e took her to his chamber rather than hers, perhaps for fear the duke would seek her out in the quiet of the night. Maggie would never know the reason behind his decision for certain. The door was barely closed at his back before he turned on her, his hands gripping her arms as he hauled her up against the wall, pinning her with his large body so that there was no escape.
Maggie blinked, startled by the virulence of his reaction. She reached for his shoulders. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
“Punishing my wayward wife,” he told her in a tone that was at once velvet and whisky to her senses, seductive and shocking. He pulled up her skirts and wedged a hard thigh between her legs.
She felt the unfamiliar abrasion of fabric against the open slit of her drawers and couldn’t keep herself from straining into him. She was hungry for him already, warm and wet and willing. But she wasn’t about to give in to him easily.
“What have I done?” she asked on a half-gasp, prolonging the inevitable. She had expected to spark jealousy but not anger. Then again, perhaps the two were not that far apart in the realms of emotion.
His hands were at work beneath her skirts, finding the closure on her drawers and sliding it open. “You know very well. Don’t play the innocent with me.”
She stiffened as he swept a hand over the bare skin of her upper thigh. Her drawers slid down over her limbs. She forced herself to protest. “Simon.”
“You intentionally sought out Dunsmere.” His gaze skewered her, holding her to the wall as surely as his body did. Fingers skimmed her inner thigh, tantalizing her.
“You were doing a fine job of monopolizing Lady Needham,” she pointed out, having difficulty forcing her brain to function properly with him so near to her aching center.
“I told you to stay away from him.” He ignored her completely. His expression was drawn with a combination of desire and irritation. “Were you intending to make me jealous with your little tête-à-tête?”
Of course she was. “Not in the slightest.” She squirmed when he continued to dance around the hungry flesh where she most longed for his touch. “What were you and Nell discussing so intently?”
If he wanted to question her as if he were her jailer, surely she could do the same. It had seemed to her that he and Lady Needham had been discussing something serious. Indeed, she hadn’t liked their proximity or the gravity of their expressions. She had seen the moment Simon took Nell’s hand in his, and she hadn’t been particularly warmed by it.
He stilled. “What Nell and I discussed is none of your affair. We are merely old friends.”
Yet another of his old friends. An awful part of Maggie wondered if he had ever bedded their hostess in his past. Or if he wished to in his future. The heat building inside her collided with ice. “What manner of old friend is she?” She had to ask, though she didn’t truly want to know the answer.
“She’s not the sort you’d like the bloody duke to be.” His hands curled around her thigh in an almost punishing grip.
“Stop,” she cried out, trying to shrug from his grasp. For the first time, she realized she had been playing a game she hadn’t the experience to play.
“Stop what?” He lowered his head, his lips grazing hers. “This?” At last, he took her mouth with his, claiming her in a kiss that punished as much as it incited her need. He cupped her bare bottom, grinding her sensitive cunny against his rigid thigh. “Or this?”
She moaned, unable to keep herself from feeling the delicious sensations he stirred. But she wasn’t willing to be thrown from her course so summarily. “Stop being unkind to me. I did nothing wrong.”
“Aside from consorting with the biggest lothario in England?” he scoffed, lowering his mouth to explore her neck. “I’ll be damned if I’ll share another woman.”
She had tipped back her head to allow him better access to her throat, but his words gave her pause. Who else had he shared? She had been given to understand that Lady Billingsley had been his exclusive paramour for the last few years. “I don’t understand.” She wondered if perhaps his rage had not been solely provoked by her after all.
“It’s nothing.” His lips grazed her skin again. “We made a promise to each other. A month, yes?”
“Yes.” One moment, he was about to devour her, the next he was angry, telling her half a story she’d never read before. “But what has that to do with this moment?”
“I want you.” His mouth opened on her neck, sucking. “Do you want me?”
But she was determined not to be swayed. Her mind swirled with questions. Had Lady Billingsley been the topic of his conversation with Nell? Perhaps she had revealed an ugly side of his former paramour’s past?
She sighed, trying not to enjoy the delicious heat of his mouth over her, nearly impossible though it was. “I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I’ve told you already.” He pressed a series of kisses down to her bosom. “We were merely conversing.”
Did he think he could elude her so easily? She frowned, sinking her fingers into his thick, soft hair and forcing him to meet her gaze. “What other woman have you shared?”
He exhaled, his breath hitting her chest like a warmed blanket. “Why must you be so bloody persistent?”
She didn’t know. “It’s in my nature, I suppose.”
“A man must be allowed his secrets.”
Maggie didn’t particularly care for the sound of that. “I detest secrecy.”
“I’m sorry,” he startled her by saying. He didn’t strike her as the apologetic sort. “I merely don’t wish to discuss it. It has no bearing upon you and me.”
She had the sense that his concession had cost him a great deal more than was readily apparent. He was a proud man, that much she had learned quickly in the short time they’d spent together. Maggie took pity on him. “Very well. You needn’t tell me just now.”
“Good.” His fingers traced a path of heat over her thigh before sinking into her wet folds to tease the aching bud that most yearned for his attention. “Because now, the only thing I’m going to do is fuck you, my dear. Hard and fast until you come.”
She lost her breath. The iniquitous words made her all the more hungry for him. No man had ever dared to speak such sin to her. It rendered her quite weak in the knees. “Don’t we require a bed?” she dared to ask.
He applied just the right amount of pressure with the perfect amount of speed. And then he sank a finger inside her. “Not when you’re so wet and ready for me.”
