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“That is unexpected advice coming from you,” Margery said. She
had sprung to her feet and was confronting him. “You intend to make a
passionless match with some equally cold-blooded aristocrat. Why criticize me
for doing the best I can?”

“That was different,” Henry said, keeping a tight hold on his
temper and his self-control. “That was what I wanted. I do not want to marry for
love, but you are denying what you want.”

Margery’s slender shoulders lifted in another shrug. “A love
match was what I used to want before I understood how the world worked. The best
thing I can do now is to marry a man whose estate and title match my own. In
that way, we will both understand the bargain we have made.” She smiled.
“Perhaps I could even catch myself a duke.”

“Perhaps you could,” Henry said, through his teeth. She looked
so fresh and pretty in her springlike dress, and she sounded so spoiled,
corrupted by all she had gained. He felt a violent wave of anger.

“Since you outrank me, and I am not suitable to put myself
forward as a husband, pray remember to call on me as your lover when you have
produced the heir and the spare,” he said. “No doubt you are aware that that is
the way fashionable society operates. If you are to adopt some of its customs,
why not all of them?”

He found he had already taken a step toward her. He took
another. She did not retreat because it was not in her nature. She stood her
ground and looked at him, looked down her nose at him, in fact, with all the
disdain of the Templemores. Henry had never found disdain arousing before; in
Margery he found it provocative in the extreme. He wanted to toss her onto the
sofa so recently occupied by his mother and the Dowager Lady Radnor and make
wild love to her.

“How odious you can be,” Margery said. “I wish you had not come
back.”

“I doubt you would think me odious if you were in my bed,”
Henry said. “You may be above me, but you might find it stimulating to have me
under you.”

Margery’s mouth rounded into a small outraged O. “If I wished
to take a lover,” she said, rallying, “I am sure I could do a great deal better
than you.”

That was fighting talk, and Henry could see that Margery knew
full well it was dangerous. There was trepidation as well as defiance in her
eyes now.

That was the trouble with the Templemores; they had always been
reckless in the extreme. He had simply not expected to see that recklessness in
Margery. Nor had he expected to find it so stimulating. Not that his behavior
was any better. He was already halfway down the road to ruin—Margery’s ruin—and
riding hell for leather. He knew it. He could feel his self-control slipping.
There was a devil in him, the same one that had possessed his father, the one he
had fought so hard for so long to deny with his devotion to duty and his
rejection of all that was rakish and unprincipled.

The devil won. He put out a negligent hand and caught Margery’s
elbow, drawing her toward him. The sleeve of her gown felt smooth beneath his
fingers and her arm was warm, soft and rounded beneath the light muslin. He
heard her intake of breath, a tiny catch in the throat. Her eyes were still wide
and defiant but beneath the surface lurked all manner of fascinating emotions.
She knew she was pushing the edge of his control but that in itself was enough
to excite her. He could see it in the smoky silver of her eyes, and that
knowledge brought him back to the edge of arousal, tempting him almost beyond
endurance.

“You think that you could find a better lover than me,” he said
very softly. “And you are basing that assumption on…what, precisely? Given that
you were a virgin a month ago, I imagine your means of comparison would be
decidedly limited.”

Margery gasped. “A gentleman would not mention such a
thing.”

“I beg your pardon,” Henry said. “I was simply stating a fact.
If you have managed to extend your amorous education in the past few weeks, as
well as becoming heiress to the richest earldom in the country, then do
enlighten me. After all, I have not been here to follow your progress.”

“What I have been doing in the past few weeks is not your
business,” Margery said. She looked at him with cold, hard dislike. “I wish you
had not come back,” she repeated.

She tweaked her sleeve from his grip and whisked past him and
out of the room. The door closed softly behind her.

Henry swore under his breath. He walked slowly across to the
window. The last of the visitors were departing, the carriage wheels spattering
the gravel. Bryson handled his team well. He was a very accomplished whip. And
he would make Margery very unhappy as a husband.

Henry swore again. Margery was right; it was none of his
business. The fact that he wanted her future to be his business meant that he
was deep in trouble, deeper than when he had gone away two weeks before. He had
come back fully intending to speak with Lord Templemore and be gone. He had not
planned to be drawn into Margery’s life at all.

