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She put one hand on the nape of his neck and brought his head
down to hers, biting his lower lip, tentatively sliding her tongue into his
mouth. She heard him give a shaken laugh against her mouth and then, suddenly,
there was no more laughter, only heat and fierceness and longing that sent them
spinning into another dimension entirely. It lit a wicked excitement within
Margery to be able to do this to a man whose life was ruled by such powerful
restraint. She alone could strike this response in him. She alone could meet his
need.

Henry grabbed the cap from her curls and threw it aside. He ran
his hands into her hair, holding her head still, her mouth tilted up to his, and
his kiss was as greedy and demanding as a starving man. His tongue plundered her
mouth. The kiss that Margery had offered up so hesitantly he took and turned
into something ferocious in its need. She knew that his self-control was gone
now and she was filled with wanton delight. There was no virginal hesitation in
her, only a dazzling sense of urgency and sweet, seductive desire.

“You taste of sugar and cinnamon.” Henry licked the corner of
her mouth and Margery’s knees weakened as she grabbed his forearms for
support.

Henry tugged on the ribbons of her apron and threw it aside. He
spun her around, his hands on her waist. His mouth was in the curve of her neck
now, hot against her skin like a brand. She felt his fingers on the buttons of
her golden evening gown. The dress ripped as his impatience got the better of
him. Margery felt a rush of dismay.

“It’s my favorite—”

He laughed. His lips moved against the tender line of her
throat. “My apologies. Buy another. You’re the richest heiress in the
country.”

The jibe stung, and in response Margery grabbed him and kissed
him angrily, feverishly. It was always like this between them, the current of
desire laced with antagonism. But this time he was the master. He drew back and
turned her around again. A tug of his hands, two, and she was stripped of the
golden gown. Her heart missed a beat at the ruthlessness of it. She felt hot.
There was a tingling between her thighs. He was still behind her. His hands
cupped her breasts now. Dizzy pleasure flowered through her, dispelling all
other thought.

He bit down softly on her neck, and her nipples hardened
against his fingers as the exquisite shivers racked her. He was playing her body
so sweetly now. It rose to the demand of his hands, his lips and his tongue as
over and over he stroked and caressed; the underside of her breasts, the curve
of her stomach, the flare of her hips. She was adrift, lost in pleasure, and
when he laid her down on the bed she was glad of the support it gave her.

Henry kissed her again and it seemed as though her whole body
was rising to his touch, begging for release, consumed. He raised himself. His
mouth was at her breast and she arched, turning her head restlessly against the
covers, seeking surcease. The assault on her senses was relentless. She felt his
hands on her thighs, gently drawing them wider apart. There was a pillow beneath
her hips now, raising her up. Her mind acknowledged the intimacy of her
position, recognizing that he had exposed her completely to his gaze and to his
touch. It was wildly exciting. She could not believe what was happening to her
and yet there was no space left in her mind for shame or apprehension. She
wanted nothing more than him.

Her thoughts fractured as she felt Henry part her, then touch
the core of her. His lips grazed her softly. His tongue entered her in a hard
thrust. Margery cried out in shock and climaxed at once, shaking, helpless,
scorched by irresistible desire. Her body clenched violently, spinning her into
a vortex of vivid pleasure.

She was gasping and still trembling with shock and reaction as
Henry gathered her into his arms. He had shed his clothes now and the heat and
hardness of him against her had her body tightening with demand. She reached out
to him blindly, wanting to give as much as she had taken, and heard him laugh, a
low, strained sound.

“Presently, sweetheart.”

He laid her back on the bed and kissed her, and she tasted
herself on his tongue and almost fainted at the intimacy of it. Their kisses
were deep, feverishly greedy. Margery could feel the pleasure she had taken
twist and tighten into a renewed need. The rekindling of such desire startled
her. Her body felt so unfamiliar, sleek and sensual, possessed of such a driving
hunger. She could feel the hunger in Henry, too. It was present in each stroke,
each touch and each kiss.

His lips caressed the curve of her shoulder and dropped to her
breast. At the same time, she felt his fingers within her, penetrating her,
feeling her warmth and her wetness. She parted her thighs wide, shameless now in
her need for him. His lips touched her exposed belly and then he slid his hands
under her hips and lifted her up. She felt delirious with pleasure, her legs
falling farther apart as he slid inside her.

There was pain, a short, sharp stab of it that cut through the
pleasure and made her gasp. She felt Henry hesitate and withdraw a little, and
she thought he might stop and suddenly she was desperate to prevent it. She
scored her fingers down his back and heard him groan. He thrust into her again
and the pain flowered and she felt sore and tight, too small to take him. Then,
as she faltered on the edge of discomfort and misery, her body seemed to give
and to stretch and the pain started to fade.

