Forbidden (5 page)

Which was why he had to find out the truth about Margery’s
identity as swiftly as possible.

Henry forced himself to relax. “Very well, my lord,” he said
easily. “It will be as you wish.” He checked the gilt clock on the mantel. He
could be back in London before nightfall if he rode hard.

He would seek out Margery Mallon, but not to bring her directly
to Templemore. He would learn as much as he could about her in this one night
and then he would decide if she was truly Lady Marguerite de Saint-Pierre,
heiress to the Templemore title and a huge fortune. He felt a pang of guilt at
his deception but quashed it as quickly as he had dismissed the flare of lust.
He could not afford either emotion. The future of Templemore was too
important.

The earl sat back against the embroidered cushions, closing his
eyes, suddenly exhausted. His skin was stretched thin across his high
cheekbones. He groped for the wine and drank a greedy mouthful, sitting back
with a sigh.

Henry stood abruptly, leaving his glass of wine untouched.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I will go and fulfill your
commission at once.”

“You’re a good boy, Henry.” The earl had opened his eyes again.
They were weary, shadowed by all the unhappiness he had experienced. “I will see
that you do not lose out when my granddaughter inherits.”

Henry felt a violent wave of antipathy. “I want nothing from
you, sir. I have my own estate and my engineering projects—”

The earl dismissed them with a lordly wave. “Such matters are
not work for a gentleman.”

“They are work for a penniless gentleman,” Henry corrected.

The earl laughed, that dry rattle again. “Marry an heiress and
all your difficulties will be solved. Lady Antonia Gristwood—”

“Will not wish to throw herself away on me, my lord,” Henry
said matter-of-factly.

“Perhaps a cit’s daughter would not be so choosy. You still
have the title.”

How flattering
. But it did rather
sum up Henry’s prospects now. “I’ve no desire to wed, sir,” Henry said. The
heiresses would melt away swiftly enough when they heard of his reversal of
fortune. In their own way they were as fickle as his mistress.

The earl seemed not to have heard. His chin had sunk to his
chest and he looked as though he was lost in thought. Henry wondered whether his
godfather was still lost in the past. The earl, Henry thought, had a remarkable
talent for alienating members of his family: first his wife, whom he had married
for her money and betrayed before the ink was dry on the marriage lines, then
his daughter, then his godson. He hoped to high heaven that if Margery Mallon
was indeed the earl’s granddaughter he would not devastate her life, as
well.

He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, bowed stiffly to
the earl and went out. The hall was empty although the air trembled and the door
of the Red Saloon was still swinging closed, a sure sign that Lady Wardeaux had
indeed been eavesdropping. Henry did not want to have to confront his mother and
her ruined hopes yet again.

Nor did he wish to see Lord Templemore’s younger sister, Lady
Emily, endlessly reading the tarot cards and reassuring him that his fortunes
would turn again.

They would turn because Henry would make them turn.

He had grown up at Templemore. He had been told from childhood
that he would inherit the title and land and that he had to learn to be a good
master. He had done more than that. He had taken the estate to his heart and he
loved every last brick and blade of grass there. It would hurt to give them up,
but he had suffered reversals in his life before. He had overcome them all.

The tap of his boots echoed on the black marble floor of the
hall. He paused by the door of the library to study the John Hoppner portrait of
four-year-old Marguerite Catherine Rose Saint-Pierre, painted just before she
had vanished from her grandfather’s life.

The window in the dome far above his head scattered light like
jewels on the tiles of the floor and illuminated the painting with a soft glow.
Marguerite had been a pretty child, small, delicate, with golden-brown hair. She
gazed solemnly out at him from her gilt frame, watching him with Margery
Mallon’s clear gray eyes.

The earl had summoned him with such haste that he had not had
time to change out of his riding clothes. He strode out to the stable, calling
for a fresh horse to take him back to London.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Knight of Swords: A tall dark-haired man with a great deal of
charm and wit

I
T
WAS
SEVEN
O
’
CLOCK
on a beautiful spring evening.
Warmth still shimmered in the air, and the sky over London was turning a deep
indigo-blue. The sun was dipping behind the elegant facades of the houses in
Bedford Street and the shadows lengthened among the trees in the square.