That was the trouble with good intentions, Henry thought. The
road to hell was paved with them.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Ace of Cups: The start of love

T
HAT
AFTERNOON
M
ARGERY
was sitting by the fountain watching the goldfish flirting
their lazy fins beneath the lily leaves. She had brought a book with her, a
Gothic romance by Clara Reeve called
The Old English
Baron
. She had found it in her grandfather’s extensive library, a
room that had overawed her when she had first seen it, with its floor-to-ceiling
bookshelves and well-thumbed collection.

Lord Templemore had been delighted to find her browsing. Her
mother, he said, had read nothing other than the fashionable magazines. Margery
hardly felt qualified to call herself bookish but she did enjoy having the
leisure to read. As a maid, she had only been able to snatch moments between her
duties and so often fell asleep at night over her books.

One of the peacocks strutted up to her across the gravel. It
gave a loud cry and spread its tail feathers in shimmering display, turning back
and forth so that she might admire it. Margery smiled. She was starting to get
quite fond of the bad-tempered birds. Perhaps the poor thing wanted to mate and
felt frustrated. She sympathized.

She wished Henry had not come back. Except that she had missed
him quite desperately every single day of his absence. She had felt bereft and
lonely, angry with herself for the weakness but powerless to prevent it.

She had been so pleased to see him and so
angry
to see him. Her heart had felt as though it might burst and
she had been quite breathless. She did not quite understand her own emotions but
she understood all too well why she had tried to provoke him this morning in an
attempt to appear as though she did not care. It had been a spectacularly bad
idea that had left her feeling more miserable than ever.

Lust and passion. That was all Henry could offer her. She
wanted it, but she could not have it with honor and never with love.

She sighed. Being Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre was decidedly
more a bed of thorns than roses at the moment. On the outside, the expensive
gowns made her a lady, but she was still grappling with her new role. She was
learning about the estate and the way that Templemore was run. She was also
learning the social graces. It felt as though she had spent an inordinate amount
of time with Lady Wardeaux and Lady Emily learning how to arrange flowers and
how to supervise dinner menus.

Lady Wardeaux had also tutored her in the superficial discourse
required on social occasions. She could chat comfortably to the neighbors about
the weather or the state of the roads. She could offer the vicar tea and discuss
feminine accomplishments with his wife. She could even, at a pinch, act as
hostess for her grandfather if he chose to hold a formal dinner.

In other ways, however, she was sadly lacking. She possessed
few feminine accomplishments such as painting watercolors or playing the piano.
She could sew, of course, since it had been one of the skills she needed as a
lady’s maid, but she had had only the most basic of educations and knew no
languages and precious little about history or geography. Lady Wardeaux, in a
rare moment of encouragement, had pointed out to her that no one liked a
bluestocking, but Margery still felt inadequate.

She was not sure what she was supposed to do all day either.
According to Lady Wardeaux she was already doing it, but being Lady Marguerite
was not really a job. It did not require her to get up at five in the morning to
clean grates or to carry hot water.

She had hoped that her brothers might come to visit her so that
she could recapture something of her old self and her old life, but Jed had not
replied to her letter. Billy had congratulated her on her good fortune and asked
for a loan, but had made no mention of visiting her. That only left Jem, who was
apparently out of London on some typically vague business that was bound to be
illegal, immoral or both. Margery felt a little hurt to be so abandoned. She had
thought she was close to her brothers and she needed them.

This morning she had stood before the enormous portrait of her
mother in the Blue Saloon and tried to draw something, anything, from the pretty
painted face that looked down at her with such unconscious arrogance. Lady Rose,
Margery now realized, had been the sort of spoiled little rich girl whom she had
deplored when she was a maidservant, the type of woman who had taken her
material comforts for granted and who had ignored those she thought of as
beneath her. As for Margery’s father, there were no pictures of him in the
house, not even a miniature, because he had been a thoroughly bad lot and an
utter cad. No one mentioned his name. He had even been crossed out of the family
bible where the names of the Templemores were recorded back through several
centuries.

