Jo Beverley (13 page)

Meg tensed, but he walked through his bedroom to open the door to another room, which proved to be hers. “Ah, Susie gets to do the honors,” he said to the curtsying maid. “How appropriate.” He touched Meg's cheek and said, “I'll be back soon, my dear.”

Meg stared at the door that closed behind him. “His cousin Daphne is right. He is outrageous.”

Susie giggled. “But a charming devil with it, ain't he, milady?”

Meg started. She'd forgotten she'd wasn't alone. She was shaken by his promised return, but also by the fact
that her chief rivals for his attention seemed to be a dog and a bird.

And she was disturbed, she must admit, by his deft handling of them. She feared that he planned to handle, train, and even hunt her with the same expertise. She had expected many challenges from this marriage, but none like this.

Susie came to take Meg's cloak, and Meg let her, but she had no idea how to behave with a personal maid. Especially Susie, who knew too much about her business.

“Come along, milady,” Susie said kindly, guiding her toward the dressing room. “I've hot water for washing, and your nightgown warm and ready.”

Meg realized again that all these rooms were delightfully warm. Mainly, apparently, for the parrot's sake.

The maid's nimble fingers removed Meg's bonnet and spencer, and began to undo the buttons down the front of her gown.

Meg decided that if she was a countess, she'd be an eccentric one. She stepped away. “I can manage by myself, Susie.”

“I'm sure,” the maid said, “but why bother?” She went on with her work, peeling off the dress and untying the stay laces as if Meg was a child.

Wrapped in so many other concerns, Meg lacked the will to resist. Anyway, presumably the maid knew the routine for preparing a woman for the earl's bed. She hadn't missed the fact that the woman-hating parrot was not kept in the earl's
bedroom.

She doubted, however, that any of the earl's loose women had worn such a demure and weary-looking nightgown as hers, spread out waiting on a rack by the fire. In her solitary bed at the Ramillys' there'd never seemed any need to buy new, but now the heavy white cotton had become a rather threadbare yellow, and the neat repair of a tear seemed horribly obvious.

When Susie would have taken off her shift, Meg rebelled. She kept it on as she washed herself, then dismissed the maid with the dirty water. Susie, however, insisted on staying long enough to unpin her hair and brush it out.

“There, milady,” she said. “Now, you just relax and enjoy yourself. Half the women in London'll envy you this night!”

With that, the maid bustled out, leaving Meg speechless. Was marriage always like this? She supposed everyone knew what the bridal couple were going to do, but to just refer to it so casually . . . !

And, she thought, covering hot cheeks, she was going to have to send him away.

She studied her appearance in the mirror. Perhaps loose hair was more becoming than her usual bedtime plait. Perhaps she should stay in her shift. It was newer than her nightgown, and trimmed on all edges with embroidery in white and pale green—

Goodness! She wanted to
deter
him, didn't she, not encourage him! Ears pricked for any sound of his approach, she tore off the shift and scrambled into her shabby nightgown, making sure it was buttoned up to the high neck and down to the snug wrists. Then she plaited her hair.

Now what?

She longed to hide under the sheets, but would that look inviting?

Her robe. Where was it?

Fearing his arrival at any moment, she scrabbled through drawers, mostly empty, then found the robe laid on a shelf in the armoire. Made of thick wool for winter warmth, and in a practical shade of brown, it would surely wither any lascivious thoughts on sight. Meg tightened the belt with the comfortable feeling of putting on armor. At that moment, the door clicked open and she turned to face her challenge.

He, too, wore a robe—a long robe of gold and brown brocade that made her think of a tiger. It buttoned, neck to knee and he was, if anything, more modestly dressed than in his tight breeches, but Meg had never seen anything more alarming.

He looked her over, expression unreadable, then strolled to sit on her bed, leaning against one of the heavy posts. “You wished to talk?”

Despite a racing heart, Meg's main emotion was irritation. “You do this deliberately!”

“What?” he asked with the innocence of a hardened liar.

“Put people off balance.”

“Why not? I suspect you aren't going to provide any other entertainment tonight.” He stretched his legs and the lower part of his robe fell back, revealing muscular naked calves.

For the first time, Meg wondered if he was completely naked beneath the silk.

Good gracious. He was!

Because her knees had suddenly turned weak, she sat on the dresser bench behind her, fighting to look perfectly at ease with a handsome, mostly naked man in her bedroom. “A wife, my lord, is not for entertainment.”

“No? I am perfectly willing to entertain you.”

“My lord—”

“Saxonhurst.”

“Saxonhurst. And,” she demanded, “why the devil couldn't you have had a shorter name? Like Rule, or Dane, or Strand?” Then she clapped her hand over her mouth, appalled to hear such language escaping her lips.

Rather than showing shock, he laughed. “My deepest apologies, my dear. That's probably why everyone calls me Sax.” With one of his special, twinkling smiles, he added, “Try it.”