It was Margery’s evening off. She came up the area steps, tying
her bonnet beneath her chin as she walked. She stopped dead when she found the
gentleman she had danced with at the ball the previous night loitering at the
top. He gave every appearance of waiting for her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone deliberately
sharp. She had come down to earth since her encounter with him and had been
berating herself for being a silly little fool whose head was stuffed with
romantic nonsense. She was a lady’s maid, not Cinderella.

Even so, her heart tripped a beat, because his smile—the
wicked
smile that curled his firm mouth and slipped
into his dark eyes—was so much more potent in real life than it had been in her
dreams and memories.

“Good evening to you, too,” he said. “Are you pleased to see
me?”

“Of course not,” Margery said. She put as much disdain into her
tone as she could muster, knowing even as she did so that she was betrayed by
the shaking of her fingers on the ribbons of her bonnet and the hot color that
burned in her cheeks.

Damnation. Surely she had learned enough over the years to know
how to deal with a rake. She had acted as maid to any number of scandalous women
who had perfected the art of flirtation. She should meet this insolent
gentleman’s arrogance with a pert confidence of her own. Yet she could not. She
was tongue-tied.

She started to walk. “Why would I be pleased to see you?” she
asked over her shoulder. “I barely know you.”

“Henry Ward, at your service.” He sketched a bow. It had an
edge of mockery. “Now you know me.”

“I know your name,” Margery corrected. “I have no ambition to
learn more.”

He laughed. It was a laugh that said he knew she was lying. He
was right, of course, though she was damned if she was going to admit it. She
quickened her pace. He matched it with minimum effort.

“Wait,” he said. “I’d like to speak with you.” He hesitated.
“Please.”

It was the
please
that stopped her.
She was not accustomed to courtesy from the aristocracy but by the time she had
realized her mistake she was standing still and he was holding her hand. She had
no idea how either of these things had occurred, only that his charm was clearly
very dangerous to her.

“Miss Mallon—”

Margery snatched her hand back. “That reminds me. When we met
in the brothel you addressed me as Miss Mallon. How did you know my name?”

She saw a flash of expression in his eyes that she could not
read. Then it was gone; he shrugged lightly.

“I forget,” he said. “Perhaps Mrs. Tong mentioned your
name.”

Margery shook her head. She knew that was not true. “No,” she
said, refusing to be deflected. “She did not.”

Henry looked at her. His gaze was clear and open, yet she
sensed something hidden. Instinct warned her that there was something he was not
telling her.

“Then I do not know,” he said. “Someone must have told me your
name. The brothel servants, perhaps, or one of the girls…”

Margery turned a shoulder and started walking again. A sharp
pain had lodged itself in her chest, like a combination of indigestion and
disappointment. She did not want to think about Henry spending time with Mrs.
Tong’s girls, taking his pleasure with them, lying with one of them or perhaps
more than one.

The images jostled in her head, bright, vivid, intolerably
lustful and licentious. Jealousy, sudden and vicious, scored her with deep
claws. It disturbed her because she had no right to feel it. She did not want to
feel it. She had no claim on him. She might as well be jealous of the horribly
disdainful lady in the striped gown, the one who had been clinging to Henry’s
arm at the ball.

She paused. Now she thought about it, she
was
jealous of the snobbish aristocrat in the striped gown.

“I didn’t stay at the brothel.” He put one hand on her sleeve.
She stopped again. “There is no need to be jealous,” he said softly.

Margery shook him off. “Why would I be jealous?” She did not
want him reading her mind. It was too disconcerting.

“You are jealous because you like me.” He smiled at her. It was
arrogant. It was irresistible. Something heated and unfurled within her like a
flower opening in the sun.