Henry lay quite still inside her and she adjusted to the
sensation of being so completely filled. It was strange, but it awed her, as
well. And just as she was starting to wonder what should happen next, Henry’s
lips were at her breast again and the hot, wicked sensations started to flow
back.

He sucked at her nipple, tugged, licked in tiny circles that
made her quiver, and all the time he lay hot and hard, buried inside her until
Margery’s body stretched and shimmered and tautened again. She felt the muscles
of her stomach jump and jerk, and at last Henry moved within her in response.
This time it was sleek and smooth with an undercurrent of friction that had her
gasping in startled pleasure.

She ran her hands into Henry’s hair and pulled his mouth to
hers again, opening for him. She found herself clutching greedily at each stroke
of his body, chasing that elusive bliss she had felt before. She wanted more
from him, deeper and harder. She was learning all the time and she was greedy
for more. She had more to give, more to take. She dug her fingers into his
buttocks to pull him closer inside her.

“Don’t be gentle,” she whispered. “I want it. Please.”

She felt his self-control shatter.

He shifted, lifting her up so that her hips were almost
entirely clear of the bed. She was so small that he could hold her up easily and
she realized faintly that she was lying across the bed, her head falling back
over the edge, her hair tumbling down to brush the floor. Her mind spun. She was
entirely in Henry’s hands now, her position helpless and open to him as he knelt
between her thighs and plundered her body with his at each stroke.

The softness of the bedclothes rubbed against her shoulders.
Her breasts jolted with each sure thrust. Her back arched. She was ravished,
taken and achingly aware that she had pushed him to this extreme of possession.
She had driven from his mind all thoughts of gentleness and control. She had
demanded this invasion that took her body and soul.

It was astonishing, brazenly exciting; she could not comprehend
how she felt, could do nothing but surrender to sensation. As Henry came to
climax in hard, shuddering thrusts she felt her body grasp his tightly and she
split apart into an orgasm so fierce that she cried out over and over again.

She felt Henry withdraw from her and gently lift her so that
she was lying with her head on the pillow. She lay quite still as her breathing
steadied. Light danced against her closed eyelids. Her mind still spun in hazy
circles as her body absorbed the last sleek, sensual ripples of pleasure.

She felt stunned and exhilarated. She waited to feel shock or
shame for her unvirginal eagerness, but those emotions never came. There was
nothing but happiness, like a shower of light, and a deep sense of peace and
rightness. She loved Henry. She had wanted to break through his cold facade and
reach him, and now she had done so in the most fundamental and shattering way
possible.

Everything would be different now.

She heard him move across to the washstand and splash water
into a dish. Then he was beside her again, and she could feel him gently
cleaning the stickiness from her thighs.

It was such an unexpected and tender thing for him to do that
her throat closed with emotion. He put aside the cloth and covered her with the
bedclothes. Margery rolled over onto her side, reaching for him. She wanted
warmth and intimacy, wanted to cuddle him. But then he moved away from her,
fumbling for his clothes. His back was to her as he slid on his breeches. The
candlelight played in slabs of golden light across the muscles of his shoulders
and back and gave his tousled black hair a sheen of blue. Margery felt a pang of
tenderness so potent it shook her to the core. She sat up, the sheet slipping to
her waist.

“Henry—”

He turned and the words died on her lips as she saw his
face.

He looked as cold and remote as he had always done. More so,
for there was a terrifying distance in his eyes that chilled her to her bones.
She had thought that she had touched him. She had thought that everything would
be different because she loved him and she had shown him her love without
pretense or evasion. She had opened herself up to him wholly, hiding nothing in
the honesty of their lovemaking. Her mistake had been to think that Henry felt
the same in return.

He had not. She could see it in his eyes. He did not love
her.

Oh, he had wanted her. She knew that. He had wanted her with an
urgency that had overridden caution, care and gentleness. He had needed her. She
knew that, too. She had felt it and she had fed that desperate hunger in him and
had thought it would bind them closer. She had been shamelessly wanton, but her
real mistake was that she had been hopelessly naive in confusing her love with
Henry’s physical pleasure and thinking they were the same thing.

