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Suddenly he pounced on her, kissing her so deeply and so
possessively that she forgot her anger in the wave of urgency that swamped her.
She felt as though she was falling into darkness, felt as though her whole body
was rising and opening to him. In that moment she was his completely without
pretense or calculation and it felt so undeniably right that she trembled with
it.

Two deer crashed through the undergrowth beside them and out
onto the path, and Henry let go of her so abruptly that she gasped. Pleasure
fled and she became aware of the rain that was still falling and the chill of
her body. She started to shake with a mixture of cold and shock.

She heard Henry swear softly. He drew her to her feet. His
expression was dark and closed and, as ever, Margery had no idea what he was
thinking. He looked her over and she was acutely conscious of the way her
sopping-wet riding habit clung to every curve. Henry pressed his lips together
in a thin line. He looked angry.

She started to brush the old leaves from her riding habit, her
fingers shaking a little. Henry was gently removing the twigs from her hair and
she was devastatingly aware of the stir of his fingers through the tangled
strands. He passed her hat to her while she self-consciously smoothed down her
crumpled skirts. She felt stiff and soaked and bewildered.

“I don’t understand!” she burst out. Her eyes searched his
face. “What happened?”

“Lust,” Henry said. “The natural consequence of proximity and—”
his gaze traveled over her thoughtfully and she blushed all over “—your
delightfully disheveled state.”

Margery felt a flare of annoyance that she had even bothered to
ask. “How very
primitive
you are, Lord Wardeaux,”
she said.

“I’m no different from most men,” Henry said. A smile touched
the corner of his mouth. “I only tell the truth. Why dress it up as something it
is not, Lady Marguerite?”

“You mean something like love?” Margery said tartly. “God
forbid. Sometimes I don’t even
like
you very
much.”

“You don’t need to like me to kiss me,” Henry said.

“Clearly,” Margery snapped. Misery fluttered inside her. It
felt like a betrayal to dismiss her response to Henry so casually. What had
happened between them had felt too intimate and special to be nothing more than
base nature. She could have sworn that there had been true emotion. Yet it had
meant nothing to Henry so it could only be her inexperience that made her give
the kiss more significance than it possessed.

She stole a glance at him but he had turned away to climb back
up onto the track. He was scanning the shadowy depths beneath the trees.

“Come along,” he said abruptly. “We should not linger here. I
imagine the horses will have run for home but it is not far.”

“Who was shooting at us?” Margery was shocked that she had
almost forgotten the panic and fear of their flight in the heat of what had
happened afterward.

“Poachers, I expect,” Henry said. She saw a muscle flicker in
his cheek. “We have had trouble with them in the last few months—although
normally they do not attack anyone.”

Fifty yards farther along, the woods fell back and Margery was
astonished to see that they were at the edge of the Templemore deer park. She
had not imagined the house to be so close.

“I need to take some of the men and find this poacher of ours,”
Henry said. He was already turning away.

Unexpected fear clutched at Margery’s heart. She grabbed his
sleeve between her fingers, the words tumbling out before she could stop
them.

“Don’t go back,” she said. “It might be dangerous.”

Henry stopped. Very slowly he turned to look at her. There was
an arrested look in his eyes as he stared down into her face, a look that
suddenly stripped away all pretense. Margery felt her stomach drop as though she
had missed a step in the dark. She felt confused and vulnerable, and she did not
want Henry to read that in her eyes. Her feelings were too naked.

She would have allowed her hand to fall but it was too late. He
covered it with his own. His fingers were warm and strong over hers.

“I shall be quite safe,” he said softly and Margery’s heart
gave an errant thump.

She wanted to resume the pretense and claim that she was not
worried for him but the light words would not come. Instead, she simply looked
at him and could not look away. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Please.”

Something moved and shifted in his eyes. “Margery,” he said,
and there was a tone in his voice that she had not heard before. Her heart
fluttered.

Henry leaned forward very slowly and gave her a brief, hard
kiss. Her lips clung to his, parted. The caress, so short and yet so potent, set
up a trembling deep inside her. Henry’s fingers slid from hers reluctantly as he
stepped back. There was a baffled look in his eyes now as he looked down at
her.

“I should go—” He made a vague gesture in the general direction
of the stables. He sounded slightly confused, as though someone had hit him over
the head with a heavy object.