“Excuse me, milady.” William, one of Templemore’s many footmen,
was approaching her over the gravel. The peacocks scattered, squawking and
shedding their tail feathers. William bowed to her. “Lord Templemore requests
that you join him in his study, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” Margery got to her feet and dusted down her
skirts. “How is your mama, William?” she asked as the footman followed her
deferentially indoors. “I heard that she has not been well.”

“She is much recovered now, thank you, ma’am,” William said,
holding the garden door open for her. “She asked me to thank you for the fruit
you sent.”

Margery nodded. “It was a pleasure. The hothouses produce far
more than we can use here, so it is nice to share.”

“Lady Templemore used to do the same,” William said. “His
lordship’s late wife. You are the spitting image of her, ma’am.” He blushed as
though he had spoken out of turn. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but she was a
lovely lady, your grandmama, so I heard.”

No one ever said that about her mother, Margery thought.

She blinked as she went into the darkness of the West Passage
with its stone-flagged hall and hideous gold furniture. Chessie had told her
that, like the ugly gilt clock in the Red Saloon, the tables and spindly chairs
were from the palace of King Louis XIV of France and were worth a fortune.
Personally she considered them a crime against good taste and impractical into
the bargain. No one could sit on a chair like that. It would collapse.

She knocked on the door of her grandfather’s parlor. He bade
her enter.

Henry was with him. There was a pile of drawings and diagrams
on the big cherrywood table in the center of the room, but these had been
temporarily abandoned and the two men were playing chess at the smaller table in
the window. Margery stopped abruptly just inside the door. She had not imagined
that Henry’s relationship with his godfather would involve something so
frivolous as a game. They had always seemed so formal with each other. Now the
earl was smiling as he put Henry’s queen in check and Margery felt a pang of
something close to jealousy. Then she felt ashamed. Lord Templemore was her
grandfather and he loved her. She should not grudge Henry a relationship with
him, too.

The sunlight played over Henry’s glossy black hair, and when he
looked up Margery was conscious of a strange tumbling feeling in her
stomach.

“Checkmate,” Lord Templemore said with considerable
satisfaction.

“I concede the game.” Henry stood and bowed to Margery. “Lady
Marguerite? Would you care to take my place?”

“I don’t play games of skill and cunning,” Margery said. “I am
far too honest.”

Henry laughed. “You don’t play games,” he said. “Is that
so?”

Already it was there, that undercurrent of awareness that
always flared between them. Margery tried to ignore it. She went over to the
window seat and curled up on the cushion, welcoming the warmth of the May
sunshine on her back. There were far too many places in the depths of Templemore
that the light and warmth did not penetrate. It did not feel like a home.

“Stay, Henry,” Lord Templemore said, as Henry pushed back his
chair and started to walk toward the door. “I wish to speak with you both.”

“Sir,” Henry said. He shot Margery a look she could not read
but that sent more prickles of response down her spine. He resumed his seat, his
dark gaze steady and watchful.

“I have been thinking,” the earl said, “that it would be useful
for Margery to see more of the estate. She has been here a month now and is
finding her feet. I would like you to show her around.”

Margery’s stomach lurched. She had taken it for granted that
Henry would be returning to London or Wardeaux once his business at Templemore
was finished. The last thing she required was her grandfather issuing him with
orders to stay.

She looked up, saw tht Henry was smiling quizzically at her and
realized that every last one of her thoughts had shown on her face. She knew in
that moment that Henry had planned to refuse Lord Templemore’s request but now,
given her reaction, he would agree to the earl’s request. Margery frowned
fiercely at him. He met the look with a bland smile.

He opened his mouth. Margery forestalled him.

“I would not dream of inconveniencing Lord Wardeaux any
further, Grandpapa,” she said lightly. “I am persuaded that he has plenty of
other matters demanding his attention and we shall manage very well without
him.” She looked at Henry. “Do you not have a home to go to, Lord Wardeaux?”

“I have my estate at Wardeaux, as you are well aware, Lady
Marguerite,” Henry said. “However nothing would give me greater delight than to
show you around the Templemore estate. You will find my help invaluable, I am
sure.” His smile deepened. “Templemore it is no plaything for a girl.”