Horror clogged Margery’s throat. She felt the sting of tears at
the back of her eyes. The tenderness inside her withered and fell apart, leaving
nothing but emptiness. She was not sure how long she stared at him but then she
grabbed her clothes, holding them protectively in front of her as she slid from
the bed and backed away from him. She saw the expression in Henry’s eyes change
as he realized that she was going to run away. He moved fast but this time she
was quicker. As far as she was concerned all the servants in the entire house
could have been lined up outside Henry’s bedroom door and she would have
streaked past them all, so urgent was her need to escape.

“Margery, wait!” Henry’s tone was sharp but she ignored him.
She whisked around the door, flinging her clothes on helter-skelter as she ran.
She thought she heard Henry behind her and panic caught at her chest; she almost
stumbled but she was not going to stop.

All she knew was that she could not talk to Henry now. She felt
unprotected, with her emotions hideously exposed. Her physical nakedness was
nothing in comparison. She had no defenses and she needed time to compose
herself and find some way of hiding her vulnerability from Henry.

She ran to her chamber, slammed the door and turned the key in
the lock. She waited, her breath loud in her own ears, straining for the sound
of footsteps and the knock at the door. Nothing happened. Henry did not come.
And although she had not wanted him to do so, disappointment struck Margery so
sharply that she caught her breath on a sob.

The room was warm and bright, lit by a stand of candles and the
comforting glow of the fire. Margery stripped off her clothes again, her hands
shaking so much this time that she could barely remove them, haphazard as they
were. There was a huge wave of grief building within her. She could feel the
misery and the shame grow and grow inside until it was too big for her body and
it threatened to consume her.

She had begun to think that she was not like her mama, that
flighty, foolish, spoiled girl, but now she knew that in one matter they were
both the same. They both loved men who did not love them back. In her mother’s
case, it had destroyed her. Margery would never allow the same.

She scrambled into her nightgown and burrowed beneath the
bedcovers, seeking the anonymity of the dark. She felt suddenly exhausted as
though all the energy and life had drained from her in the space of a moment.
Her body ached in unfamiliar places. It felt a little sore but not in an
uncomfortable way.

In fact, she felt knowing and pleasantly used. Her body, so
much less complicated than her emotions, wanted Henry again. Until she had met
him she had never suspected that her neat, practical mind could cloak such
outrageously passionate desires. And just at the moment she hated that it did,
that her body could betray her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Three of Swords: Heartache

H
ENRY
STOOD
BY
THE
WINDOW
,
staring out into the inky blackness of
the night. The rain had gone and a slice of the view was now lit by a full moon
riding high in the starry sky.

He tried to think. He found it a great deal more difficult than
he had expected.

He did not recognize any of the emotions inside him, for he had
shared far more than he had intended. He had shared himself, so much so that he
was left feeling acutely vulnerable, shocked by his lack of restraint.

Margery
…

He had followed her to her room and heard the key turn in the
lock. He knew she was safe. But it was a little late for locking doors. She
should have been safe with him. He should have protected her. Instead he had
seduced her, thoroughly, ruthlessly, as though in the act of possession he could
bind her to him forever. Why he had wanted that he did not know. It ran contrary
to everything he believed in. All he knew was that from the moment he had
thought Margery gone, he had been possessed with a fear that eclipsed everything
else. When he had found her safe and well he had been as angry as he had been
relieved, and that fierce mix of emotions had burned out all other feeling.

Emotion. He did not like it and he was not going to succumb to
it or even analyze its causes. Instead, he would focus on facts and on
actions.

Fact one. He had made love to Margery. He had wanted her from
the first moment he had seen her in Mrs. Tong’s brothel and his determination to
resist her had simply not been strong enough. Instead, his self-control had
snapped and his desire had led inexorably to this moment when he had taken what
he wanted.

He could not understand this driving hunger for her. It was as
inexplicable to him as it was compelling. He had tried damned hard to resist
that need, but tonight he had failed. He had failed in his self-control and he
had failed to act as a gentleman. He could continue to reproach himself for his
actions, but it was done now. The important thing was to take responsibility and
put matters right.

He reached for his shirt, pulling it absentmindedly over his
head. Facts. He forced himself to concentrate, shutting down the emotion
again.

Fact two. Making love to Margery had been rapturous, the most
exquisitely pleasurable experience of his life. Margery had responded to him in
ways he could not have imagined in his wildest fantasies. She had been as
generous and open in giving herself as she was in all other aspects of her
life.

Henry shifted uncomfortably, aware that the need he had for
Margery still felt disturbingly powerful. In fact, it felt even more intense
than it had before they had made love, as though the mere taste of what he
wanted had reinforced his need. This was not a lust that had burned itself out
in the taking. Instead, it had come back, more forceful, more dangerous.