Margery cleared her throat. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

She watched him walk away. After a few paces he turned to look
back at her. He stood staring at her for a very long moment.

Margery picked up her mud-spattered skirts and headed for the
door. The ache in her ankle had dulled now. The footman, wooden-faced, bowed her
inside. The long gilt mirrors bounced her reflection back at her, wet, muddy,
hair bedraggled, cheeks radiantly pink, eyes like stars. She paused. She looked
happy. Which was odd, given that she had just had such a distressing experience.
In fact, not only did she look happy, she looked…

Her heart gave another errant thump. She remembered the slide
of Henry’s fingers in hers and the sweetness of his kiss.

Oh, no.

She could not be.

She could
not
be in love with Henry
Wardeaux.

But there was no arguing with it.

Because she was.

* * *

W
HAT
THE
HELL
HAD
happened there?

As Henry directed the grooms and estate workers to fan out
through the woods in the hunt for any poachers, a large part of his mind was
still preoccupied with the moment he had kissed Margery on the steps of the
house. The kiss in the woods had been easier to understand; tension, proximity
and the wet riding habit clinging to Margery’s every curve had overcome his
self-control, which these days hung by an increasingly slender thread. That, in
itself, was troubling enough. But the second kiss had been even more disturbing.
When Margery had begged him to take care he had been thrown completely off
balance. He had felt as though the world tipped on its axis and had not quite
steadied again.

He felt the shift and slide of some emotion deep inside. It was
disconcerting. His disliked it intensely because it was incomprehensible and
irrational. Yet he could not deny it. Nor could he banish it. It followed on
from the equally disturbing experience of the previous week and the violent
clutch of fear he had felt when he had realized that Margery was trapped in her
burning bedchamber. No power on earth could have prevented him from breaking
that door down to get to her. He had wanted to shake her then for being so
careless and endangering herself. He had wanted to hold her close and never let
her go again.

He gave his head an impatient shake. These were disturbing
thoughts. When Margery had spoken so candidly of her fears about her inheritance
and when she had been so generous in recognizing how important Templemore was to
him, he had felt again that warmth and sweetness he was afraid she had lost. His
hunger for her had returned fourfold, and not just his desire for her, but a
hunger to possess her utterly and draw on that sweetness for his strength.

One of the search party crashed through the brambles ahead of
him, beating the undergrowth back for any sign of poachers or their prey, and
Henry turned his attention to the search. He realized that he had been riding
along the path so deep in thought that a dozen poachers could have marched past
him carrying a brace of pheasants each and he would not have noticed because he
had been too busy thinking about Margery. It was hard not to believe that
something more than bad luck was at work here. Margery was becoming remarkably
accident-prone and he remembered Garrick’s words to him in London.

I don’t believe in random
coincidence
....

In this situation, neither did Henry. There had been the fire
and now this. It seemed that someone at Templemore did not wish Margery to
inherit.

“There’s no sign, sir.” Ned had come up to him and put his hand
on Diabolo’s bridle to catch Henry’s attention. Henry was not surprised. He was
starting to think that their mystery assailant had been no thief. In the past,
he had caught enough men roaming the woods in search of game and not one of them
had been armed with an old-fashioned bow and arrow.

“Thank you, Ned,” he said. “Take a half dozen men and search
the Upper Wood.”

The groom nodded and stood back, and Henry eased Diabolo to a
trot until he reached the point in the path where he estimated the first arrow
had struck. He stopped, looked around. Twenty feet away was a broad oak and
halfway up the trunk the wood was split. A few splinters dusted the ground
beneath.

Henry’s skin prickled. So someone had come back and removed the
arrow after he and Margery had galloped away. There could be only one reason for
that: there was a danger it might be recognized. He closed his eyes and tried to
remember everything he could about the attack. The problem was that instinct had
taken over and all he had wanted to do was protect Margery. Keeping her safe had
been the most important thing on his mind.

He ran his gloved fingers over the wound in the bark, feeling
the sharp edges of the cut even through the leather. The arrow had gone in deep.
If it had hit Margery she would have been badly injured, even killed. And that
was the thing that puzzled him the most. Both he and Margery had been sitting
ducks. A good marksman would not have missed his target.

