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She sawed furiously at her beef. Of all the cold, indifferent,
stiff-necked, stuffed-shirted pomposity. She would never understand the
aristocracy and she did not want to be one of them.

The beef was removed and pudding served. Gradually the room
resumed what passed for a normal air. The ladies withdrew for tea; the gentlemen
were left to their port. Lady Wardeaux delicately ignored Margery’s social gaffe
and chatted about the warm springlike weather until Barnard came to tell them
that the jewels had been laid out for them to try on in the Red Saloon.

“I know I did a bad thing,” Margery whispered to Chessie,
catching her arm as they made their way past the library. “But I cannot quite
work out whether it was worse to mention love, or to do so in front of the
servants.”

Chessie gave a snort of laughter. “It is Lady Wardeaux who
showed bad manners,” she whispered back.

“I bumped into Lady Antonia at Lady Grant’s most recent ball,”
Margery said. “She was vile.”

Chessie pulled an expressive face. “She has vileness perfected
to an art form,” she agreed. “Not even Henry deserved that.”

The Red Saloon glittered, the light from the chandeliers
throwing back the sparkle and gleam of a dozen different items of jewelry
Barnard had laid out in their velvet cases. Edith, Margery’s maid, had set out a
table with a mirror and a stand of candles.

Lady Wardeaux fell on the jewels rather like a magpie, picking
them up, holding them to the light, exclaiming over them. Margery, catching
Chessie’s eye, tried not to laugh, but there was no denying that they were a
stunning collection. She simply could not accept that one day they would all be
hers, especially not the earl’s coronet with its ermine trim and eight silver
balls.

“Am I going to have to wear that barbaric thing?” she whispered
to Chessie in abject horror.

“Only for state occasions such as the coronation of monarchs,”
Chessie said comfortingly and Margery almost fainted at the thought of it.

“Let us hope the King has many more years in him, then,” she
said.

“I think that might be a vain hope.” It was Henry’s voice.
Margery looked up to see that he and Lord Templemore had joined them. Her
grandfather was settling himself in one of the wide armchairs near the fire, a
brandy glass at his elbow and the inevitable spaniel at his feet.

“Henry will help you try on the jewels,” Lord Templemore
said.

A little shiver ran through Margery at the thought of Henry
placing the stones about her neck. She felt self-conscious enough without him
near her. Already the skin of her neck and shoulders, uncovered by the modestly
low bodice of her evening gown, felt strangely sensitized as though it was only
awaiting his touch.

“How singular,” she said. “I did not imagine you as a lady’s
maid, Lord Wardeaux.”

A spark of wicked amusement leapt into Henry’s eyes. “My
experience is quite extensive,” he murmured.

“That I do not doubt,” Margery snapped. “You shall not be
extending it further at my expense, however.”

Henry smiled. “I assure you, you will not find it an unpleasant
experience. Shall we?” He gestured to the chair that Edith had placed in front
of the mirror. Gritting her teeth, Margery sat as he took up a position behind
her left shoulder. A tapestry panel embroidered with dragons in red and green
stood to one side, partially screening the table from the room.

“Try this.” Chessie was offering a pretty little silver tiara
that sparkled with tiny rubies. Henry placed it gently on Margery’s head, his
fingers entangling for one brief moment in her hair, loosening the pins.
Margery’s scalp tingled. Little shivers skipped through her and her toes curled
in her satin slippers. She felt hot and flustered. A strand of her fine
honey-dark hair slid down her neck like a caress to feather over one bare
shoulder, satin soft against her skin. She felt Henry’s fingers move again and
another curl slid surreptitiously from its carefully arranged pins to tease her
nape.

Margery shifted on the chair, feeling a dangerous excitement
squeeze all the air from her lungs. She knew that Henry was doing this on
purpose and she was determined to resist this seduction of her senses but it was
not easy. The combination of Henry’s touch and the caress of the jewels was a
potent one.