Her hips pumped against his rhythm. Her instinct took control of her. She wanted him so much, despite the unknown between them. Nothing mattered but the way he made her feel, as if she were about to shatter into a thousand singing shards of herself.
He stopped to open his trousers, and she caught sight of him, rigid and tantalizing. “Hook your leg round my waist.” He guided her then, opening her to him more fully. His mouth came down on hers, crushing and possessive.
His cock pressed against her, hot and stiff. She arched her back to help ease his entrance. While his tongue plunged into her mouth, he slid inside her in one long, delicious thrust. She moaned, sucking on his tongue, her hands going to his firm buttocks to drive him even deeper. This time, their passion ran at full gallop. There was no steady canter, no time for soft kisses and gentle caresses. Nor did she want that. She wanted him to take her, hard and fast as he’d said, make them both explode with their mutual desire.
He withdrew from her only to slide in again, increasing his pace, going faster, wilder. With his thumb, he continued to exert pressure on her nub, and the wave of her first release washed over her. Her cunny clenched on his cock and they both moaned, lost in the sensations, the need to become one.
He dragged his mouth back to her neck, nipping at her with his teeth just enough to make her shiver. Tonight, she reveled in his ferocity, in the way his hands were almost rough upon her, in the way he took her as if he couldn’t wait another moment to fill her with his seed.
While she still shook with the effects of her passion, he rocked against her, flattening her to the wall. A warm burst of sensation rushed inside her, and she knew that he too had found his release. She clasped him to her as they plummeted from their cloud of pleasure as one. His breathing was as ragged as hers, his heart a rapid thrum against her chest. He kissed her neck, then dropped a lingering kiss on her mouth before gently returning her foot to the floor and slipping from her body. They stared at each other.
“We leave tomorrow morning,” he said at last, his voice almost hoarse. “Together.”
She nodded. While days before, leaving with her husband would have seemed inconceivable if not altogether impossible, now it seemed perfectly normal. She wasn’t certain she could yet manage rational conversation, so she busied herself with rearranging her skirts. Only her drawers, discarded on the floor, remained as a sign of their frantic lovemaking. He refastened his trousers while she attempted to collect herself.
“I suppose I ought to return to my chamber,” she said when at last she rediscovered the ability to speak.
“You’ll stay here with me this evening,” he said, more decree than request.
His pronouncement startled her. Hadn’t he just been concerned with observing a false sense of propriety? What had changed? She blinked, wondering if she’d heard him properly above the mad thudding of her heart. “I beg your pardon?”
His expression was impossible to decipher. “I want you to remain in my chamber,” he elaborated. “Please.”
Maggie supposed he wasn’t accustomed to asking for what he wanted. After all, he was a man and a lord both. Even so, his request was hardly tender, and though she was not impervious to his lovemaking, she was still quite stubborn in her own right. “You might ask me rather than issuing a demand.”
He frowned. “I didn’t demand. I said please.”
“Silly me.” She almost laughed, but he was serious. “Thank you for issuing a polite demand.”
He raked a hand through his hair, looking vexed. “Damn it, woman, you’re as prickly as a rosebush sometimes. I merely want you to stay here in my chamber.”
“Why?” she persisted.
“Because I don’t trust that blackguard who calls himself a duke,” he thundered, his eyes darkening.
Ah. So he had been jealous of Dunsmere. She was secretly pleased. Still, there were logistics to be considered. “What of my lady’s maid? She won’t know to find me here.”
“I’ll damn well be your lady’s maid for the night,” he growled. “In the morning, I’ll have her sent up for you.”
Another thought occurred to her just then, and she had to know. “Do you trust me?”
His gaze searched hers. “I’m not certain. I’ve misplaced my trust far too many times, it would seem.”
How paradoxical that he should make such a confession to her, of all people. She stared at him. “So too have I, my lord.”
He inclined his head, accepting the insult wordlessly.
She was more convinced than ever that he and Nell had been speaking of Lady Billingsley. A tiny sliver of triumph sliced through her at the thought. Perhaps his old and dear friend had not been the angel he’d believed her to be after all. And while Maggie couldn’t compete with a paragon, she could certainly compete with a mere woman. If she wanted to compete at all, that was, and she wasn’t entirely certain she did. Indeed, her brain was doing a fair job of convincing her that she ought not to, though her passionate heart felt otherwise.
But in the end, she was tired, and giving in to a small battle didn’t seem too foolish a decision. “Very well,” she capitulated. “I shall stay.”
Early the following afternoon, they arrived at Denver House, Simon’s country seat. The visit was Maggie’s first, since they had wed in London and he had not bothered to provide her with a honeymoon. Instead, he had run off to the arms of his mistress. It had been a cold revelation to Maggie, who had been naïve enough to believe her husband would treat her with the respect she deserved. She had imagined settling into a comfortable life, getting to know her husband, exchanging pleasantries over dinner, raising children. She had not imagined abandonment, though she had been warned by her mother in advance that not all men proved faithful husbands.
Her mother, she’d discovered, had been woefully inept at warning a young bride about the realities of a society marriage. An odd mix of feelings assailed Maggie as Sandhurst handed her down from the carriage and she took in the imposing façade of the home she’d never seen. Her heart went to her throat. Lady Needham’s country house had been impressive indeed, but Denver House was magnificent.
She stared at the immense structure with its rows of windows flanked by an east and a west wing at either end. Doric columns stretched across the front as if they were a row of soldiers at the ready. Twin curved stairs descended to the gravel thoroughfare. Bas relief carvings decorated the stone walls.
The entire scene took her breath.
“Welcome to Denver House.” Simon’s voice was grave.