Oh.
It was a very deliberate
challenge and Margery felt it like a jab in the ribs. She was helpless to
resist. There was something about Henry that was so provocative. He got under
her skin every single time.

“I am well aware of that, Lord Wardeaux,” she said coldly.
“That is why I asked Mr. Churchward to spend so much time taking me through all
the details of the estate so that I would be as well versed in its operation as
any
man
might be.”

“You will need to ride about the estate to see how it works in
practice,” Henry said. “You do ride?” he added with an expressive lift of the
brows. It was clear he thought she could not.

Margery smiled triumphantly. “My adoptive father was a
blacksmith, Lord Wardeaux,” she said. “I have been around horses since I could
walk. I may not ride in the fashion prescribed for ladies, but we are in the
country now, not in Hyde Park.”

“Splendid,” Henry said. “We shall ride out tomorrow and I may
admire your seat.”

“If we must,” Margery said, through gritted teeth.

“What about dancing?” The earl was watching them, a little
smile playing about his mouth. “Dancing is a social grace you will require in
London.”

Margery’s eyes met Henry’s. She was remembering the dance they
had shared on the darkened terrace, before she had known who he was. Desolation
swept through her. It felt as though that had been another world.

“I dance very poorly,” she said.

“Henry will teach you,” the earl said, waving a hand in his
lordly manner.

“I would prefer to learn from a proper dancing master,” Margery
said. She was starting to feel like a kettle coming slowly to the boil. She
could feel the anger bubbling inside at the way in which the earl and his godson
were ordering her life in so superior and patronizing a fashion. “For all I
know, Lord Wardeaux might be an appallingly bad dancer.”

“I promise you I dance very well, Lady Marguerite,” Henry said,
smiling at her in a way that told her he had not forgotten one stolen moment of
their forbidden waltz. “All the Duke of Lord Wellington’s officers do. I would
not dream of stepping on your feet.”

“God forbid,” Margery said. “And I would not dream of putting
you to so much trouble, Lord Wardeaux.”

“No trouble at all,” Henry said smoothly.

Their gazes locked. “I fear you underestimate me,” Margery said
sweetly. “I shall be a very great deal of trouble. You have no idea how much
trouble I can be.”

Henry’s smile was for her alone and promised all manner of
sinful retribution. “I shall do my best to deal with you,” he said.

“Was that what you wished to discuss, Grandpapa?” Margery
asked. “My proficiency at riding and dancing, or lack of it? I do not wish to
keep Lord Wardeaux any longer than necessary.”

“No,” Lord Templemore said, his lips twitching. “There was
another matter that I have been discussing with Mr. Churchward.”

“I do hope,” Margery said, looking directly at Henry, “that you
have not asked Mr. Churchward to draw up a marriage settlement, Grandpapa.”

“God forbid,” Henry said. He turned to the earl. “I have no
designs on Templemore and even fewer on your granddaughter, sir.”

Margery glared at him. “Tell me, Lord Wardeaux, do you practice
being so rude or is it a natural accomplishment?”

“You are both ahead of me,” the earl said, a twinkle in his
eye. “Do you wish to wed? If only you had mentioned it, I would have asked
Churchward to arrange matters before he set off for London—”

“You are teasing me, Grandpapa,” Margery said. “Lord Wardeaux
and I would not suit.”

“A pity,” the earl said. He reached for the sheaf of papers
resting on the rosewood table at his elbow and perched a pair of half-moon
glasses on the end of his nose.

“Now, Margery, my dear child,” he said. “I have asked Mr.
Churchward to devise this new arrangement so that in the event of my death—”

“You’re not going to die, Grandpapa,” Margery interrupted. She
felt cold all of a sudden. She knew that the earl had been very ill; the doctors
had been frank with her that his heart was weak and his health poor, but she had
persuaded herself that her arrival had so lifted his spirits that he would
recover. In all of her new life the only warmth and affection she felt was from
her grandfather. She simply could not countenance losing him so soon and
rattling around in the big, dark rooms of Templemore all alone. She would be
utterly lost.