inner that evening was a sumptuous affair served à la russe and laden with oysters, trout, pheasant, aspics, hothouse fruits, fresh cream, and endless stores of wine. In short, Nell had concocted yet another indulgent delight featuring anything a man could possibly want. As the night wore on, the company grew steadily louder, the women laughing with increasing gaiety, the men chortling and winking as they sized up their next conquests. Simon wished he could enjoy the hedonistic display, but his mind was too damn preoccupied by thoughts of her.
He still didn’t want to think of her by her given name, and certainly not by the diminutive she preferred, for that would render his folly far more real. He took a gulp of his wine, then another. She was seated opposite him. Yet another instance of Nell’s immoral machinations.
He glanced up from his plate, his gaze unerringly going to his wife who was dressed to perfection in a completely black evening gown that complemented the fieriness of her hair. She was doing her best to flirt with the man seated to her right, who he was convinced was the lecherous Duke of Dunsmere. He’d recognize the bastard anywhere. Damn the man, whose reputation as a rakehell of the first stare preceded him. Simon found himself scowling at the pair as they laughed over some nonsense or other.
Dunsmere was not fit company for any lady at all, and certainly not for the Marchioness of Sandhurst. Why, she had a reputation to uphold, blast her. She’d better not take the man on as a lover. She was on a mission to cuckold him, after all. What was it she’d said? There are any number of other gentlemen who would suit. An uncomfortable sensation pierced his gut, and it felt remarkably like jealousy.
Jealousy?
Absurd. He had bedded his wife and enjoyed it. Nothing more. What did he care if she took up with Dunsmere next, as long as she did so quietly? He didn’t, he told himself firmly. He had no need for heirs from her. If she cuckolded him, it hardly mattered. His pride had overruled him earlier, but now his head was much cooler. He was relieved that she was showering the louse with such attention, truly he was, for that released him from his burden. He was free to find another woman and lose himself in her.
His wife laughed, the sound throaty and alluring, and his cock was instantly hard. Damn, damn, and damn again. He was lying to himself. His patience fled him. “Do share the reason for your levity,” he bit out rather loudly. The pair turned matching shocked gazes to him. He fought down a flush, aware he was behaving boorishly.
“Pardon me?” His wife’s violet eyes were upon him, pinning him to his seat as if he were a preserved insect on display.
He resisted the urge to fidget, feeling a bit like a lad being reprimanded by a dragon governess. “I merely inquired as to the source of your merriment.”
The duke raised his glass in a mock salute, seemingly laughing at him. “You, old boy.”
The hell he had. Simon clenched the stem of his wine goblet with so much force he wouldn’t be at all surprised if it snapped. “I’m sure I’ve mistaken you.”
“No.” The blackleg took a jovial sip of his wine, grinning. “I don’t think you have. I very clearly said just now that we were laughing at you.”
Simon didn’t think twice. He stood. Yes, pistols at dawn was long since outlawed, but fists certainly hadn’t been. He was going to bloody well beat the blighter to a pulp. Break his hawkish nose. Split open his sneering lip.
“Meet me outside,” he demanded. “Now.”
His nemesis grinned even more, appearing to contemplate his demand. “No,” he drawled at last, sounding as if he hadn’t a care. “Don’t think I shall, old boy. Do sit back down and smooth your ruffled feathers.”
He shook his head slowly. By damn, the last two days had put him through the paces. All he had wanted was a bit of peace and companionship, a way to distract himself from Eleanor. Instead, he had discovered the most beguiling passion of his life with a woman he had spent the last year resenting. And now this scoundrel dared to laugh in his face before everyone, suggesting he had feathers as if he were some sort of old rooster strutting in the barnyard. It was the outside of enough.
“I won’t,” he snarled. “Be a gentleman and meet me outside.”
“That’s the odd thing.” The bastard had the gall to wink beneath his mask. “I’m not a gentleman. Anyone who knows me can tell you that. Indeed, I pride myself on my lack of gentlemanly conduct.”
“Oh blessed angels’ sake.” Nell popped up from her seat at the head of the table, twin patches of pink on her cheeks. She appeared to be in fine dudgeon. “I’ll not have all this ridiculous masculine posturing ruining my dinner. Sit down at once, Simon.”