She had seen many a great building in London and New York, but this place was somehow different from all the rest. She forced her gaze back to her husband, who watched her with an impenetrable expression etched on his handsome face. “It’s unbearably lovely.”
“It’s a crumbling pile of familial rubble.” His voice was cool.
She supposed that if she had been raised in such a structure she too could have been unaffected by its majesty. Her father’s townhouse in New York was grand, but not nearly as regal. “You don’t like it here?”
“I will present you to the staff,” he surprised her by saying, skirting her query with neat precision.
Although she knew she ought to be stern with him for not having brought her to Denver House before, she couldn’t help but be pleased by his announcement. It was far too late in coming, and under all the wrong circumstances, but she was once again choosing her battles. “Thank you. That would be wonderful indeed.”
He offered her his arm, looking uncomfortable. “I’m aware it should have been done well before now.”
“Yes.” She would not allow him to escape her censure, for although they had created a tentative truce, it hadn’t swept away a year of his bad behavior. “It most certainly should have.”
A self-derisive smile curved his lips as they walked to the entrance. “You’re not the forgiving sort, are you?”
“Only where forgiveness is well-deserved.” She kept her voice prim. She did not wish him to think that lovemaking was a panacea. Of course she enjoyed the wicked things he could do to her body, but that hardly meant she’d forgotten the stark realities of their union. Now that they were away from the dream world of Lady Needham’s party, it was easier for their difficulties to reemerge.
“Is there a way it can be earned?”
Their shoes crunched on the gravel in time. Despite her caution, she was enjoying this slice of life as it could have been for the two of them, as it perhaps would have been had he not already found love elsewhere. She had to admit that she longed for the simplicity of companionship, the ease of friendship, that she knew some women found with their husbands. This was not the life she’d ever envisioned for herself, even when she’d accepted her duty and agreed to their marriage of convenience.
Maggie considered his question then, forcing her mind to the conversation at hand rather than the emotions surging through her at their odd homecoming. “Do you wish to earn my forgiveness? Truly?”
“You doubt me?”
She couldn’t stifle a mocking laugh. “Of course I doubt you. A year of absence doesn’t procure a great deal of faith in a man, you know.”
“I daresay it wouldn’t.” He patted her gloved hand where it rested upon his arm. “I admire your tenacity, my dear. It’s so very American.”
“Thank you,” she returned. “I suppose.”
“Allow me to introduce you to the staff, and then we can discuss just how a sinful man might go about winning the forgiveness of a beautiful woman.” The glance he gave her was scorching, igniting an answering fire deep within her.
She had an impression that his idea of a discussion involved sin and a bedchamber rather than a dialogue. But though she’d agreed to his bargain, she still possessed a memory and a mind. Both recalled what it had felt like to bear his icy civility followed by abandonment. Both recalled the pitying stares and whispers that followed her wherever she went. And both recalled that he had left her for another.
“Forgiveness must be earned, my lord.” She met his gaze with a frank, unflinching stare. Let him not think himself an exception to that particular rule. For he most certainly was not.
Simon had disappeared. Maggie frowned as she wandered through the immense confines of Denver House on her own. While they had spent the evening in heated lovemaking, he had left her bed before dawn. He had not appeared to break his fast, nor had he deigned to share an afternoon repast with her. Tea too had been ignored. She had done her best to dismiss his abrupt and confusing desertion. She had made tentative friends with Mrs. Keynes, the housekeeper. She had come across several footmen and maids. But her husband was another matter. And by the time six o’clock had arrived, she was feeling rather perturbed with the man.
Truly, she was left with no recourse but to find him. She had already intruded upon a study, a library, several bedchambers, and the drawing room, to no avail. Her dudgeon growing ever higher, Maggie clipped down the hall and selected the door nearest to her, throwing it open.
Furniture shrouded in coverings greeted her, a sliver of sunlight emerging from a distant pair of windows. She was about to move on to the next room awaiting her inspection when it occurred to her that the curtains ought to have been drawn together. Instead, they appeared to have been deliberately opened to allow a small bit of light to enter the otherwise somber chamber.
Awareness struck her, a sense of being watched. She hesitated at the threshold, suspecting she had at last found Simon, but uncertain if she dared to enter. There was a solemnity to the chamber, as if it were cloaked in secrecy, that made her wonder if she trespassed. After all, if he had hidden himself away, there was undoubtedly a reason.
But what?
She was startled to realize that she cared enough for him to seek an answer. Drat him. When had she begun to develop a tendre for the man who had happily run off with his mistress? He certainly didn’t deserve her affections. He didn’t deserve her body or her time. She owed him nothing but a month.
Her frown grew more severe as she stepped into the chamber at last, prodded by her self-disgust. She had thought she was made of sterner stuff. Maggie forced herself to recall that while his kisses melted her bones, he had treated her abominably. He was a cad.
She was in control. Yes, she was. She had to be, or else she was hopelessly in his thrall, and that wouldn’t do. Not for one moment. Her husband could not be trusted. His latest misadventure had reminded her, in somewhat mocking fashion, of precisely that.
Double drat him. She cleared her throat, summoning up an impression of her fierce mother. “Simon?” Her gaze darted about, but she could see precious little other than the hulking silhouettes of chaises and settees that were likely long since out of mode. No answer. She strode deeper into the room, swearing that she could smell him. “If you are in this chamber, it would be in your best interest to show yourself at once.”
She attempted to peer into a dark corner, waiting for his response. None was forthcoming until, after what seemed forever, his familiar voice stroked over her senses like a lover’s caress.
“What shall become of me if I don’t?”
