not be a tavern wench or even a courtesan
because she was not pretty enough, and anyway, that was no way to think....

“Miss Mallon!”

Margery’s frightened thoughts were scuttling around and it was
a moment before she realized that she was being addressed. Mrs. Biddle, the
housekeeper, was standing a foot away, glaring at them. Betty gave a little gasp
and leapt up, pressing her hands to her reddening cheeks, horror in her eyes at
being caught. Margery retrieved her pencil and notebook, trying to regain a
little composure.

“Run along, Betty,” Mrs. Biddle said sharply. “You have work to
do.”

Betty scrambled a curtsy and scurried away.

“I’m sorry,” Margery said. “It was my fault. Betty would like
to be lady’s maid one day and I was teaching her a little about the job.”

“Lady Grant is asking for her silver gauze scarf,” Mrs. Biddle
said, her tone softening. She was always respectful of Margery’s position as a
senior servant. In other ways, she mothered her. “If you could take it down to
the parlor, Miss Mallon, Mr. Soames will deliver it to the ballroom for her
ladyship.”

“Of course, Mrs. Biddle,” Margery said. It would be unheard-of
for her to take the scarf to Lady Grant herself. No one but the butler and the
footmen could be seen at an evening function. The rest of the servants had to be
invisible.

She hurried to Lady Grant’s bedchamber and found the silver
gauze scarf that perfectly complemented Lady Grant’s evening gown. It was
impossibly sheer and silky, embroidered with tiny silver stars and crescent
moons. For a moment Margery raised it to her cheek, enjoying the soft caress of
the material against her skin. She had never owned so luxurious an item in her
entire life.

With an envious little sigh, she tucked the scarf under her arm
and went out along the corridor and down the servants’ stair. She hesitated
before pushing open the green baize door that separated the servants’ quarters
from the hall. She was not quite sure why. Her mysterious gentlemen, whoever he
was, would be in the ballroom by now with the skinny woman in the elegant gown.
There was no chance of meeting him.

Sure enough the hall was empty. She felt a slight pang of
regret.

Mr. Soames was waiting for her in the parlor. She handed over
the shawl and he took it as reverently as though it were a holy relic. Margery
tried not to laugh. Mr. Soames was always so serious about everything, but then
a butler’s job was a serious business, the very pinnacle of a male servant’s
ambition. He had told her that, if she was lucky and worked hard, she might
reach the top of her profession, too, and become a housekeeper one day.

Mr. Soames went out carrying his precious burden, closing the
door softly behind him. Margery waited for a moment in the warm, silent confines
of the parlor.

Margery had a hundred and one tasks waiting for her. Lady
Grant’s dressing room needed to be tidied. Her nightclothes needed to be laid
out for the moment, several hours ahead, when she finally retired from the ball.
In the meantime, there was a pile of mending to be done, invisible work that
required Margery’s keen eyes and nimble fingers. Her head ached to think of
peering over tiny stitches in the pale candlelight.

On impulse she released the catch on the parlor door instead
and stepped out onto the terrace. The mending could wait for a few more
minutes.

It was cool outside, so early in the year. The air was fresh,
the sky blurred with mist and scented with the smoke of all London’s chimneys.
Beneath that was the sweeter smell of flowers mingled with perfume and candle
wax. Margery drew in a deep breath. She could hear the music from the ballroom.
The orchestra was playing the opening bars of a country-dance. She could picture
the scene, the candlelight, the jewels, the vivid rainbow colors of the gowns.
It was a world so close and yet so far out of reach.

The music called to something long lost inside her. In her
memory, she could hear an orchestra playing and see an enormous ballroom
stretching as far as the eye could see. Light sparkled from huge mirrors. The
swish of silken gowns was all around her.

Her feet started to move to the music. She had not danced in
years. She usually sat out the servants’ balls that employers insisted on
holding each Christmas. She had no desire for her feet to be crushed by a clumsy
coachman who fancied himself a dancer.

She twirled along the terrace, feeling lighter than air. It was
ridiculous; she smiled to herself as she imagined quite how ridiculous she must
look. It was also the sort of thing she never did. She was too serious, too
sensible, to indulge in such a frivolous activity as dancing alone on a misty
moonlit terrace.

The music changed, slid into a waltz, and Margery spun up
against a very hard, masculine chest. Arms closed about her, steadying her. Her
palms flattened against the smooth material of a particularly expensive and
well-made evening jacket. Her legs pressed against a pair of very hard,
masculine thighs encased in particularly well-made and expensive trousers.
Margery noticed these things and told herself it was because she was a lady’s
maid and trained to assess fashion, male or female, at a glance and a touch.

“Dance with me,” her dark gentleman said. He was smiling at her
in exactly the way he had smiled in the hall of the brothel before he kissed
her, that wicked, provocative smile. “You were meant to dance with me.”

Margery faltered. He was holding her in the way a man held his
partner in the waltz, but suddenly she wanted to twist out of his grip and run
away. She felt breathless and trapped and excited all at once.

“I cannot waltz,” she protested. It was a modern dance, new and
more than a little scandalous. At least, it was the way that he was holding her.
She could feel the heat of his body and smell his lime cologne. It made her head
spin, which was a curious sensation.

Once she had drunk too much ale at the fair. This was similar,
but a great deal more pleasant and a great deal more stimulating. The brush of
his thigh against hers made her skin tingle, even through the ugly black wool of
her gown. Oddly, it also made her feel very aware of the latent power in him, a
strength and masculinity kept banked down under absolute control.

“You waltz beautifully,” he said. They were already moving,
catching the beat of the music. “Where did you learn to dance like this?” His
breath feathered across Margery’s cheek, raising delicious shivers deep within
her.

“I learned to dance as a child,” Margery said. She frowned,
reaching for the memories. It seemed ridiculous to think that in the
rough-and-tumble of the Mallon household she had learned something as refined as
dancing. She could not place the memory precisely. Yet she knew it had happened.
Dancing was instinctive to her.

“This is very improper,” she said uncertainly.

“And completely delightful,” he said.

“You should be in the ballroom.”

“I prefer to be here with you.”

It was, indeed, delightful. Margery was forced to agree. His
body was pressed against hers at breast, hip and thigh. His hand rested low in
the small of her back in a gesture that felt astonishingly intimate. Heat flared
through her, the sort of heat one simply should not be feeling on a cool April
evening.

“Good gracious,” she said involuntarily. “Is this not illegal
in public?”

She saw amusement glint in his eyes. “On the contrary,” he
said. “It is positively encouraged.”

He drew her closer. His cheek grazed hers. His scent filled her
senses. The warmth of his hand seared her back through the woolen gown and the
cotton chemise beneath. Another shiver chased over her skin at the thought of
his hands on her. She felt feverish, aware of every little sensation that racked
her body. She felt as voluptuous as the nudes she had seen in the paintings in
great houses, languid and heavy with wanting, her body as open and ripe as a
fruit begging to be plucked and devoured.

It was shocking, it was delicious and it was wanton. She was
tumbling down a helter-skelter of forbidden pleasure.

“You make me want to be—” She just managed to stop herself
before the scandalous words came tumbling out.