He gave her a warning stare. There could be an infinite number of Simons in the world, but she’d better not reveal his full name. Good God, they’d all be better off if his wife never knew the identity of the man who had taken her innocence.
But he still wasn’t about to allow Dunsmere to insult him before the entire company without reparation. “I’ve been gravely insulted,” he said at last.
“What tripe. You’ve been on the arse-end of a joke.” The duke tossed back the remnants of his wine and gestured for a footman to refill it. “Nothing more. This is meant to be a lighthearted party, is it not, Lady Needham? In truth, we were speaking of my lovely companion’s misplaced attempt at ice skating back when she lived in the barren wasteland of New Jersey. Were we not, my dear?”
Her eyes were still fixed to him. He couldn’t tell if he read horror or dismay or disgust or a combination of all three in her gaze. “New York,” she corrected quietly. “And yes, we were. I’m sorry, sir, for the misunderstanding.”
He’d been the arse-end of Dunsmere’s little sally all right, and now he felt like an arse. He sat because there was nothing else to do short of marching around the table and punching the duke in his obnoxious, laughing countenance. Surely the latter had its fair share of appeal, but there was no need to further make a fool of himself.
“Lovely, my lord, Your Grace. I’m relieved it was all in good fun.” Nell’s voice was wry. “Now do calm yourself, Sandhurst. I daresay nothing untoward was meant.”
Sandhurst.
Bloody, bloody hell. She’d slipped and spoken his name. He tensed, his gaze swinging back to his wife. Her ivory skin had taken on a sudden waxy pallor. She stared at him with such intensity he feared she penetrated the contents of his black soul. And he had no doubt she didn’t like what she saw.
She knew. Those violet orbs darkened to a violent, stormy blue. The lady was not pleased. Indeed, he’d never seen a woman look more irate than she did in that moment. As quickly as her face had paled, her cheeks went crimson, her mouth compressing into a stern frown. If she’d been equipped with a weapon, she likely would have hurled it at his head with every intention of maiming him.
“Christ.” The die was cast. There was only one Sandhurst. He couldn’t prevaricate his way out of this one. He told himself it shouldn’t matter, that he didn’t plan to see her again after this country house party anyway. He loathed having been saddled with a wife he neither wanted nor loved. Certainly, he detested the reminder that he’d been forced to sell his title to her papa or face financial ruin.
But as she stood, pressing a hand to her midriff as if she were about to be ill, he a knifelike stab of compassion hit him. They had made love and that simple act had forever altered the way he saw her, whether or not he liked it. He’d never intended to consummate their marriage. He’d thought that if he couldn’t bear a child with Eleanor, he had no need for one, hadn’t cared if his title passed to a distant relative from the gutters. But now, he had done the very thing he’d sworn to never do, and in so doing, he had hurt her. Unintentionally, but he had hurt her all the same.
She offered a mumbled apology to Nell and, her other hand pressed to her mouth, she fled from the dining hall before the shocked and tittering onlookers. He watched the swirl of her black silk train disappear around a corner, wondering if he ought to follow her. Did he owe her an explanation? He told himself that he did not, that she was just as guilty as he. After all, she had flirted wickedly and invited him to her chamber, had declared her intention of taking a lover and making him a cuckold. If she had not, he would have found someone else, someone very much not his wife, and enjoyed her charms instead.
Only it wouldn’t have been the same. She had found her way past the walls he’d built between them, sneaking over the barrier as if she were a thief. For some reason, her name worked its way into his mind at that moment, the name she had asked him to call her on their wedding night just before he’d left her. The name he’d refused to even think.
Maggie.
He looked to Nell, who appeared as stricken as he felt. “You must go after her, Simon,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”
“But you did, damn you.” His voice was more cutting than he’d intended but he didn’t care. “You did, and now I shall have to bear the consequences.”
He stood, knowing Nell was right. He had to at least follow Maggie. Perhaps he did owe her that much. He wasn’t completely made of stone. He had a heart, but it had been taken by another. Christ, he was confused. His life was falling apart as if it were a poorly constructed shirt, gaping at the seams. Damn it, he had to try to put an end to the madness.