Once again he felt the need to hold and possess. It was
mystifying to him.

The third fact was that someone would know that Margery had
been in his chamber that night. She had run from him stark naked, and even if
there had been no obvious witnesses—and for all he knew, the corridors might
have been packed with servants and family members—someone would have seen her
because in a house like Templemore it was impossible to keep secrets. There
would be rumors. Margery’s reputation would be compromised and it was entirely
his fault.

He threw himself down on the bed, then stood up again almost
immediately as Margery’s scent invaded his senses with its sweetness and warmth.
He went back to the half-open window where the cool night air soothed his
mind.

Fact four. Margery might have conceived his child tonight. It
was unlikely but not impossible. He rested his hands on the cold stone of the
window embrasure. There was only one way forward and he had known it from the
start. He would marry Margery. There would be those who called him a fortune
hunter but that was of no importance anymore. The only thing that mattered was
that he put this situation right and bring order out of this chaos. Marriage was
the only way.

The decision calmed him. It was the honorable course to take.
It also felt like the right thing to do, right because it was meant to be. Such
a notion was fanciful but he could not shift it, so instead he tried to ignore
it. He told himself that if he married Margery he could make love to her again
and slake this disturbing hunger he had for her. His body was already hardening
again at the thought of having her in his bed. He wanted to feel her beneath
him, to claim her and possess her. If he married her, she would be his before
the whole world and his to claim in the hot darkness of the night, as well.

He walked over to the bowl of water on the chest and splashed
water on his face again, trying to wash away the dark and complicated emotions
he could still feel inside. He could not quite understand what disturbed him,
for the issue was very simple. He had made a mistake; now, he was going to put
it right. He had a duty to wed Margery. Duty, responsibility… The words had
always comforted him in the past, devoid as they were of emotion and pain. But
now they seemed to have lost their power.

It was as though he no longer quite believed in them.

* * *

M
ARGERY
HAD
NEVER
previously thought of breakfast as an interminable meal, but on this
particular morning it seemed to go on for several centuries. She had no
appetite. The bread tasted of sawdust, the footmen seemed to be moving in
excruciating slow motion and she could not concentrate on the conversation, even
though it was of the most mundane type, centering on the weather.

She had wanted to cry off from breakfast that morning and hide
like a coward in her room. She had not slept a wink and her feelings felt so
bruised and battered that she was afraid it might show on her face.

Yet when she had finally forced herself from her bed and
dressed in a bright blue muslin gown, she had glanced in the mirror and seen
that she looked exactly the same as she did the day before. She was bemused at
how she could feel so different inside, as though all her awareness and
perceptions had changed, and yet to all intents and purposes, look no
different.

Sex was a curious business. It had turned her heart and her
mind inside out, it had taught her things about her body that she could never
have believed. And it had left no outward sign that her life was changed.

She looked up from pushing a piece of bread roll about her
plate and saw that Henry’s eyes were fixed on her. She felt a wayward quiver of
awareness mixed with a flutter of fierce apprehension in her stomach. She knew
Henry was only waiting for the right moment to get her alone and confront her,
and she knew exactly what he was going to say.

He was going to propose marriage to her and she was going to
refuse him.

The meal was over at last. Lady Wardeaux was chattering about
taking the carriage and visiting Mrs. Bunn and Miss Fox in the village. Her
words washed over Margery in a confused litany that made little sense. Lady
Emily was laying out the tarot cards in the midst of the breakfast crumbs. She
looked at the cards then up at Margery’s face with a strange, myopic expression.
Margery blushed. It was ridiculous to believe that the cards knew what she had
done and yet she felt guilty. Hot, guilty and embarrassed in case anyone had
seen her running half-naked from Henry’s chamber the night before, and what a
disaster it would be if they had. She did not want to think about that.

��Lady Marguerite.” Henry was waiting for her by the door. There
was no avoiding him. “May we speak?”

“Certainly, Lord Wardeaux,” Margery said. Her voice sounded a
little squeaky. She feigned a bright smile but suspected that it had not come
out quite right when she saw Chessie looking at her with a mixture of puzzlement
and concern.

“Shall we use the library?” she asked. “I am sure we may be
undisturbed there.”

Now Lady Wardeaux was looking both intrigued and speculative.
She opened her mouth to comment but Henry seized Margery’s arm and hustled her
from the room, his imperative touch making it clear that he could not care less
if they met in the library or the cowshed as long as they were undisturbed.