“I like you, too,” he said gently. “I like you very much.”

He touched her cheek and Margery could not help herself; she
felt her whole body sweeten and sing at his words. It was impossible for her to
withstand his charm. Her defenses felt like straw in the wind.

“Why did you come to find me?” She could hear that her tone had
lost its sharpness.

“I wanted to thank you for returning the cravat pin,” Henry
said. “I hope it did not cause any difficulties for you with Lady Grant. I would
not have wanted you to get into trouble.”

Margery smiled. His concern for her made her feel warm and
cherished. It was a new sensation. Jem was a protective brother but he did not
make her feel as special as she did now.

“Thank you,” she said. “That is kind of you.” She smiled.
“There was no difficulty. Lady Grant was only grateful that your lost property
had been found. She is the best of employers. All the ladies I have worked for
have been so kind—”

She stopped, aware of the smile in Henry’s eyes, wondering why
she was telling him so much. She was not usually so open. Disquiet stirred in
her as she realized the extent of her danger. Henry was too charming and too
easy to talk to, and she was too inexperienced to deal with him. She should run
now, while she still had the chance.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” she said quickly, “and for
not giving me away to Lady Grant.”

Henry shook his head. “I’d never do that.” There was warmth and
sincerity in his tone. Margery’s pulse fluttered.

“You could have sent a note,” she said. “There was no need—”
She stopped abruptly as Henry took her hand again. Her breath caught in her
throat. Her heart seemed to skip a beat.

“No need to see you again?” His thumb brushed her gloved palm
and she shivered. She felt hot and melting, trembling on the edge of something
sweet and dangerous. “But perhaps,” he said, “I am here by choice. Perhaps I am
here because I wanted to see you.”

Margery closed her eyes against the seduction of his words. She
wondered if she had run mad. Maybe there would be a full moon tonight to account
for her foolishness. For she knew she was being very, very foolish. There
was
nothing more imprudent than a maidservant
who succumbed to wicked temptation and a rake’s charm.

Her sensible soul told her to dismiss him and go straight home
again.

Her wicked side, the part of her she had not even known existed
until Henry had kissed her, told her that this was just a small adventure and it
could do no harm.

She took the arm that he offered and they started to walk
again, more slowly this time, her hand tucked confidingly into the crook of his
elbow. She had thought it would feel like walking with Jem or another of her
brothers. She could not have been more wrong. Even through the barrier of her
glove, she could feel the hardness of muscle beneath his sleeve. The sensation
distracted her; she realized that Henry had asked her a question and she had
failed to answer.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked where we were going.” Henry sounded amused, as though
he had guessed the cause of her disturbance. She blushed to imagine that he knew
the effect he had on her.

“
I
am going for a walk,” Margery
said. “I like to get some fresh air and see the people passing by.” She
hesitated and cast a shy glance at him from beneath her lashes. “I suppose you
may accompany me if you wish.”

Henry slanted a smile down at her and her wayward heart did
another little skip. “That,” he said, “would be entirely delightful. Do you go
walking often?”

“As often as I have an evening free and good weather,” Margery
said.

“Alone?”

“Of course I go alone,” Margery said. “I am not going to sit
inside on a beautiful evening because I lack a suitable escort.”

His lips twitched. “How very practical of you,” he murmured. “I
hope that you are not troubled by importunate men when you are out alone.”

Margery looked at him. “Only tonight,” she said dryly.

His smile was rueful. “Touché.”

“It is not a problem because I do nothing to draw attention to
myself,” Margery said. “A maidservant is nothing more than a fool if she does.
Besides—” She stopped on the edge of further confession. It seemed fatally easy
to confide in Mr. Henry Ward.

Henry looked down at her. “What is it?”

Margery blushed. “Oh, it is nothing.”

“You were going to say that no one notices you,” Henry said.
“But I do. I see you.”

They had stopped walking. “How did you know?” she demanded.
“How did you know I was going to say that?”