A shiver of anticipation danced over her skin. At last. He had certainly led her on a merry chase for much of the day. She spun in a slow circle, still unable to locate him. “Where are you?”
“Perhaps you ought to find me.” An undercurrent of humor laced his voice.
He was amused, was he? Her gaze narrowed as she skirted what appeared to be an escritoire and ventured into the quadrant of the chamber where his voice seemed to emanate from. “You are a beast. Have you no conscience?”
At her question, she shook her head, answering herself. “Foolish, wrong-headed me. Of course you haven’t a conscience.”
“I have a conscience,” he spoke up, sounding a touch indignant. “I simply ignore it.”
“I’m well aware of that, my lord.” Where in heaven’s name was he? She swept aside a particularly voluminous sheet of furniture covering, hoping to find him beneath it. There was only a wardrobe. “I’m certain you haven’t heard your conscience since you were a lad.”
“That smarts.”
His voice was directly behind her. She turned to find him towering over her, a dark and inviting figure. “It is merely truth.” She did her best to curtail the breathless quality threatening to overcome her voice. Today of all days she did not want to show him a hint of weakness, for she sensed he was a hunter stalking his prey. She had few defenses against him other than her wits.
He stepped closer to her. “How did you find me here?”
“Fortune.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, praying he wouldn’t touch her and thereby crumble the infinitesimal wall she had built between them. “Or perhaps misfortune.”
“Did you miss me, my dear?”
She had, and the realization troubled her. When had he become necessary to her, a man she chased? “Of course not,” she lied. “Mrs. Keynes is uncertain of what she ought to send to dinner. Apparently, she doesn’t wish to incur your displeasure.”
“Indeed?” He was devastatingly near to her now. His hand caught her elbow, drawing her right arm away from her body. With practiced expertise, he trailed his fingers down the inside of her arm, catching her just where her sleeve gaped to reveal bare skin. He stopped at her wrist, raising her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss.
“What is this chamber?” She was determined not to be distracted by his blatant invitation to sin.
“It is nothing now.” His grip tightened on her, in warning, she supposed.
She remained undeterred. “What was it before now?”
Abruptly, he went from teasing to stormy. “I don’t wish to speak of it.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But there’s a reason for secreting yourself away in here.”
He dropped her hand, pivoting abruptly to give her his back. “I abhor your American sense of persistence.”
“And I dislike your English sense of avoidance,” she countered. “You cannot hide forever. Tell me, Simon. You can trust me.”
“Can I?” He turned back to her. “In my experience, the fairer sex is furthest from trustworthy.”
“How interesting, for I share a similar experience with their male counterpart.” She wished she could see his eyes, but the dimness of the chamber rendered it impossible.
“Point well taken. You can’t trust me, Maggie girl. Don’t ever do it.” His voice was bitter, self-mocking.
She didn’t hesitate. “You can be certain that I won’t. But you can trust me, my lord. I am not Lady Billingsley.” His former mistress had hurt him. Maggie knew a pang of jealousy for Lady Billingsley’s ability to wound him, for it meant he cared.
“You most definitely are not.” His voice was solemn.
She couldn’t tell if he paid her a compliment or an insult, but she decided on the former. “What is this chamber?” she asked again, refusing to allow him to dodge her question. There was a reason for him to have hidden himself away in a dusty old-furniture-laden room. She was determined to know what it was.
He was silent for a few heartbeats and she feared he wouldn’t answer her. Then, his gruff voice split the uneasy quiet. “It was my mother’s sitting room.”
His mother. Surprise flitted through her, mingling with compassion. She knew little of the previous Marchioness of Sandhurst other than the facts related to her by Mrs. Keynes, who had been a retainer at Denver House for nearly forty years. Simon’s mother had died in childbirth when he was a lad. Beyond that stark truth, she hadn’t much information.
She placed a hand on his arm, the need to comfort him an impulse as strong as it likely was wrong. “How long has it been closed?”
“Fifteen years, I suppose.” The breath escaped from him in a long, weary sigh. “I was but a lad. I’ve never had the heart to change it. This is the first time I’ve been inside this chamber since her death. Damn odd how so many years can pass and yet upon return, it’s as if no time has gone at all.”
His sadness was palpable. This rare show of emotion from her otherwise guarded husband moved her. For one ridiculous moment, she thought of taking him in her arms before dashing the notion away with her common sense. He wasn’t worthy of her comfort, and she mustn’t forget it.
She pulled her hand away, needing to put some reason and distance between them. “Memories are like a book you’ve already read. You may forget the details, but once you delve back into the pages, it all returns to you.”
He considered her through the half-light. “You’re surprisingly sage for a woman of your tender years.”
She was twenty-two, and she didn’t think that to be terribly young, particularly since he was only seven years her senior. “I do have a mind,” she pointed out. While she was aware that it wasn’t always fashionable for women to possess sharp wits, she had never been wont to hide her intellect.
“And it is indeed a worthy one. I begin to see just how gravely I underestimated you, my dear.” He startled her by reaching out and caressing her cheek.
A small shiver laced through her at his touch. “Have you been hiding away in here the entire day?”
“No. I’ve been wandering. Confronting old ghosts, I suppose.” His thumb brushed her lower lip.
She stilled, her heart thumping madly. “Perhaps you ought not to confront them alone.”
“Christ.” He took her in his arms then, crushing her to him and burying his face in her neck. “How can you be so bloody kind?”
“I’m not kind.” She tried not to be affected by his lips on her skin and failed horridly. “My younger brother and sister would attest to that.”
His grip on her tensed. “I had a brother as well. My mother died bearing him, and he died two days later.”