Maggie hurried through the halls for the sanctity of her chamber, running as fast as the heels of her evening slippers would allow. Her surroundings were a blur as her mind raced to comprehend the devastating truth that Lady Needham had unwittingly divulged. The man who had shown her the pleasures hidden within her body, who had kissed her and made love to her with a passion she hadn’t dreamt existed, was the man she was trying to escape. He was the husband who had not spoken to her in over a year, the aloof but handsome stranger who had boldly proclaimed his love for another woman and refused to consummate their marriage. The man who had been living in sin with another man’s wife.
Sandhurst.
Her husband. Why hadn’t she known? In the wake of her discovery, everything began to make sense. Nell had known, she realized, recalling her hostess’s reaction when she’d introduced herself as Lady Sandhurst. You don’t know, she’d said.
Of course she had not, foolish woman that she was. She had been too blinded by a handsome smile and a knowing touch and the promise of her plan coming to fruition to see what everyone else had already known. Including Sandhurst. His words replayed in her mind as she continued her determined retreat.
You.
There are things at work here that you don’t understand.
Perhaps I know your husband, madam.
She felt ill as the full ramifications hit her. Blessedly, she reached her chamber door and threw herself inside, slamming it at her back. He had duped her, lied to her, seduced her. But why? What could he have possibly had to gain? If he had wanted to consummate their marriage at last, he could have done so at any time. He needn’t have disguised himself and trifled with her. It made no sense.
With a cry of pure rage, she whipped her silly mask away from her face. Some good it had done her. This was to have been her one chance for escape from the loneliness of her marriage. And he had ruined this as well as he had ruined the last year. For one miraculous day, she’d been given hope again, and now he had taken it all away. Betrayal sliced through her.
She pulled off her earrings and slammed them down on the dressing table, then undid her necklace before going to her hair. While she knew she ought to wait for her lady’s maid’s assistance, she was overcome by the need to escape from the shams of elegance. She wanted to shout and beat her fists. Instead, she systematically plucked pins from her dramatic coiffure. A fat curl fell, brushing her shoulders.
Suddenly, her door swept open.
She spun, heart pounding with disbelief, to find Sandhurst striding inside as if he belonged there. He slammed the door behind him, eliciting a wince from her. She tried not to notice what a handsome figure he cut in his evening tails, tall and debonair and lean. Drat him, she was drawn to him as ever, the longing she felt for him elemental and undeniable even as she wanted to rush at him and pummel his broad chest.
“Maggie,” he began in that familiar velvety drawl of his, “this can all be explained.”
She crossed her arms in a show of defiance and pinned him with a glare. “Do not call me that. Only my family and friends are permitted to refer to me thusly.”
He stopped halfway across the room, his eyes searching hers. “I’m sorry.”
She let loose a bitter laugh. “Sorry for what? Sorry that you were caught out? Sorry that you lied to me? Sorry that you pretended to be someone other than the husband who has abandoned me for the past year?”
He flinched. “I suppose I deserve your scorn.”
“You suppose?” The man’s temerity knew no bounds. “What you actually deserve is a punch directly to your supercilious face, not scorn. You should consider yourself fortunate that I am not a violent woman.”
“I’m sure I deserve all that and far worse. But would you care to listen to me, or are you going to continue your aimless railing against me?”
“I hate you.” She couldn’t contain herself though she knew she was acting more as if she were a young girl in short skirts rather than a woman grown. “You may as well remove your mask. I know exactly who you are, much to my shame.”
He tore it away, tossing it to the floor. For a moment, her breath stopped, for she had forgotten how gorgeous he was. He was truly a fine-looking man, with his dark hair, rigid jaw, aristocratic nose, and sculpted lips. But his looks hid a cold and devious soul.
“I didn’t know it was you.” He effectively ruined the moment. “You were wearing a bloody mask.”
She wasn’t moved by his protestations of innocence. “I don’t believe you.”
“We haven’t seen each other in some time, Maggie.” He stalked toward her, cutting the distance between them in half. “You didn’t recognize me, either. You were only too keen to reveal your intentions of cuckolding me.”