The room seemed too bright, hot and airless. Already she felt a
little light-headed and she was achingly aware of Henry standing directly behind
her, his body close to hers. She knew she was susceptible to him but she had had
no idea that she would also find the trappings of luxury so seductive, that she
would be bewitched by the sensual shift of silk against her skin and the heavy
glitter of the priceless jewels. With each step she seemed to move further away
from the life she had known and into a new world of lavish excess. And she liked
it. She could feel it tempting her, drawing her in. She shivered voluptuously,
closing her eyes.

“Here is the matching ruby necklace.” Chessie had evidently
seen nothing strange in her for she was smiling, holding out a delicate
silver-and-ruby filigree necklace that Henry fastened about Margery’s throat.
She felt the cool silver against her skin then she felt Henry’s hand slide down
from her nape, down the exposed line of her spine, slow and sure, in a
deliberate stroke that had her quivering.

Chessie was saying something about the ruby necklace being too
insipid but Margery could not concentrate on the words, could concentrate on
nothing but the sly downward glide of Henry’s fingertips against her bare back.
They reached the first button and paused, again very deliberately.

Margery caught her breath on a gasp. Surely he was not going to
undress her here and now, slide the buttons from their moorings and leave her
exposed in her petticoats and drawers in front of everyone. But of course not.
He was teasing her. His fingers moved on to brush against the top edge of her
gown, over the tender line of her shoulder blade, and in a devastating flash of
understanding Margery realized exactly what he was doing. He was seducing her in
full view of the assembled company, reducing her to a state of desperate longing
that she was finding it increasingly difficult to hide. And he had only just
started. A heavy pulse started to beat in her blood, primitive and
insistent.

Her gaze flew up to meet Henry’s in the mirror. His was dark
and impassive, completely unreadable. He unhooked the silver necklace and passed
it back to Chessie, who exchanged it for a river of emeralds that flashed green
fire. Chessie took the rubies away and Henry hung the emeralds gently about
Margery’s throat in their place. Once again she felt his fingers, warm and
strong, brush the nape of her neck as he fastened the clasp. Once again his eyes
rose to meet hers in the glass, then his gaze dropped very purposefully to where
the huge center stone of the necklace was cradled between her breasts.

Margery could feel the cold, hard emerald against her warm
skin. A shiver racked her and she felt the heat rise in her like a furnace. Soon
she would be burning up.

“You look quite delicious,” Henry murmured.

Margery grabbed the matching eardrops, her fingers shaking a
little as she tried to fasten them. She wondered that nobody could see the state
she was in, ruffled, disturbed and thoroughly aroused. But no one was watching
them. Her grandfather appeared to have fallen asleep before the fire with the
spaniels at his feet, Lady Wardeaux and Lady Emily were still trying on a
variety of coronets and bracelets, chattering together farther down the room,
and Chessie, too, had been distracted by a splendid sapphire necklace that
matched her eyes.

Besides, the table was a little turned at an angle from the
room and the mirror was wide and Henry’s body shielded her from sight. The
dragon screen hid them from the side and suddenly it was as though they were
alone. It felt strange but utterly compelling that in a room full of people she
was only aware of Henry, of the dark, heavy heat now in his eyes and the sensual
brush of his hands on her.

“Let me help you with those,” Henry said, seeing her struggles
with the eardrops. His voice was quite indifferent but his fingers brushed
lightly up her throat to her earlobe, tugging it gently down so that it accepted
the weight of the huge, heavy emerald stone. The clip snapped shut on Margery’s
skin with a sharp bite that was half pleasure, half pain.

Margery caught her breath on a tiny moan as a bolt of pure
carnal desire shot through her to center between her thighs. Her nipples
hardened instantly to tight peaks beneath the pink silk of her evening gown. She
jerked on the chair. She could not help herself. Her gaze, shocked, sought
Henry’s in the glass, but his head was bent as he took the other stone in the
palm of his hand. He waited and Margery could feel anticipation tighten like a
knot in her belly.

“You will have to be very quiet.” Henry’s voice was a dark
whisper.