Like a puppet, she said, “Sax.” But then she was up
and pacing. “It is not kind to tease and torment me! You expect too much. You
demand
too much.”

“Minerva, I'm not—”

“This morning we were total strangers,” she swept on. “You
can't
expect me to . . .”

“To what?” He looked completely innocent and puzzled, the wretch. He knew exactly what she meant.

“To permit you liberties,” she stated, tugging the belt of her robe even more securely around herself.

“Liberties,” he echoed thoughtfully. “Strange word, isn't it? Freedoms. Freedom with one another's person. Marriage does require that you give me the freedom of your body, Minerva. And it works both ways. You now have the freedom of mine.”

As he spoke, he straightened, spreading his hands as if offering a feast.

Himself. Tawny and gold, powerful and mysterious, and so devastatingly sure of his own charms.

Oh, if only she could just surrender to his gentle wiles. Though still nervous, and still irritated by his glowing ease and confidence, Meg knew Susie had been right. Most women would envy her the freedom of this man, and she was going to have to send him away.

Clenching her fists, she demanded, “Then why don't I have the freedom to tell you to remove your body from this room?”

“That isn't quite the same thing.”

“Isn't it?” She was looking at his beautiful lips and thinking about his beautiful kisses. . . .

With a snap she realized she'd been sucked into playing his games again, and as always, he was winning. Just talking about intimacy was sweeping her in that direction.

She looked him straight in the eye. “Very well, Saxonhurst. What exactly do you want? Why are you here?”

She'd never known a smile could turn so sparklingly wicked. “My dear, I don't think you're ready for me to describe my many and various plans for your enticing body.”

Meg stared at him and then, to her own dismay, she burst into tears.

She was swept into his arms, and she fought him. Then
she was on the bed, writhing in his hold until she realized they were both sitting, backs against the headboard. Until she heard what he was saying.

“I'm damned sorry, my dear. Do stop crying.” He rocked her, and for once, the glossy Earl of Saxonhurst sounded distinctly unnerved.

Terror was instantly replaced by embarrassment. “I'm sorry. I don't usually . . .” She sniffed, and tried to wipe away tears with her fingers. “Oh dear.”

“Neither of us usually does.” He brushed one tear off her cheek with his thumb. “We're making a sad botch of marriage, aren't we? I fear I've lost my touch with innocents.”

“No!” Meg longed to explain. If it hadn't been for the
sheelagh,
she would have happily let him tease her into his arms, into liberties and discoveries. She sniffed again, sure she now looked a mess. “No one can botch marriage inside twenty-four hours, my lord.”

He rolled off the bed and brought a towel to wipe her face. “I think the Prince of Wales managed it. But at least I haven't come to you drunk and collapsed in the fireplace.”

She glanced at the red coals. “Thank heavens. You'd be a cinder.”

“Probably the whole idea behind summer weddings.” He dabbed one last time at her face. “Better?”

She nodded, but it wasn't entirely true. She was on her bed, in her nightclothes, with a man, similarly attired, very close. He was kneeling on one leg, and she saw naked flesh. A muscular thigh. She suddenly wanted to touch it. To see if she was right about how it would feel—hot, hard, slightly roughened by the dark gold hair. . . .

She hastily looked up at his face. “I
am
tired, Saxonhurst,” she said, hearing the breathiness of her voice.

“Understandable.” But he took her hand and tugged her off the bed. Oh no, what now? Meg wasn't sure how long her resistance could last. If he kissed her . . .

He simply pulled down the covers, then gestured. “My lady, your bed awaits.”

Hesitantly, Meg slipped out of her concealing robe and under the sheets, pulling them well up. “Thank you.”

“I am eternally at your service, my dear.” But then he began to unbutton his robe.

“What are you doing!” It was almost a shriek.

His fingers paused. “Coming to bed.”

“No! I mean, my lord—Saxonhurst—Sax—I need to sleep.”

“Then we'll sleep together.”

“But you have your own bed.” Was it possible? Did aristocratic married couples with their own suites of rooms sleep together?

He undid another button. “I will enjoy sleeping with you, Minerva. And when you're more rested, we'll be comfortably situated for further investigation of marital liberties.”

Meg felt like a ship in a gale and fired a desperate command. “Go away!”

He let his hands drop and studied her. “Why?”

She dragged her eyes away from the dusting of honey-brown hair on his chest. “I'm sorry, but I . . . er . . . prefer to sleep alone. I . . . I snore, my lord. And I'm very restless. Poor Laura has been black and blue sometimes.”

“That's all right. I'm restless, too. We can fight the nights away.” Another button opened.

Meg pulled the sheets higher. “My lord, why are you
doing
this? Is it not reasonable that we wait a day or two?”

“I'm willing to wait. I simply intend to wait in your bed.”

“You simply intend to fluster me into doing exactly what you want!”