“I told you not to call me that.” She was determined to hold her ground. “If by ‘some time’, you mean an entire year, then you’re correct. Of course I didn’t recognize you. I scarcely even recalled what you look like. And don’t dare to be outraged by my actions, sir, as it would make you the worst sort of hypocrite. You obviously knew who I was. I could tell by your reaction at dinner. I’m not a complete fool.”
“I did know, but I only discovered who you were this morning.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it askew, and sighed. “I removed your mask while you were sleeping.”
She contemplated what he’d said, and she had to admit it did make sense. His reaction to her during charades had been vastly different from the passionate lover of the evening before. He’d discovered who she was and he had not wanted her any longer, at least not in the same way as before. Yes, it made devastating, awful sense.
She stared, trying not to notice how near he stood to her or that she could smell his masculine scent of soap and musk. “Why have you come here, Sandhurst?”
“To Lady Needham’s?” He appeared uncomfortable. “I should think for the same reasons as you.”
“No.” She shook her head, her anger deflating inside her like a hot air balloon going limp. “Why have you come to my chamber?”
“I don’t know.” An underlying tone of honesty edged his voice.
She turned away from him, the sight of him hurting her too much. “You may go. I shall return to the townhouse in London at first light.” She preferred London to the country estate, always would, and did not care for the fashionable custom of leaving the city at summer’s end. “But make no mistake that I want a divorce, Sandhurst. I’ll create the worst scandal you’ve ever known if you don’t willingly grant it to me.”
He followed her, catching her bare upper arm. His touch was a hot brand on her skin. He spun her back to face him. “I never intended to hurt you.”
“Your intentions are a moot point, for you already have hurt me. But this will be the very last time.” And she had never meant words she’d spoken more than those. She would avoid him at every opportunity. Good heavens, if she needed to, she would return to New York. The life she’d been living in England held nothing for her save disappointment and solitude.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, still holding her to him. “There will be no divorce, Maggie. The scandal would be greater than any misdeed you could commit by bedding some worthless rakehell like Dunsmere.”
“I’ll bed him and a dozen others,” she swore. “I’ll bed footmen. I’ll bed your prince. I’ll do anything to be set free.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, damn you.” His expression was harsh and bleak, somehow condemning and compelling all at once. “There will be no divorce.”
She thought of what he’d told her the night before when he hadn’t known who he was plying his charms upon. His heart had been broken by a very old and dear friend, he’d said. Lady Billingsley. The reminder cooled her blood. He’d never cared for Maggie. It had only ever been his mistress he’d wanted in his life, and he’d made that fact abundantly clear. She had given up the man she loved to wed him, and she’d been left with nothing.
“Go back to your Lady Billingsley.” She dug the heels of her palms into his shoulders, trying to free herself. “I’m sure that whatever heartbreak you’ve suffered at her hands can be mended.”
“Lady Billingsley has returned to her husband,” he told her, his voice rough.
“It was her decision,” she guessed, understanding him just a little. Perhaps he wasn’t an unfeeling cad, for it appeared as if he had been hurt by the woman’s defection. But he was still a horrid, amoral husband, and she must not soften toward him.
He inclined his head, his expression impassive. “The decision was not mine.”
Precisely as she’d thought. He would never have ended his affair. Lady Billingsley had left him, and instead of returning home to his wife, he had gone in search of another woman to bed. How dare he?
“I’m afraid you’ll have to find another woman to serve as your whore,” she said coldly. “I’ll not be her replacement.”
“I’m not seeking a replacement, damn you.” His eyes glittered into hers. He pulled her into his solid frame.
She kept her hands between them, a bracing wedge. “Then why are you here?” she asked him again, sensing that the undercurrent between them had once again snaked into dangerous territory. She was pushing him and she knew it, but she wanted to shake him in the way he had her. She wanted to know why, after all he had done to her, he still made her feel quivery inside.
“Because I can’t seem to stay away.”
The acknowledgment sounded torn from him. She stilled, studying his expression for any hint of subterfuge and finding none. He didn’t want to feel anything for her, that much was apparent. But their night together had meant something to him. She could see it reflected in his gaze and knew he saw the same in hers. She couldn’t help herself. Such an odd dichotomy, to have developed feelings for a lover only to discover that lover was a loathed spouse. Little wonder she felt as if she were an amnesiac slowly relearning the pieces of her life that she’d forgotten.