His hand came up. Margery felt a long ripple of arousal shimmer
through her and the throb of sharp lust in the pit of her stomach. Henry’s
fingers tugged her earlobe down. Margery’s body jolted again in response and
then the clasp snapped shut and the delicious, painful sting of it pulsated
through her. This time the carnal pleasure was sharper and deeper. The ache in
her belly was a torment, demanding satisfaction. Her skin felt hot and damp, the
dark green emerald flashing between her breasts as she took a shaken breath.

The emeralds swung, huge and heavy in her ears, each tiny
movement setting up an echo of sensual delight through her entire body. It was
exquisite. It tortured her. She was both appalled and fascinated, wanting to run
from the room but held in her seat by the fact that she was not sure her legs
would be able to carry her as far as the door.

Henry’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. His gaze was on
her reflection, on the rise and fall of her breasts and the outline of her
nipples so shamelessly hard beneath the thin silk. About her neck and between
her breasts the opulent emeralds gleamed against her skin. Margery had never
felt more aware of her body, of its heat and tightness, and of the sleek, taut
pleasure bound up so fast inside her that it positively screamed for
release.

Henry bent down so that his lips brushed her ear and his breath
stirred the stray curls at her nape. Margery almost moaned aloud, remembering at
the last moment to stifle the sound.

“Some people find jewels extremely arousing,” Henry murmured,
“and it seems you are more responsive to them than most.” His lips touched the
curve of her neck and he bit down, very gently, against her bare skin. Margery
squirmed, her nipples unbearably tight and hard, stimulated by the silken slide
of her gown and the soft chemise beneath.

“Who would have thought that such decadence would so excite
you?” Henry’s tongue salved the sting of the bite and this time a tiny moan did
escape Margery’s lips.

“Here are the Templemore diamonds!” Lady Wardeaux’s voice
sounded too loud, too triumphant, shattering the moment. Margery jumped. Henry’s
expression changed, the sensual darkness in his eyes replaced by blank
impassivity.

Inside Margery was shaking. Suddenly the lights were too bright
and the chatter too loud. She felt stripped bare, exposed. She could not
understand how she could have behaved in so abandoned a fashion in a room full
of people. She had been lost to all propriety, swept away by the sensual caress
of the emeralds against her skin and the disturbing heat in Henry’s eyes.

She looked at him. He had strategically retreated behind the
table, and innocent as she was, she knew exactly why. Male arousal was
impossible to hide, particularly in such well-fitting evening trousers. It
served him right. She felt glad that he was suffering, too.

She stood up. Her legs felt a little shaky and she steadied
herself by grabbing the edge of the table.

“If you will excuse me....” Her voice sounded very odd.
Suddenly everyone was looking at her, which was exactly the opposite of what she
wanted.

“I’m very tired,” she said, hoping she looked exhausted rather
than aroused.

Chessie hurried over to help her remove the emerald necklace.
Margery pulled off the ear bobs and dropped them in the velvet case. The walk to
the door seemed very long and once out in the hall, in the safety of the
shadows, she stopped to draw a steadying breath. Her body still felt restless
and on edge, quickened with desire. She slumped to sit on the bottom step of the
grand stairs. In front of her on the wall was a huge portrait of her mother.
Margery did not particularly like it because Lady Rose looked faintly
supercilious, as she did in a great many of her portraits, so much so that
Margery was beginning to suspect that she would not have liked her mother very
much at all.

She sighed and leaned her head against the newel post. If ever
there was a warning to her to be careful in her affections, then Lady Rose
embodied it. Her mother had loved unwisely and Margery had no intention of
following in her footsteps.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Temperance Reversed: Quarrels

H
ENRY
SAT
IN
THE
G
OLD
S
ALON
and watched Margery
hold court. It was the only way to describe it; every man of marriageable age in
the neighborhood—and some who fancied themselves to be marriageable and frankly
were not—was sitting in a rapt circle about her chair. It had not taken long for
the richest heiress in England to attract the suitors.