Henry smiled. He put his fingers beneath her chin and tilted
her face up to his. Margery met his eyes and felt fear as well as excitement
shimmer down her spine. There was something in his expression that was bright
and hot and searing; it matched the expression he had worn that night in the
brothel. She shivered.

“You are always trying to hide,” Henry said quietly, “but you
cannot hide from me. I noticed you from the very first.”

Margery tried, she really tried this time, not to let his words
go to her head. But it was hopeless. She was already half seduced. She felt her
lips form a tiny “oh” sound that was a mixture of disbelief and pure longing.
She felt her stomach clench with the echo of that desire. She saw Henry’s gaze
slide along the curve of her cheek to her mouth. He brushed his thumb over the
line of her jaw and her heart jumped almost out of her chest as she heard
herself give a little gasp.

Are you mad, my girl? The man is a rake.
You will be in his bed before you can say
strumpet
.

Once more, Granny Mallon’s acerbic words slid into Margery’s
mind, wrenching her back to reality. It was impossible to lose her head over a
handsome gentleman with Granny Mallon metaphorically sitting on her shoulder all
the time, the voice of her virtue.

“I was not fishing for compliments,” she said. “And I am not
looking for carte blanche, Mr. Ward.”

He stepped back, his hand falling slowly to his side. There was
rueful amusement in his eyes. “I beg your pardon. I never imagined that you
were, Miss Mallon, and I am sorry if I offended you.” He smiled at her and
Margery felt her tension ease. Soon, she knew, they would have to turn back to
Bedford Street. Darkness was falling and it would be beyond foolish for her to
stay out with him at night. Her small adventure would end very soon.

Henry offered her his arm again and after a moment they resumed
their walk, silently now as the sun sank behind the roofs of the town houses and
the sunset turned red and gold.

There was a flower seller on the street corner with a cart that
was empty but for a few bunches of delicate pink rosebuds. Margery looked at
them and her heart ached. She loved flowers, from the huge hothouse arrangements
that overflowed in Lady Grant’s ballroom to the tiny wild harebells that grew in
profusion on the chalk lands where she had grown up.

Perhaps her longing was in her eyes, because Henry had turned
to the flower girl. “I’d like to buy the rest of your stock, please,” he said,
and the girl’s tired face lifted as she handed him the bouquets and took his
coins. He presented them to Margery who buried her nose in the sweet-scented
sprays.

“How lovely,” she said. She was trying to guard her heart
against him but it was no good. She was so touched and happy. “No one has ever
bought me flowers before.”

Henry smiled at her. “It is my pleasure.”

“My mother said I was named after two flowers,” Margery said.
She was inhaling the scent of the roses with her eyes closed. When she opened
them she saw that Henry was watching her.

“Marguerite and Rose,” she said. “Those are my names.”

She saw some expression cloud Henry’s eyes. Doubt clutched at
her. Something was wrong but she had no idea what it was.

“It’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it,” she said uncertainly.

“Is that why you changed it to Margery?” Henry said.

“It seemed more practical,” Margery said. “For a lady’s
maid.”

Henry nodded and smiled at her. “I would like to take you for
supper,” he said. He took her hand. “Please. Allow me.”

Margery hesitated, hanging back, wary of him again. A walk in
the evening was one thing, supper with its suggestion of intimacy and seduction,
quite another.

“Why would you do that?” she asked cautiously.

“Because you look as though you are hungry,” Henry said.

Margery could not help her peal of laughter. “That was not what
I meant.”

“I know,” Henry said. He was laughing, too. “But you do.”

“I had no dinner today.” Margery was surprised to realize it.
“Lady Grant is attending a ball tonight so I dressed her and then came straight
out.”

“Then you need to eat,” Henry said. He gave her hand a little
tug. Still, she hesitated.

It can do no harm
....

Not Granny Mallon’s voice this time, but the voice of her own
desires, dangerously persuasive.

She felt her heart sing with pleasure and anticipation that the
evening was not to end yet and that she would always have something sweet to
remember in the future.