She embraced him despite herself, putting aside her pride’s frantic call to treat him no better than he had treated her. How could she deny him solace when he was showing his humanity for the first time? He seemed fragile, the complete opposite of the cool man she’d known. “It must have been difficult for a boy to lose his mother and brother so abruptly.”
His face remained pressed to her throat. “My mother was a gentle soul. She deserved far better than to die alone in the countryside while my father was gadding about with his paramour.”
Maggie rubbed his back in soothing motions. He wore only a shirt, no jacket, no waistcoat, entirely divested of his polite trappings. Wildness emanated from him, as if all the pain he’d buried boiled to the surface now. She felt as if she understood him—perhaps better than he understood himself—for the first time.
“I’m sorry, Simon.” It was all she could say. Words could not rewrite his past, the sadness that had run through his life as if it were a river. Likely, it had washed away much in its path.
“You needn’t be sorry. Life has its way of righting wrongs. My father died the year after in his mistress’s arms. Apoplexy, the doctor said. A fitting end.”
“Leaving you alone,” she finished for him. “Had you no one else?”
“I had myself. That was all I required.”
Maggie had possessed a childhood that, while far from perfect, had never been lonely. Her days had been filled with siblings and love, albeit with a healthy portion of bickering. Her disillusionment had begun later, along with the inevitable awful realization that she must leave the comfort of her family behind. She felt sorry for him, for what he must have suffered as a boy suddenly bereft. “You have me now as well,” she told him, hating that he had ever felt as if he were on his own, though she knew well she shouldn’t care one whit.
“Have I?”
She thought of the lad who had lost his mother, who had been left without comfort and love, and her heart crumbled for the boy he must have been. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away. “For the next month, you do,” she said before she could think better of it.
“Why the devil are you here, Maggie?” He pulled away to look down at her, his gaze dark and searching.
She wasn’t certain she knew what he asked of her. She frowned. “You brought me to Denver House.”
“I’m well aware.” He paused, seeming to collect his thoughts. “What I meant to ask is why are you in this chamber with me? Why are you being so good to the man who never wanted you?”
She’d known, of course, that he’d never wanted her as a wife. He’d made that abundantly clear with his desertion and ensuing silence. But hearing him confirm it aloud still stung. Maggie allowed her gaze to travel over his handsome face as she searched for a response. “For the next month, it is my duty.”
“Duty.” His tone went lifeless.
Was it possible she had actually hurt him? Though she knew she ought to possess a heart of hardest stone when it came to him, she couldn’t quite bear to. He had a way of creeping into her heart when she least expected it. At Lady Needham’s party, they had fallen into each other’s arms little knowing what was to come when their true identities were uncovered. In so doing, they had become inextricably linked in a way their marriage had never managed to accomplish.
“I don’t want to be your duty, Maggie,” he intruded upon her thoughts, his voice low and intense. “I want more from you.”
“How much more?” she dared to ask although she told herself she had nothing left that she was willing to give him. He’d already taken too much.
“I don’t know.” Pent-up emotions made his voice ragged.
It wasn’t an answer to any of the questions thudding around in her mind, but it was somehow all she needed. She hooked an arm around his neck and pulled his handsome face closer to hers until their mouths barely touched. He didn’t require further encouragement. With a groan, he claimed her lips in a long, searching kiss.
Maggie’s fingers sank into his hair as she opened for him. His tongue slipped into her mouth and she sucked it, a hot surge of want nearly toppling her over in that moment. How was it that she could be irritated with him one minute, and yet in the midst of a dusty room, she could long for him so much the next?
He broke the kiss at last, resting his forehead against hers. His breath draped warmly over her lips. “Tell me how it is that you continually surprise me.”
She stared. “I could ask you the same.”
“Thank you for finding me.”
That gave her pause. She hadn’t anticipated his gratitude. “I reckoned you needed finding.”
He dropped a soft, sweet kiss on her lips. “It would seem you have an uncanny knack for finding me when I need it most.”
“If you’re speaking of our meeting at Lady Needham’s, it was you who found me,” she pointed out, trying to maintain the tentative grip she had on her judgment. “You thoroughly trounced my train.”
“Trains are nuisances,” he quipped. “You ought to have had it tied up properly, by God.”
Maggie’s smile widened. “I did. You ought to have watched where you were placing your overly large feet, by God.”
She enjoyed their banter, and the realization startled her akin to a pinprick to the thumb. To her amazement, she was beginning to like him. A paradox, he was filled with passion one moment and yet cold and calculated the next.
He blustered without meaning it. He had loved his mother. He had loved another woman who had not been worthy of that love. She knew now that beneath his façade there hid the boy who had been left alone in the world, that the boy had grown into a man who still possessed the same fear of being alone. He was imperfect, it was true, but so was she. And his kisses made her mad. His touch set her aflame.
No. She had to stay the course of her reckless mind before it took her deeper down the path to ruin.
“Now I’ve overly large feet, have I?” There was a grin in his voice.
“It’s amazing you can even walk with those unwieldy fellows,” she teased, running her hands down over his broad shoulders. She could trust in desire, if little else. That was the only emotion between them that made any sense.
“You’re a minx.” He found her bottom through the layers of her gown, sliding beneath her bustle with unerring accuracy. He pulled her snugly against him.
“What if I am?” she challenged.
“I shall have to make you pay.”
“Do you promise?”
He kissed her again. “Absolutely.”