On Margery’s left was young Hugo Wentworth, the son of a
merchant from Bristol who had bought himself a knighthood and a local manor.
Hugo was barely out of Eton. On Margery’s right was Dr. Fox, the local
physician. The squire Sir Reggie Radnor had also come to pay his respects.

Radnor was not generally interested in anything that he could
not shoot or hunt, but his terrifying mama had positively whipped him into the
salon. Henry had heard that the Radnor pockets were to let and a rich marriage
would set Reggie up to maim and kill many more feathered and furry creatures in
the neighborhood.

Holding the floor at present was the aged Lord Blunt, who had
buried three wives already and was boasting loudly to Margery that he still had
all his own teeth, a fact that she was pretending to find fascinating. Out in
the cold on the window seat was another youth, barely out of the nursery, whose
mama had tricked him out in his highest shirt points for the occasion. None of
them were remotely credible as suitors for the Templemore heiress and Henry was
not at all sure why the sight of them panting after Margery put him in such a
bad humor.

It was a fortnight since he had practically seduced Margery in
the Red Saloon in front of everyone, a fortnight in which he had scrupulously
kept out of her way as much for his own sanity as for her good. The swift and
devastating descent into desire that night had taken him by surprise as much as
it had her.

He had spent most of his time in London at the Board of
Ordnance, only returning because the earl had said that he had an urgent
business proposition he wished to discuss with him.

Henry needed his godfather’s investment in the Wardeaux estate,
but he would have preferred not to return to Templemore to discuss the matter.
As it was, his nights in London had been largely sleepless, and when he had
dreamed it had often been of Margery. They were hot, explicit dreams that had
left him hard and aching for her, and on one occasion spent, only to realize as
he woke that her presence in his bed had been an illusion.

And now he had come back and it was clear that Margery was
avoiding him. For some reason, that simply made the awareness between them more
scalding-hot and uncomfortable.

He caught Chessie Alton’s eyes upon him. She smiled
sympathetically. Henry shifted slightly. He did not want Chessie or indeed
anyone else sympathizing with him. He doubted that she would, in fact, be
sympathetic if she could read his thoughts. He was sitting here, sipping tea
from a china cup and pressing the rector to a ginger biscuit, but all the time
he was hearing Margery’s gasp of pleasure as the heavy weight of the ear bobs
pulled on her flesh, and imagining stripping the clothes from her to leave her
naked but for the Templemore emeralds.

He shifted again. The room felt hot. Margery was wearing a
pretty gown of jonquil-yellow with a scalloped neck that only hinted at the
curves beneath. The very demureness of it was strangely enticing. Henry rubbed
the back of his neck, wondering yet again if Margery’s forbidden state was
working some inverse attraction upon him. His body felt on the edge of
arousal.

He stared at the yellow ribbon threaded through Margery’s
gleaming golden-brown hair and wanted to grab it and pull it, pull the matching
ribbons on the dress as well until she was unlaced and unwrapped, warm and
willing under his hands. How galling it was to be so undone by such an innocent
and how much more self-control he would need to find each day he remained at
Templemore.

“Of course the Radnors were lords of the manor here when the
Templemores were still herding sheep,” Henry heard the Dowager Lady Radnor say
sotto voce
to Mrs. Wentworth. “But one must be
civil to rich upstarts.”

Reggie Radnor was being more than civil to Margery, Henry
thought. He had managed to possess himself of one of her hands and was running
his tongue over her knuckles in what he no doubt thought was a rakishly
seductive move. Henry felt revolted. Margery, smiling grimly, wiped the back of
her hand against her skirts.

“Dearest Lady Marguerite,” Reggie said. “I am so delighted to
make your acquaintance.
Enchanté!
Which means—”

“Please do not explain your compliments, Sir Reggie,” Margery
said. “It quite spoils their impact.”

“Alas, dear Marguerite is looking a little peaky today,” Lady
Wardeaux whispered in Henry’s ear.

“Her money is still looking frightfully attractive, however,”
Henry said, as Lord Blunt maneuvered his chair even closer to Margery.