He urged Diabolo out from under the trees and continued to
trace their path along the track, knowing even as he did so that the second
arrow would also have vanished. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to cover
his—or her—tracks.

A cold hard weight settled in his gut as he considered the
danger to Margery. Whatever happened, he had to keep her safe. It was his
responsibility to do so, an obligation he owed to Margery, to her grandfather,
to Templemore.

The use of such words reassured him. The curious emotion he had
felt earlier when Margery had caught his hand and begged him to take care was
tempered now by a sense of duty. Yet even so, he could not quite shake the
feeling that he was in danger and it was not the sort that was delivered at the
point of a poacher’s arrow.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Knight of Wands: A robust young man, an energetic warrior, a
generous friend or lover. He has a hasty personality

J
EM
M
ALLON
RODE
THE
STAGE
to Faringdon and then walked
the seven miles out to Templemore, turning in at the gates and standing for a
moment to take in the sheer scale of the estate. Before him was an extremely
pretty drive. It was shaded by lime trees on this humid spring day, but he could
have done with it being a bit shorter. By the time he was close to the house he
had taken off his jacket, loosened his neck cloth and was aware that his linen
shirt—especially laundered for the important occasion of greeting his sister,
the heiress—was sticking to his broad back.

As he approached the little stone bridge over the stream, he
saw a lady standing on the parapet looking down into the water below. She was
dressed in a pink muslin gown with a matching pink parasol. Her hair was a rich
chestnut color threaded with pink ribbon. She was tall and slender, and as she
turned to look at him he saw she had the biggest blue eyes that he had ever
seen.

Jem felt a little odd, light-headed, as though he was parched
for a drink. Perhaps it was the heat of the day or perhaps it was those blue
eyes that were now appraising him from his scuffed boots to his tousled hair.
Never in his life had Jem Mallon felt at a disadvantage with a woman but this
was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in the entire world. He should
know. He had met plenty of beautiful women, but none could hold a candle to this
one.

“Good afternoon,” she said, as he reached her side. Her voice
was cool and perfectly modulated, like a refreshing shower of water on a hot
afternoon. “You must be Mr. Jem Mallon. Margery said you would be coming.” She
smiled, straightened up and extended a hand. “How do you do? I am Francesca
Alton. I am Margery’s companion.”

Companion?

Jem had thought that only old women had companions, desiccated
old spinsters who sat around playing at whist. He took Francesca Alton’s hand,
small and cool in its lace glove. He felt an overwhelming urge to kiss the back
of it. He had never done such a thing in his life. He bowed, a little awkwardly.
Francesca Alton smiled at him again and he felt as though the sun had doubled in
strength.

“I am afraid that Margery is out at the moment visiting about
the estate,” she said. She withdrew her hand gently from his. Jem had not even
been aware that he was hanging on to it. “If you would care to come up to the
house to take tea while you wait for her to return…”

“That would be delightful,” Jem said, recovering his powers of
speech. “Thank you.”

He had never taken tea in his life but he was quite willing to
start now. In fact he was prepared to drink anything that Francesca suggested as
long as she kept him company while he did it.

Francesca was waiting and after a moment Jem realized that he
was expected to offer his arm, dusty and travel-stained as his sleeve was. He
did so, and she laid her hand delicately on it and they walked slowly up to the
house. Jem was very aware of the sway of Francesca’s hips and the way that the
pink muslin of her skirts brushed against his thigh as they walked. He was also
aware that this was a proper lady, a very proper lady, and so to harbor any
improper desires toward her was utterly pointless. She was far above him.

“Is your husband also staying at Templemore?” he asked.

For a second she looked startled. “I am a widow,” she said.
“Lord Alton died last year.”

So she was
that
Lady Alton. That
changed everything. Jem felt a doubling of interest. He had heard about
Francesca Alton and her shocking marriage to the late marquis. No doubt the
whole of London knew about it. She was without a doubt a very racy widow,
indeed, just the type he liked.

He put his hand over hers where it rested on his arm and gave
her fingers a little squeeze.

“I do hope that you have been able to find sufficient comfort
in your widowhood.”

Lady Alton gave him a look so cold that his ambitions and a
great deal else froze in that moment despite the heat of the day.

“How very thoughtful of you to be so concerned for my comfort,”
she said, in arctic tones. “I assure you that there is absolutely nothing you
can contribute to it.”