When their mouths broke apart at last, Maggie gathered her common sense, forcing herself to recall her initial reason for seeking him out. It wouldn’t do for them to become fodder for belowstairs gossip on their first day in residence. She had never been treated as the lady of the house, and she didn’t want to lose the tentative respect she’d won from her housekeeper. As much as she wanted to allow him to drag her to the bedchamber, it wouldn’t do. Not now. “Your retribution will have to wait, I fear, for it’s likely nearly time for dinner by now. Will you join me?”
He inclined his head. “I shall.”
“Thank you.” She stepped away from him, smoothing her hands down over her skirts. “Poor Mrs. Keynes must be beside herself wondering what to send to table.”
“I’m certain she will find something suitably delicious.” He took her hand, lacing their fingers together in a startling show of solidarity. “I meant what I said, Maggie. Thank you for finding me.”
She squeezed his fingers, an unexpected twinge of emotion shooting through her. If she wasn’t careful, she would soften toward him too much. And when their agreed-upon month was over, there was no telling where he would choose to go. She would do best to remember that their truce was not lifelong, she warned herself. Her maudlin thoughts of moments before were just that, sentiment rather than reality. They didn’t know each other. Not at all.
But she couldn’t quite tamp down the desire to know him better. “You’re welcome,” she whispered past the tension that threatened to close her throat. You mustn’t grow to care for him too much, she reminded herself as he escorted her from the chamber.
If only she hadn’t already begun to do so.
Maggie woke to find Simon had gone for a ride. A week had passed since their arrival at Denver House, and they had spent each night in sensual abandon. Heartened by the note he’d taken care to leave her, she enjoyed a small breakfast before deciding to further her explorations. One room called to her more than all the others she had yet toured, and it was the library. She found it again with the aid of the redoubtable Mrs. Keynes, and once inside its immense book-lined confines, she was quite in love.
The library was cavernous, its high ceiling and ornate shelves carved from luxurious walnut. Large gothic windows allowed bright sunlight to illuminate the room at its far end. A thick carpet ran the length of the room. Chairs and settees were scattered throughout, along with a massive desk and a stunning marble fireplace. She could have happily lived in this entire room alone. Rendered breathless by the effect, she strode to the nearest wall of shelves, curious to see what sorts of books might await her there. It had been so long—too long—since she’d last lost herself in reading.
She discovered a great deal of Latin, as was to be expected. Nothing caught her eye until she moved on to the next set of shelving. He possessed a surprising number of poetry tomes, and it appeared that his taste was modern rather than the typical collection of century-old poets. She ran her finger idly across the spines, discovering that their interest in poetry was markedly similar. And then she stopped, shocked at the name on a particularly small volume.
M.E. Desmond.
She knew the name well, as well as she knew the contents of the book itself. For she was M.E. Desmond, and the poems were her own. Had he actually read her poetry? It seemed impossible that he even owned it, for the volume had been printed in New York with a limited number of volumes. Curious despite herself, she plucked it from the shelf. The physical embodiment of her words never failed to humble her.
“Are you in need of entertainment, my dear?”
She gasped at the sound of Simon’s deep voice behind her and spun to face him. Unfairly handsome, he wore a pair of muddied riding boots with tweed trousers and coat. A rakish air emanated from him with enough potency to make her drop the book from her limp fingers.
Longing sliced through her, sending an ache directly to her core. She entirely forgot what she’d been about. Forgot everything except the tall, lean man stalking across the study to her. He stopped a scant foot away, smelling of leather and outdoors and his familiar, beguiling scent. His eyes burned into hers.
“Have you lost your ability to produce a sharp retort?” He grinned, melting her even more. “Let us mark this day down for perpetuity.”
He was teasing her, she realized, and she liked this side of him. It provoked a sense of intimacy and easiness between them that all the lovemaking in the world could not. She was staring as if she were a lovestruck girl holding on to her mother’s skirts. Maggie attempted to gather her wits, wishing he weren’t so unutterably gorgeous, his grin not so infectious, that he didn’t make her stomach feel as if it were about to drop straight to her toes.
“You’re a wit, aren’t you?” she forced herself to quip at last, wishing she didn’t sound breathless.
“Whenever possible,” he returned, bowing and retrieving the dropped book all in the same fluid motion. He looked down at the volume in his hand. “Ah, I see you’ve discovered a favorite. Have you read Desmond before?”
She swallowed, uncertain of how she ought to answer. With honesty, she supposed at last. “I have, yes.”
He raised a brow, his interest clearly piqued. “What do you make of him? He’s only ever put out the one collection, but I’ve rather enjoyed it.”
Oh dear. “Why do you suppose the author is a man?”
“Why do you suppose the author is a woman?” He exhibited perfectly flawless logic.
She wasn’t prepared to answer that particular question just yet. There was something that she wanted to know first. “What is your favorite poem?”
“I’m especially fond of Empire,” he answered without hesitation. “Though there are a great many sonnets I admire. He’s a clever fellow, to be sure.”
Empire was one of her favorite poems she’d written as well. It was a confluence of the world she knew in New York and the early days of her childhood, the days when her father had been a man with the burning dream of building an empire instead of a man who owned one. As a young woman, she had many times wished to return to her life of simplicity, for the wealth her father had amassed with his hotels and stores had trapped her as surely as any gilded cage. With wealth had come responsibilities and ultimately a life far away from everything she’d ever known.
She stared at Simon, wondering if she should tell him the truth. If he would even believe her. But she was proud of her work, and she wouldn’t hide it. Not from him. “I’ve always been fond of that poem as well. I wrote it, after all.”
Confusion clouded his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wrote the poem,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m M.E. Desmond. Or rather, I was, for I have not written a poem in some years now.”