He was not jealous. He was not possessive. Such emotions were
irrational.

“Fetching little filly, ain’t you!” Blunt said, staring down
the front of Margery’s gown. “I used to go wenching with your papa.”

“How charming, Lord Blunt,” Margery said. “I have often wanted
to learn more about him, but now I am not so sure.”

The door opened. Henry stiffened. Barnard was ushering in three
gentlemen who were of a very different complexion from the rustic gentry of the
shire. One was a dandy in an embroidered silk waistcoat and high shirt points,
the second was a sporting gentleman and the third was a Byronic-looking youth
wearing black and a rather intense expression. They brought with them an
indefinable air of fashionable society. Henry saw the other gentlemen in the
room shift and bristle at the invasion of the ton.

“The Marquis of Bryson, Lord Stephen Kestrel, Lord Fane,”
Barnard announced, with the air of a man who at last had something important to
say. Henry stood up.

“Bryson.” He offered his hand to the elegant peer who was
making his way into the room. “London lost its charm for you?”

“Visiting m’sister,” The Marquis said with a bland smile. “How
do you do, Wardeaux?”

“I thought Lady Belton lived in Devon,” Henry said.

“This is on my way,” Bryson said vaguely. He nodded to Henry
and moved across to the sofa where with utter ruthlessness he displaced Sir
Reggie from Margery’s side, took her hand and held it between both of his in a
manner that made Henry want to punch him.

“I hear there is to be an assembly in Faringdon tomorrow night,
Lady Marguerite,” Lord Fane put in eagerly. “I do hope you will be gracing it
with your presence.”

Suddenly the room seemed to have woken from its rather sleepy
pleasantries and was full of chatter and masculine laughter. Lord Stephen
Kestrel, gracefully acceding to Bryson’s claim on Margery, had taken a chair
beside Chessie, perhaps thinking he might get to the heiress through her
companion. Or perhaps Margery was not his objective at all. Henry noted that
Chessie blushed and smiled at Lord Stephen, and Lord Stephen in turn seemed
extremely pleased to see her. Kestrel was a good man, Henry thought. He was glad
he was not dangling after Margery because, unlike Bryson, there was nothing
about him to object to at all.

Lord Fane was hanging on the back of Margery’s chair and
hanging on her every word. Rather cunningly he was claiming to be a distant
cousin to her and therefore to have a prior claim on her attention.

“I knew this would happen!” Lady Wardeaux hissed in Henry’s
ear. “The gentlemen of the ton simply could not wait for Marguerite to return to
London so they have come courting here. She will be wed in a trice! Henry, do
something!”

“I am not sure what you expect me to do,” Henry said, “other
than carry Lady Marguerite off.”

“Would you?” his mother asked hopefully.

The idea held a certain degree of appeal, Henry thought. But he
could not act on it. Marriage to Margery, aside from branding him the biggest
fortune hunter in the ton, would be a helter-skelter mix of lust and argument
until the lust died and the argument turned rancid. He shuddered at the thought
of all that chaos.

He realized that Margery was looking at him. This was in itself
unusual, since she had made a point of keeping out of his way ever since his
return. Now, though, there was quite definitely a plea in the silver depths of
her eyes. Henry found it oddly difficult to resist that appeal. He strode
languidly over to her sofa, edged Lord Fane out of the way and rested his hands
on the back directly behind her. If his fellow peers chose to interpret that as
a sign that he exercised a prior claim, he was not averse to that in order to
chase them away.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Pleasant as it has been to see you all,
I fear that Lady Marguerite is about to expire beneath the weight of your
attentions. So if you would not mind…”

“Thank you,” Margery whispered to him and when she smiled Henry
felt a ridiculous pleasure.

His words created a certain amount of resentment. “So, Wardeaux
thinks to steal a march,” he heard Fane say to Bryson as Barnard ushered the
overzealous suitors from the room. “Good luck to him—I suppose she is quite a
fetching little piece if one can ignore the smell of the servants’ hall, but she
is not good enough for me.”