Everything was new, different. Nothing was as it seemed, not Sandhurst, not Maggie, not what she’d once believed. For this man had set fire to her blood. He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t hateful. At least, not when he’d thought her someone else.
But none of that was enough. He had still been an abysmal husband, and he had still lied to her, humiliated her. “I don’t understand you.”
“Christ, I don’t understand myself.” He lowered his head until their noses nearly brushed. “You’re the last woman in the world I wanted to make love to, and now all I can bloody well think about is how it felt to be inside you.” His breath fell hot and wispy over her lips. “And how I want to be inside you again.”
The air felt as if it had been sucked from the chamber. His blunt admission shouldn’t have affected her. But her pulse pounded. Heat slid between her thighs. A pang low in her belly left her tingling.
How had her anger fled her so easily? When Richard had courted her, she’d never felt the incredible tumult her husband produced in her. She desired Sandhurst and yet she knew she shouldn’t. Loving Richard had been easy, sweetness and light. Sandhurst affected her in an entirely different manner, dark and consuming.
She wanted him to kiss her but she knew she must not allow it. Her chin tipped up of its own will, sealing their mouths together. He took her invitation, molding his lips to hers in a passionate, claiming kiss. She opened to him, sliding her tongue against his. He tasted of the wine he’d been drinking at dinner, sweet and vibrant.
She wound her arms around his neck, her fingers happily sinking into his soft hair. She ached for him. As impossible and illogical as it was, the desire she felt for him was as strong as ever, perhaps the only truth between them. She dragged her mouth from his, desperate for a breath, and kissed a path down the side of his neck. His hands went to the buttons lining her bodice, pulling them open.
Then sanity returned to her. Surely giving in to him now would be worse than reckless. It would be stupid. She had to stop. They had to stop. Even if stopping was truly the last thing she wanted to do.
She pushed at his shoulders. “We cannot.”
He halted his efforts at whisking away her bodice, but his fingers didn’t stray from the buttons. “Why?” His harsh, ragged breathing filled her senses. Frustration and desire mingled in his voice.
“Because you don’t like me,” she forced herself to point out, “and I do not like you.”
He raised a brow, looking down at her as if he were a god who had just been told he was mortal after all. “What has liking to do with it? We’re husband and wife. I want you and I know you want me, Maggie. I can taste it in your kiss.”
She steeled herself against his potent persuasion. “Of course I’m attracted to you, or rather, to the man I thought you were. The problem is that now you are once again you, not him.”
He stared at her. “Damn it, I haven’t a bloody inkling what you’re prattling about.”
“What I feel for you is not real,” she explained. “It’s meant for the mystery man I met last night.”
“Goddamn it, I’m that man.” He frowned, appearing perplexed by her logic.
“No.” She willed herself not to pull him to her for another kiss. Just one more, her evil body cajoled. One more kiss, caress. One more night. “You’re the man who is in love with another. You’re the man who has treated me as if I were no more important than a dusty book in your library. You’re the man who abandoned me.”
“I didn’t abandon you. I gave you a home and carte blanche to buy whatever fripperies you desired. Ours was never a love match.”
What an arrogant brand of reasoning he possessed. Did he not know her father was a real estate tycoon who owned nearly half of New York? It wasn’t dresses and baubles that she wanted. “I’ve had fripperies and homes all my life. I wanted a husband.”
“Christ.” He exhaled, his voice sharp, irritated. “I am your husband.”
“In name,” she insisted, though it was no longer true.
“No.” He caught her chin in a firm grip, forcing her to look at him when she would have turned away. “I am very much your husband in deed as well as law after last night.”
She was trapped in his gaze, heat simmering through her traitorous body at the reminder of what they’d shared. “It was for one night only.”
“I don’t think so, my dear. You may hold on to your self-righteousness this evening, but we both know that I will be back in your bed. There will be no other lovers.” He slid his free hand inside her gaping bodice, unerringly finding her breast beneath her corset. Only the fine fabric of her chemise separated her skin from his. Her nipple pebbled. “You want me. You can rationalize it however you like in your mind, but I’m the man who made love to you last night. There is no mystery man.”
He was right, drat him. Her mystery man had been a fiction. The man who had set her aflame stood before her, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. How could she reconcile her heated lover with her icy husband? She was in a hopeless muddle, and the worst part was that he made sense.