“You cannot be.” He searched her face, looking for an answer he apparently found. “My God. You’re deadly serious, aren’t you?”
“Margaret Emilia Desmond.” She held his gaze, unflinching.
“Bloody hell.” Simon stared at her with an inscrutable expression. “When were you planning on telling me, Maggie?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I don’t write poetry any longer. It hardly seemed important.”
“You don’t write any longer? Why the hell not?”
She hadn’t anticipated that sort of response. Crossing her arms over her bodice in a defensive gesture, she met his gaze without flinching. “I’m no good at writing poems. It was a childish fancy, nothing more.”
“A childish fancy?” He held the book to his heart, and she couldn’t be certain if it was an unconscious act or an intentional one. “Surely you can’t be serious, Maggie. These are some of the finest poems of our age.”
She frowned at him. “Flattery is the worst sort of compliment.”
He frowned back at her. “I’m not flattering you, by God. I wouldn’t.”
Maggie thought about that for a moment and had to acknowledge the kernel of honesty his words held. He had never been a man of easy charm. He was handsome and seductive, powerful and attractive in ways she couldn’t entirely comprehend, it was true. But he had never paid her the sort of odious obsequiousness others had in the past.
“Very well,” she allowed. “But yours is merely one opinion. The only reason I was able to publish this volume at all is that my father is wealthy and he paid a publisher a handsome sum to do the deed. I dare not fool myself into thinking I’m a true poet.”
“Rubbish. Others have read your work and admired it as I do.”
They had? She didn’t dare to hope. After she had discovered that her father had bought her way into the world of poetry and literary aspirations, she’d sworn to never write another poem. Her damnable pride, she supposed, or perhaps vanity, but if her poetry wasn’t good enough on its own, she didn’t wish to ever see it in print again.
“What others?” Of course, she knew she ought not to entertain any such thoughts. From the time she’d first been enrolled in school—the one-room schoolhouse of her youth rather than the private tutors and finishing school she’d later endured—she had wanted nothing more than to be a poet. But she had given up that dream, knowing it to be a fruitless one.
“Lord Egglesfield, for one,” he told her, his tone grave. “And lords Ridley, Cavendish and Tyndale as well. Mr. Tobin also.”
Dear heavens. While she hadn’t heard of all the peers he mentioned, she had certainly heard of Mr. Jonathan Tobin, for he was an extraordinarily talented poet in his own right. It baffled her that such a distinguished group of men had deigned to read the scribbling of her youth. And admired it.
She fanned her flushed cheeks with her hand. “Mr. Tobin? You know him?”
He scowled. “Yes, and he’s ugly as a bear’s arse.”
Did she sense jealousy? A small smile flirted with her lips as she contemplated him. “Why have I never heard any such kind words regarding my poetry?”
“No one knows who M.E. Desmond is,” he pointed out, once again the soul of common sense. “Tobin is given to fat as well.”
“Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” Her smile blossomed into a grin as the last bit of what he’d said permeated her whirling mind. “I’ve seen an engraving of Mr. Tobin. He didn’t appear at all plump to me.”
“Fat as a hog,” Simon snapped, his lips compressing in his irritation.
“I thought him rather handsome.” She couldn’t resist pushing him.
He pulled her flush against his hard chest. Somehow, even his glower was charming. “I’m going to have to punish you for that.” His mouth swooped deliciously near to hers, his hot breath cascading over her lips in temptation. “Why did you not tell me about your poetry?”
She struggled to focus on his words rather than his sinful mouth. “When was I to have told you? You scarcely spoke to me until Lady Needham’s.”
“You’ve had ample time since then.” One of his hands slid around her waist and then upward to cup her breast over the fabric and corset barrier separating them.
She arched into him, unable to help herself from seeking out the exquisite sensation of his touch. “I didn’t think it mattered. As I’ve said, I haven’t written in years. I’m no longer a starry-eyed girl led by silly dreams.”
Simon was intent, his gaze as seeking as his wandering hands. “Why?”
Maggie wasn’t entirely certain what he was asking of her. She swallowed, barely holding on to her wits. “Why should you care so much?”
“I admire your work.” He reached up to caress her cheek. “Truth be told, I admire you. I didn’t want to, but I do.”
His confession stole the breath straight from her lungs. Admiration was not love, but it was something more than nothing at all. She skimmed her palms up over his chest, resting her right hand above his thudding heart. “I never thought to hear those words from you, of all men.”
He winced. “I suppose I’ve earned your cynicism.”
“You have.” She drew no quarter. Their ugly past would never be completely forgotten.
“Think what you must of me, but know that I speak only truth when I say that you have a gift, Maggie. You should write again, for yourself as much as for others.” His tone was solemn.
She had not thought of writing in a long time. While she had continued to read poetry and to enjoy the works of others, she had truly felt that part of her was closed off forever. She was no great poet. “I cannot write. The music isn’t in me any longer.”
He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping her head back so that she could not look away from him. “What has stolen the music from you?”
She didn’t know what to say, and he was so terribly close. Desire unfurled within her like a ripe blossom. “I can’t be certain,” she forced herself to say, and it was true. “My life has turned out to be quite different from what I fancied it would be when I was a girl. Sometimes we must give up the dreams of our youth.”
She heard the sadness in her own voice. Her life had altered so much since that carefree time when she’d been given to dreams and whimsy. She had been free to write as she wished, live as she wished. And then, her world had disappeared, replaced with finishing school and French gowns, a trip to England from which there proved no return.