He laughed. “If I can, yes. I did warn you of my seductive plans. In truth, my dear, I don't know why you're so resistant. I promise I won't do anything you don't want.”

“It's perfectly natural for a lady to be disturbed at the notion of having a strange man in her bed!”

He sat on the edge of the mattress, studying her as if she were a puzzle. “What exactly is going on in your clever head, my dear? I know women. I can't deny it. You're too sensible to think to put me off for long, and you're not at all repulsed or frightened by me. Nervous, yes. That's only normal. But rather more intrigued than
afraid. You don't find my attentions unpleasant. So, why are you so desperate to get rid of me?”

Meg sought some answer that he would believe, but then he gave a sharp, surprised laugh. “Good Lord, it's your monthly courses, isn't it? Embarrassed to tell me?”

Before she could remember how wicked it was to lie, Meg nodded, her face burning hot.

He touched that heat, stroked it. “No need to blush, my dear. These matters have to be known between man and wife. Beginning, middle, or end?”

Meg wanted to slide completely under the bedclothes for mortification. Not only was she lying, she did not want to talk about these things with a man at all. Especially so
calmly
!

“Beginning,” she blurted. In for a penny, in for a pound. At least that would free her of him for a week or so.

Something in his eyes made her wonder if he believed her, but he said, “Perhaps that explains your rather wild swings of mood, as well.”

Meg bit back a retort. If she seemed wild, it was because she'd been forced into a hasty marriage to avoid tragedy, then found herself in the power of a man determined to torment her to death.

Smiling as if he knew just what she was thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Sleep well, my bride, and if these things put you under the weather, don't hesitate to stay in bed and let the servants serve.” Then he pinched out her two candles and left her alone in the dark.

Meg relaxed her death grip on the sheets and blew out a long breath. She was appalled that she'd lied so easily, but she cherished a warm glow of victory, too. It had taken underhanded means, but she had won. She had fought off the tempest and was into plain sailing for the night.

And, she thought with a smile, at the right time, the earl's relentless hunt could turn out to be a truly remarkable experience.

She was dropping off to sleep when she jerked upright again. What was she doing? She couldn't afford to sleep,
even though she ached for it. She'd never wake naturally before dawn.

She forced herself out of her bed and splashed cold water on her face from the carafe by the bed. Clocks around the house chimed midnight. She groaned at the thought of the many hours before she could be about her task.

Meg managed to stay awake, but only just, and only by getting dressed and walking around for most of the night. By the time the first gray hint of dawn split the sky, she was almost faint with weariness, but she had to venture out into the frosty, misty streets.

Plague take the
sheelagh
anyway, she thought rebelliously as she pulled on her warm, hooded cloak and thick, woolen gloves. It was nothing but a menace and a burden.

But then, as she slipped into the corridor, shoes in hand, she reminded herself of what might have been had the wishing stone not made the earl marry her. They would all be destitute now. Most likely they'd have been taken to the workhouse, separated male from female, and provided with only the coarsest food and shelter.

Or even worse, Sir Arthur would have approached Laura directly, and Laura, of course, would have sacrificed herself. At this moment she could be weeping in a sordid bed, violated and brutalized. Meg was quite certain that Sir Arthur intended no delicate loving of his chosen victim.

And, one day soon, the Earl of Saxonhurst was going to seduce his wife, and his wife was going to enjoy it very much indeed.

So as she crept along, Meg accepted that in this case the
sheelagh
had been a blessing. And it was definitely her responsibility. Her mother had impressed that upon her. The care and guarding of it was a sacred charge, passed down through the generations.

During the day, she had tried to memorize the large house, and now, praying that she not encounter the snarling dog, she found the door that led to the servants' stairs. Everything lay peacefully around her, as if the walls, floors, and furniture themselves slept. But soon it
would wake. The first servants would rise, clattering up and down stairs, building fires, boiling water, running out to buy fresh bread at the baker's and fresh milk from the dairy.

Meg crept quietly down the plain narrow stairs to the very bottom. This was completely unknown territory. She'd seen a basement door at the front of the house, however, set below ground level and with steps from the street. There must also be a back door, probably out of the kitchen. Surely one of these had to be possible.

Heading to the front, she gingerly opened a door, wondering what she would find. She let out a held breath and stepped into a small room containing only a plain table with chairs around it, and a dresser lined with plates. Perhaps the servants' dining room. It was cold here, for the fireplace held only ashes.

Beyond the table, pale light glowed through the glass-paned door she'd sought. Through the glass, she could see the stone steps beyond, the ones that climbed up to the street.

The door was locked, but the key hung on a string from the knob. She inserted it, and the lock turned smoothly. What should she do, however, when she was outside? She couldn't leave it open. It might be dangerous, and it would show that someone had left the house in the night.

After some thought, she took the key, string and all, and locked the door from the outside, putting the key in her pocket, where it jangled a chime of guilt against the one to Mallett Street. What an expert thief she was becoming.