“But what transpired between us last night has nothing to do with us as husband and wife.” She needed to resist him for the sake of her self-preservation.
“Perhaps.” He still toyed with her breast. “Or perhaps not. I have a proposition for you. Forget about your madcap scheme to make a cuckold of me. For the next month, let me bring you pleasure. We’ve barely touched the surface. There’s much, much more I could show you if you’ll but say the word.”
He was a devil. And she was a fool, for his offer cut through her determination to free herself of him, undermining it. “I don’t think it would be wise,” she forced herself to say.
“Few pleasurable endeavors are ever wise,” he pointed out. “Drinking too much wine? Great fun but great misery the next morning. Overindulging at table? Delicious but the older you get, the more it lands round your middle. I’m afraid wisdom has little to do with anything worthwhile, my dear.”
He once again spoke undeniable truth. Still, where the notion of taking him as a lover had held appeal for her when he’d been a stranger, it now seemed treacherous. She couldn’t afford to become more involved with a man who had proven himself to be a cad of the first order. She’d suffered too much loneliness and misery at his hands already, and surely he could only bring her more.
“And after the month is over, what is to happen then?” she demanded. “Are we to simply go our separate ways as if none of this has ever occurred? Am I free to return to my life in New York?”
His gaze became shuttered. “You will still be my wife.”
Not particularly reassuring. She frowned, disentangling herself from his arms with a heavy heart. “I’m afraid that isn’t good enough for me.”
“But you suggested just such an arrangement earlier today.” He sounded vexed. “You said you required a lover.”
“To make you a cuckold.” Defiance made her bold. “I wanted to create such a scandal that you’d be left with no choice but to rid yourself of me. Living in purgatory ill suits me, Sandhurst. I want to go home if I’m not to be a wife. I’m weary of the pitying looks of strangers.” Everyone knew she’d married a title and Sandhurst had married a fortune. Just as everyone knew he’d spent their entire year of marriage living apart from her, cuckolding Viscount Billingsley.
His jaw tightened. “To hell with strangers. You’re my bloody marchioness. Last night, I took your maidenhead. There’s no going back from that, damn it. We are irrevocably joined. There will be no scandal.”
She refused to allow him to intimidate her. “Everything in life can be undone, my lord. My father taught me that.”
“Your father is wrong.”
“I don’t think he is on that score.”
They stared at each other, reaching an impasse.
He circled her nipple with his thumb, and she couldn’t deny the sharp wave of longing the simple, single touch sent through her. “You want me.”
“I want the man I thought you to be.” The distinction was important to her.
“How fortuitous.” He tugged her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “For I want the woman I thought you to be. Let’s lose ourselves. Let’s forget who we are and why we’re here and everything that’s come before. A month, Maggie.”
Tempting indeed, but she refused to wave the flag of surrender. “It must be on my terms.”
“Your terms.” His voice was flat.
He didn’t want to grant her a divorce. That much was apparent. Perhaps there was another way of getting what she wanted. “Yes. My terms. I’ll agree to a month. During that time, you may not pursue any woman but me.” She took a breath before continuing. “And after the month is over, we may both pursue anyone we choose. If I like, I may return to New York. I’ll not ask for a divorce as long as I’m free to live as I see fit.”
He didn’t appear pleased with that idea. “Both of us?”
She would not budge on this. She had no intention of ever being miserable and lonely again, trapped in a life and a place she didn’t want. “Both of us.”
“Promise me you won’t pursue Dunsmere,” he muttered. “I couldn’t bear it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him,” she said sincerely.
“He was…” Sandhurst shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter any longer. Fine. I agree to your terms. But I have one of my own.”
She should have anticipated as much. “Go on.”
He pulled another of her buttons from its mooring. “During this month, your body belongs to me. I’m free to take you as often as I wish, in whatever manner I wish.”
Your body belongs to me.
“I agree,” she said quietly, lest she change her mind.
After all, she had come to Lady Needham’s country house weekend in search of wild and wicked scandal. She’d been seeking a lover, a means to secure her freedom. And she had found that, albeit with the last person in the world she’d ever expected.
Her own husband.