Before she’d known what she was about, she had been left in a strange land with a new husband who didn’t want her and with precious few friends for support. Poetry had most certainly not been foremost in her mind. She had done her duty to her father. He had wanted nothing less than a title for his daughter, and she certainly hadn’t wished to disappoint him, not even at the risk of disappointing herself. Not even at the risk of losing a man she’d cared for very much. Richard was, like her past, forever out of reach for her.
“I hope you will consider writing again,” he said, his expression inscrutable as always. “Not every dream needs to be abandoned.”
It was apparent that he was a child of the aristocracy. Oh, to have been born a man with all the power in the world at his pinky finger. Maggie frowned. “I’m too rational to have dreams now.”
Her father had taken her aside before sending her to England with her mother. He had told her that dreams were for men and not for women. She had been devastated by his last words to her before she’d been sent away to England and to a marriage that would serve to enhance his New York status while leaving her utterly miserable. She knew now that her father must have known what he was sending her away to face. And it hurt, for once she had been his treasured child.
As a girl and the eldest of her siblings, she had always been close to him. He had taken great care to show her the intricacies of his business dealings when she was quite young. But when she’d turned twelve, her mother had finally birthed the son he’d been wanting. And almost instantly, or at least as soon as it was known that her brother would be a healthy baby, Maggie had been cast aside, replaced. At seventeen, she’d been sent to finishing school. She’d returned and had fallen in love with Richard, the sweet younger son of a New York clergyman. Her father had disapproved immensely, and she had bowed to his will. He’d sent her off to marry a title in a faraway place instead. She’d been forgotten.
Now, her father didn’t bother to send her more than the occasional letter, and even those correspondences were written by his secretary’s hand. Merely because she hadn’t been born a son, and although she was every bit as intelligent as James would one day prove to be. It was all so horridly, dreadfully unfair. She’d forced herself not to dwell upon the disappointments her relationship with her father had produced, for if she lingered over them, it would hurt her far too much. But now, Simon and his surprising concern were deconstructing the walls she’d built between her past and her present.
“Why do you frown so fiercely, my dear?” Simon’s voice interrupted her troubled musings.
“I’m thinking of my father.” She felt an odd sense of comfort with her husband now. They had shared their most intimate selves with each other. And they were husband and wife, which united them more completely than any other man and woman could possibly be joined. Even if that bond had never been truly sealed before, since their sudden relationship, she couldn’t deny their deep connection. Nor did she want to deny it any longer. He was awakening her heart and her passion, and perhaps it was dangerous but she didn’t think she cared.
“What of him?” Simon’s tone was gentle.
“I was thinking of how my father raised me to have dreams, but only until it was clear that he would have a son. When my brother was born, my father promptly forgot I existed. No more sessions in his study. No more teaching me arithmetic and philosophy. No more encouraging me to read the great poets.”
“It would seem we share a commonality of sorts then,” Simon said, surprising her with his revelation in turn, “for my father never gave a damn that I existed.”
“I wonder if that wouldn’t have been a better fate,” she said, “than having been close to your father and then knowing that he treasured a sibling more than you for no reason other than his sex. I cannot help that I’ve been born a woman. I am still every bit as worthy as James.”
“Of course you are, my dear.” Simon gathered her to his chest then, embracing her in his strong arms and seemingly trying to erase the troubles in her heart.
She leaned into him, soaking in his strength. How odd it was that he had the power to bring forth feelings in her that she hadn’t known she’d been hiding. “A woman is every bit as worthy as a man.” Why, after all, should her baby brother be touted the heir to her family simply by virtue of his sex? Females could be every bit as intelligent, if not more so than their male counterparts.
“Don’t cry, darling.” He caught her tears on the pad of his finger. He was unbearably handsome looking down at her, the light of the far-off windows illuminating his aristocratic features. His eyes were what haunted her most, pinning her to the floor upon which she stood.
“I’m not.” She sniffed, trying to hide her embarrassment. How had they gone from speaking of her old poetry habit to this deep, emotional conversation? She didn’t want to linger over wounds that didn’t have a ready bandage. “My father was not particularly kind to me as I grew to become an adult, but that is hardly your affair. I’m sorry, my lord.”
She licked her lips, embarrassed that she had allowed herself to sink so low in the mire of her past. It was hardly his fault that her father had bartered her for his title. For the first time in her life, she recognized her father’s machinations for what they were. She could be as angry at Simon as she chose, but the truth was that her father had orchestrated it all. He had sold her for a title, and once she was gone, he no longer had a need for her. All the happy childhood memories in the world could not supplant that bitter fact.
Simon brushed a kiss over her forehead. “I’m sorry, my dear. My father was an utter bastard as well. All he left me was a mountain of debt and no true solution.”
No true solution. Maggie winced, for she knew she’d been the solution. Or rather, her father’s willingness to provide him with a fat dowry had been. “I suppose we are both the victims of our circumstances.” She’d never looked at the situation from such a perspective, but the more time they spent together, the more she’d come to see him differently. She felt a deep empathy toward Simon, who was a man who’d been set adrift on the ocean of life every bit as much as she.
“I suppose we are.” His expression was as solemn as his gaze was searching. “Perhaps we ought to begin again, toss away the old hurts between us. What say you, my dear?”
If he’d surprised her before, he shocked her now with his unexpected query. The lonely life she’d led since her marriage could not have prepared her for this moment, for the discovery that her husband wasn’t wholly the cad she’d believed him to be. That he was just a man who had made unwanted decisions the same as she.
“I would like that very much.” The words were torn from her, an admission she didn’t want to give but one she needed to give. She could only hope they wouldn’t prove her undoing.