He opened the door for her and ushered her inside, closed the
door and stood leaning back against it. He looked so stern and unyielding that
Margery’s heart did a wayward skip. She was not sure that she could go through
with this if Henry was going to be so terrifyingly autocratic. It quite unnerved
her. She folded her hands in front of her and tried to look assured rather than
defensive.

He crossed the room and took her hands in his, demolishing all
her good intentions in one fell swoop. Her heart did a positive somersault.

“You are well?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Margery said. “Was it likely that I would be
well this morning?”

Henry looked taken aback. Margery wondered whether the women he
habitually slept with assured him the following morning that they felt
absolutely marvelous. Probably they did, since they would all be sophisticated
widows or elegant courtesans who would have been well able to cope with a night
of unbridled passion uncomplicated by any emotion other than lust.

“Please do not misunderstand me,” she added, anxious to be
scrupulously truthful. “It was not that I did not enjoy—” She stopped. Henry
raised a brow. He was still holding her hands and she imagined he could feel her
pulse racing against his fingers. “I mean,” she said desperately, “that it in
some ways it was quite delightful—”

“Indeed?” Henry murmured.

“But not the type of activity that I should probably have been
indulging in,” Margery finished in a rush.

“Probably not,” Henry agreed. A smile that was positively
wicked curled his lips. “But I am relieved that you found it…ah…
delightful
was the word I think you used. That might
predispose you to wish to do it again.”

“Which is nothing to the purpose,” Margery said hastily. She
was starting to feel very hot. Matters were not working out at all as she had
planned them. For a start she had not anticipated that simply seeing Henry alone
and talking about what had happened between them would make her feel so stirred
up, as though she wanted to grab him by his pristine neck cloth and kiss the
life out of him. The fact that he looked so severe, so buttoned up, seemed only
to make it worse because she knew now just what depths of passion and decidedly
improper behavior lurked beneath that so-proper exterior. She closed her eyes
and took a deep breath.

Concentrate.

“I wanted to ask you…” Henry said.

Oh, dear, here it comes.

Margery opened her eyes. Henry paused, looking at her. For a
moment she thought he looked nervous. She had never seen him look nervous once
in the whole of their acquaintance. It made her feel ridiculously tender toward
him and that, of course, was dangerous because she loved him and she had to
remember that he most certainly did not love her.

“I would like to ask for your hand in marriage, Lady
Marguerite,” Henry said, very formally. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my
wife?”

It was impossible not to feel affected by that. It was
tempting, so very tempting. If he had loved her, Margery would not have
hesitated for a second. But he did not. Suddenly she remembered the coolness in
his eyes the previous night and the complete absence of emotion. She almost
shivered. She could see herself, a vision in her wedding gown, floating up the
aisle on her grandfather’s arm and Henry turning to watch her with the same
detached indifference. It chilled her to the soul.

It was also enough to strengthen her resolve, because she had
so much love to give but she would wither and die if she received nothing in
return. Not even the hottest lust could compensate for the lack of love. She
might have little worldly experience, but that she knew.

“Thank you, Lord Wardeaux,” Margery said. “I am honored by your
proposal but I fear I must decline.”

She saw the stupefaction in Henry’s eyes and realized that he
had not for a moment imagined that she might refuse him. Under other
circumstances it might have been amusing to see his confidence take such a
knock. Now, though, she simply felt miserable. She saw him master his surprise,
saw the way that he controlled his immediate reaction, which had been to demand
rather than request an explanation. When he spoke his tone was still easy and
smooth but she could feel the tension beneath it.

“Might I enquire as to why?”

“I have no plans to wed.”

Henry raised his brows in patent disbelief. “Only last week you
were speaking of marrying Reggie Radnor.”

“That was different.”

“I should hope so. You have not slept with him.”

Margery blushed. “That is none of your affair.”

Henry stepped close to her. “On the contrary,” he said. “It is
entirely my affair. Do you think that I do not know you were a virgin?” Then, as
she took a breath, he leaned closer. His cheek brushed hers, his fingers touched
the nape of her neck, and the warmth of his touch and the scent of his skin
assailed her simultaneously. She felt dizzy with longing.

“Please do not tell me,” he said, very softly, “that I was not
the first.”

Her face flaming, Margery backed away. “Whether you were the
first or the tenth is not the material point, Lord Wardeaux. I do not wish to
wed you.”

There was a silence. It felt uncomfortable. Margery gritted her
teeth and waited it out. It was foreign to her nature to keep quiet but somehow
she managed it. She wanted love. She needed love. She could not compromise on
something so huge and important. Even so, it hurt to refuse him. It hurt more
than she had ever imagined.