Henry found himself possessed of such a white-hot fury that his
hands itched to take Fane by the cravat and strangle the life out of him. He
balled his fists at his sides, and instead derived a certain pleasure from
sticking his foot out as Fane passed him, sending the peer sprawling in the
entrance hall in front of everyone.

“In your proper place, Fane,” Henry said pleasantly. “Beneath
Lady Marguerite’s feet.” He strolled back into the saloon feeling absurdly
pleased with himself.

“The local gentry are small fry,” Lady Wardeaux was saying to
Margery, “but one must keep in with them. As for the others—” Her face creased
with displeasure. “It is most unfortunate that they did not see fit to wait
until you went to London, Marguerite.”

“The local innkeepers must be delighted,” Henry said. It would
be like this from here on in, he thought. There would be an endless troop of
hopeful peers through the house until Margery made her choice. He wondered if
she realized just how besieged she would be. Drawing a deep breath, he tried to
drive out all the inappropriately possessive feelings the thought
engendered.

Margery had started to collect the plates and teacups, stacking
them neatly on the table.

“Marguerite, my dear—” An expression of abject horror crossed
Lady Wardeaux’s features. “Pray do not remove the cups. That is the footman’s
task.”

She went out to chivvy the servants and Margery sat back with a
sigh, picking up a copy of
La Belle Assemblée
and
flicking through it. A silence descended on the drawing room but it was a
silence sharp with awareness. Margery broke it after a moment.

“I quite had it in mind to wed Sir Reggie,” she said lightly,
“until the Marquis of Bryson arrived.” Her silver-gray gaze was guileless. “He
is
extremely
handsome.”

Henry looked at her. It was impossible to tell whether she was
sincere or not. He supposed that two weeks might completely change her beliefs
about marriage, but it would be surprising, since one of Margery’s abiding
characteristics was stubbornness. On the other hand, this elegant creature
before him, so fresh and pretty in her bright yellow muslin, had a certain
brittle air of sophistication about her that the Margery Mallon he had known a
month before had definitely lacked.

The bright candor that had so warmed him had vanished. Henry
felt a lurch in his stomach to think that a mere four weeks might have changed
Margery so fundamentally. Yet it was not impossible. She was the richest heiress
in the ton now, and might have developed attitudes to match. Not every young
woman coming into such an inheritance would remain unspoiled.

“Bryson keeps a stable of mistresses the way that most men keep
a stable of horses,” he said.

“I thought that was
de
rigueur
in the ton,” Margery said, her eyes mocking
him over the top of the magazine. “I understand that you had an opera singer in
keeping. Just the one, so I believe. Perhaps you do not have Lord Bryson’s
stamina?”

Minx.
Henry, who had resolved not
to be drawn into a dispute with Margery any more than he was going to make love
to her, was tempted to break his vow on the spot.

“I thought you believed that love was a prerequisite for
marriage,” he said. “Did you then fall in love with Lord Bryson at first
sight?”

Margery raised a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Perhaps I was
a little naive about that. I do not believe that love matches sit well with the
ton. If I am to make a marriage of convenience, then is not any man as good as
another?”

She sounded sincere. She looked sincere. Henry felt anger and
disillusion stir in him that she had so easily, so carelessly, dismissed the
principles that had been important to her and was now as vapid and shallow as
any spoiled debutante. He took the magazine from her hand and tossed it down
onto the sofa. Margery’s eyes widened with surprise and annoyance.

“If you are to make a marriage of convenience,” Henry said, “it
would be better to settle for Lord Blunt. At least he might die soon.”

“I do not see that it matters much,” Margery said dismissively.
“Whoever I choose will have no real respect for me. He will deplore my
upbringing while spending my money. You heard Lord Fane’s comment.”

“All the more reason to find a worthy man.” Henry felt that
ungovernable fury again for Fane’s boorishness, and with it a fierce
protectiveness for her. He wanted to defend her against the slights and the
snobbery of the ton. At the same time, he wanted to shake her for even
considering abandoning her principles and selling herself into an advantageous
marriage.