Ouch.

Jem winced. He acknowledged that he had grossly miscalculated.
Lady Alton was not a fast widow to be tumbled in the bushes on the basis of five
minutes acquaintance. Perhaps all the stories about her were not true. One could
not believe anything the papers wrote nowadays.

They walked on in silence until Lady Alton unbent sufficiently
to comment on the weather and to point out to him various items of interest
about the estate: the dovecote, the walled garden and the fountain. Jem found it
all fairly boring except as an indication of just how rich Margery must be now,
which interested him very much indeed.

They reached the gravel sweep where a number of peacocks stared
balefully at him, as though they knew he was no gentleman and should not be
permitted to set foot on Templemore turf. A footman bowed him inside the house.
The sudden shade after the dazzling sunlight was blinding for a moment. Jem
found himself standing in an enormous hallway dominated by a picture of Margery
as a small child. It was the same image that his brother Billy had found on a
miniature painting in their mother’s effects after she had died, a miniature
that had set Billy on his unfortunate quest to reunite Margery with her
inheritance. If only he had left well enough alone....

“Mr. Mallon will take tea in the drawing room, Barnard.” Lady
Alton was addressing the butler. “Pray tell Lady Wardeaux that he has arrived.”
She gave Jem a cool smile. “Good day, Mr. Mallon. I will see you later.”

“Oh,” Jem said, realizing that his chances of recovering lost
ground over a cup of tea were lost. “But—”

But she was gone. Jem realized that he would have to work a
great deal harder in order to fix the interest of the lovely Lady Alton, but he
was not a man who accepted defeat lightly. The situation still held intriguing
possibilities.

“This way, sir.” The butler ushered him into the drawing room
and Jem paused to admire the high ceilings with their exquisite plasterwork, the
thick carpet beneath his feet and the soft glow of the sun on the rosewood
furniture. The room reeked of money, but in the most discreet and tasteful way
imaginable. It was a great pity, Jem thought, that he was going to have to put a
stop to all of this. But not before he had taken advantage of it first.

* * *

“M
OLL
!”

Margery had been in the hall for no more than twenty seconds
when the door of the drawing room opened and Jem hurried out and enveloped her
in a bear hug. She hugged him back fiercely, then surprised them both by
bursting into tears.

“What’s this?” Jem, looking comically bewildered, held her at
arm’s length. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“Don’t be daft.” Margery felt a huge swell of gladness in her
heart. Jem looked so familiar, so reassuring, at a time when her heart and life
felt in total turmoil. She grabbed him again, drawing comfort from his sold
strength. “What took you so long?” she scolded. “I wrote to you weeks ago.”

“Sorry,” Jem said. “I had business to attend to.” His bright
blue gaze traveled over her, taking in her soaking clothes and general air of
dishevelment. “What on earth has happened to you?” he added, releasing her and
looking down at the smears of mud that were now adorning his beautifully cut
jacket. “You look as though you have been pulled through a hedge, and you’ve
spoiled my new jacket.”

“I fell off my horse,” Margery said. She had already decided to
say nothing about the poachers for fear that word would get to her grandfather
and upset him. Now she was doubly glad to hold her tongue. The last thing she
wanted was Jem rushing off to confront Henry about what had happened and
demanding to know why he had not taken better care of her. There would be quite
enough antagonism between the two of them without that, especially when Jem
realized that Henry was the man she had been with that night in London.

“If you will buy expensive clothes,” she said lightly, “what do
you expect?”

“I got it on tick,” Jem said with satisfaction. “Now my
sister’s going to be a countess I’ve got great expectations.”

Margery laughed. She could see Lady Wardeaux hovering behind
them, her expression creased with disgust at Jem’s vulgarity. She wondered
whether Lady Wardeaux would attempt to refine her brother in the way that she
had tried to improve Margery herself, or whether she would simply consider that
a task too challenging even for her talents.

She grabbed Jem’s sleeve.

“Walk with me to my room,” she said. “We’ve got so much to
catch up on.”

Jem offered her his arm and they walked through the hall toward
the grand stair. “That old trout is determined to send me away,” he said as the
drawing room door closed behind Lady Wardeaux. “While we were taking tea she
asked me whether I wouldn’t feel more at home staying at the Templemore Arms in
the village.”

“Well, I am sure you would,” Margery said. She gave a little
giggle. “If you stay for dinner she will probably make you take it in the
servants’ hall.”

“I’d have more fun down there,” Jem said. “I had no notion that
being a nob was so deadly dull. What do you do all day, Moll?”

“Lots of things,” Margery said tartly. “Being Lady Marguerite
is my job now. I ride out and meet the villagers and listen to their concerns
and learn all there is to know about the estate. I receive visitors, I plan
menus, I arrange flowers and I change my gown five times a day. There isn’t much
time for anything else.”

Jem yawned ostentatiously. “Well, don’t overdo the excitement,
Moll.”

“You can always go back to Town if you find it so tedious
here,” Margery said.

“Oh, I’m in no hurry to leave,” Jem said quickly. “I fancy a
taste of the high life.”

Following his gaze, Margery saw that Chessie was approaching
from the hothouses, a basket of early roses over her arm. She looked beautiful,
a vision in pink with the cream haze of the flowers only serving to accentuate
her prettiness. To Margery’s amusement Jem stopped dead in his tracks.

“I’m definitely in no hurry to go,” he repeated.

“You have already met Lady Alton then?” Margery said. “I might
have guessed.”

Jem glanced down at her but she had the impression he was not
really seeing her. “Do you mind if I leave you here?” he asked. “Lady Alton
might require my help with the flowers.”

“I doubt that,” Margery said “Especially as flower arranging
has never been one of your talents.”

“She’s lovely.” Jem was still staring as Chessie came toward
them down the West Passage. “Like a flower herself.”

“Poetry is not your forte either,” Margery said. “For goodness’
sake, Jem, you sound ridiculous.”

“I can’t help it,” Jem said. “I think I fell in love with her
at first sight.”

“Love, is it?” Margery said sharply. “I thought it was
something rather less profound. It usually is with you.”

“You can be so harsh, Moll,” Jem said, grinning.

The front door opened and Henry came in. Fortunately Jem was
still distracted watching Chessie so Margery seized her moment.

“Jem, about Henry—” Margery began.

“Who?” Jem said vaguely.

“Lord Wardeaux,” Margery said sharply, still failing to reclaim
his attention. “You met him in London. At the Hoop and Grapes.”

For a moment Jem looked completely bemused, then his expression
cleared. “Oh, the nob. Yes. What about him?”

“He’s here,” Margery said. “He’s Lord Templemore’s godson. That
was his mother you took tea with this afternoon.”

Jem’s expression changed. “No wonder he behaves as though he
has a poker up his—”

“Yes, thank you,” Margery said quickly. “Could you try to be
civil to him? We have guests tonight and my grandfather would not care for it if
you took a swing at Henry during dinner.”

“Might liven things up around here,” Jem said, looking
unfavorably at the suit of armor and the marble busts of long-dead Roman
emperors that guarded the top of the stair. He caught Margery’s agonized
expression and sighed. “Oh, all right,” he said. “I’ll do it for you, Moll.”

“Thank you,” Margery said, feeling a rush of relief. She left
Jem at her chamber door and went in to change. It was raining in earnest now, a
shroud of mist hanging over the deer park, the water gurgling down the old lead
pipes and pouring from the gargoyles on the roof. The peacocks, soaking and
bad-tempered, were huddled in a corner beneath Margery’s window.

Margery stripped off her filthy riding habit and rang the bell
for Edith to bring her some hot water to bathe. She wanted to look her best this
evening. Her beautiful golden gauze gown would make her look every inch an
heiress and give her confidence. She lay in the steaming, scented water,
enjoying the heat of it and the soft rub of the soap on her skin. It felt rich
and decadent and her body felt awake and alive, still humming with awareness
from Henry’s kiss.

Dinner was an even more uncomfortable experience than she had
expected. Lord Templemore presided, the first time he had hosted a dinner for a
number of years. The neighborhood turned out in style. There was a distinct
current of antagonism in the air between Jem and Henry, but as Lady Wardeaux had
seated Jem at the far end of the table and Henry at the top, they had no
conversation. Lady Emily also seemed to have taken exception to Jem, casting him
dark glances.

“The cards foretell bad things, Celia,” Margery heard her
mutter to Lady Wardeaux. “Are we to be visited by every one of dear Marguerite’s
disreputable relatives?”