The Seduction (49 page)

She thought of the chamber pot in her room and heartily agreed. Until she came here, she'd thought chamber pots had gone out of use ages ago. It was barbaric. And taking a simple bath was just as bad. She thought of the poor maids who hauled jugs of hot water every day for her bath from kitchens that seemed miles away. It was downright primitive.

"It's your home, Maggie," he said gently, "and I want you to be comfortable there."

Everything in her rebelled at that. She shoved aside the remains of her meal and began angrily brushing crumbs from her skirt. "Comfortable? It wouldn't matter what renovations were made, I still wouldn't feel comfortable. A home requires a warm and loving family." She gave him a tight smile. "We both know how you feel about such sentimental nonsense, and your family has hardly welcomed me with open arms. They turn up their noses every time they look at me, and I know they're thinking I'm just some uncivilized little American. But," she added bitterly, "I don't see either of them turning up their noses at my American money."

"I know, and I'm sorry about that." He looked over at her. "But, unfortunately, we can't choose our relations. I can't change the fact that Elizabeth is a vain and empty-headed nitwit who is jealous of any pretty woman between fifteen and thirty-five, nor can I change the fact that my mother is a snob. However, I intend to do what I can. Elizabeth doesn't know it yet, but she will be moving to London shortly. As for my mother, she resents anyone she feels is a threat to her position. I will talk with her, but I can only do so much. As I told you before, she will walk all over you, if you let her." He paused, studying her face. "I wouldn't have thought you would allow anyone to walk all over you, Maggie."

She opened her mouth to remind him that she was getting a divorce and she didn't care two cents what his mother thought of her or did to her. She was leaving, and it was time to make that plain.

But he did not let her say it. He jumped to his feet. "You know, you sound angry, and as I said, I refuse to fight with you today. I think what you need is vigorous exercise."

He stood up and walked to a fallen tree nearby. He snapped off two of the dead limbs and began pulling away their side branches.

"What are you doing?" she asked, watching him. "And if you say 'You'll see' to me again, I'll throw something at you."

Instead of answering, he tossed one stick at her feet and pointed the other one at her.
"En
garde
."

She stared at him doubtfully. "With sticks?"

"Why not? My brother and I used to practice with sticks when we were boys."

"I suppose you usually won, and your brother hated you even more because of it."

He grinned. "You suppose right. But then, I hated him for being such a bad loser."

She rose to her feet and picked up her makeshift saber. "All right, I'll fence with you, but I think you should spot me points at the outset because of my clothes."

"You do use that excuse often, don't you?"

"You try fencing in a skirt, with a corset and bustle, and see how you do." She brandished her stick. "Five points."

"Highway robbery," he said, shaking his head. "I'll give you three."

"Done."

They sparred, neither of them willing to lose nor playing to win. But when she backed him against a tree and said, laughing, "I’ve got you, now," he twisted his stick out from beneath hers and brought it down hard in a move that snapped hers in half. Panting, she straightened, pressing a hand to her corseted ribs and staring ruefully at her broken saber. "I suppose," she said, glancing at him, "you're going to say you've disarmed me and claim victory because of it."

His eyes gleamed teasingly. "No, that might be dangerous just now. I know the damage you can do with a stick in your hands."

Laughing, she tossed aside her weapon and sank down into the grass. He stretched out beside her, and they both stared up at the blue sky overhead for several minutes. She was thinking of that night in Rome, and she wondered if he was, too. She turned her head to look at him and found he was looking at her. His hand reached out to touch her face, and she tensed. "Are you trying to seduce me again?"

He moved closer, and his fingertips brushed her cheek. "I'm trying to be romantic. Is it working?"

"No," she whispered. But it was a lie. Already, she could feel his seductive pull, the magic tingle when he brushed his hand down her cheek and along the side of her throat, working his way slowly down to her breast. She looked into his eyes, and she could feel herself falling under his spell all over again. So easy, so easy. What a fool she was. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't."

She tried to pull away, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and slowly rolled on top of her. His weight pinned her to the grass, his body hard and heavy on top of hers. She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable as she felt his hands slide along her hips.

"Maggie," he whispered against her ear. "Look at me."

She shook her head desperately and kept her eyes closed. She didn't want to look at him, she didn't want to see him looking at her as if he loved her.

He gripped her chin to hold her head still. "Look at me."

She could not fight him. She opened her eyes and looked into his, and there she saw the awful truth. She still loved him, despite what he had done, how he had used her and manipulated her and lied to her. She still loved him, despite a month of struggles to fight it, to deny it. She still loved him, and he did not love her. Because of that, all the power was his, and like always, he would not hesitate to use it to get what he wanted.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered. "You have my money, your debts are paid, your estates are secure. You have everything you wanted."

"Not everything," he murmured and bent his head to kiss her.

With a sob, she turned her face away, and she knew the answer to her question. She knew why he had arranged all this. She knew the reason for the mare, and the picnic, and the fencing. "True," she said in a hard voice as his lips caressed her cheek. "There is still the matter of an heir, isn't there?"

He sighed and pulled back. Rolling away from her, he stood up. "It looks like rain. We'd best start back." They rode to the house in silence.

The morning after their picnic,
Trevor entered her sitting room and found her writing a letter to her solicitors. He leaned over her shoulder, but she made no attempt to hide what she was doing.

"So," he said, straightening, "you're still planning to divorce me."

"Did you think a picnic would change my mind?"

He grinned, seeming not at all perturbed by her correspondence. "No," he answered. "I told you that you could write your solicitors as many letters as you wish about a divorce."

Margaret had the infuriating impression she was being indulged. She set down her pen and turned in her chair to look at him. "But you seem confident that my efforts will prove futile."

"Yes, but stranger things have happened. There's nothing I can do to stop you anyway." He shook his
head. "I didn't come up here to talk about our marriage anyway."

"Then why did you come?"

He started for the door, beckoning her to follow him. "Come with me."

She didn't move. "Why?"

"I want your opinion about something. It's important."

She followed him downstairs and across the long length of the house to a room she'd never seen before. One glance told her it was a music room. There was a grand piano and a harp, and various sofas and chairs arranged around small tables. It was decorated in ochre yellow, dark brown, and white. A thick layer of dust told her this room was little used.

"What an ugly room!" she exclaimed.

"Is it?" he asked innocently. "Why?"

He was looking at her with that boyishly innocent expression of his, and she was instantly suspicious. "Because it is," she answered guardedly.

"What would you do to improve it?"

Margaret gave her surroundings a cursory glance. "That's a pointless question. I told you, I'm not staying."

"I understand, but what would you do if you were?"

She looked around more carefully. "Well, I suppose the first thing I would do is get rid of those heavy draperies around the picture window," she said, pointing to the swathes of ochre yellow velvet.

"Why?"

"For one thing, they must be ages old, and they're a hideous color. They're dusty and worn, and with the way they've been hung, they cover up half the window." She crossed the room and pulled one of the drapes back to look out. "There's a fine view of the lake and the woods from here. Why should such a view be hidden?"

"Would you have no drapes at all, then?"

"No." She stepped back a few feet to study the window. "I think I'd put drapes on either side, but they'd be a neutral color. Ivory damask. I'd hang them straight down without touching the glass, and I'd put a plain valance over the top. That way the drapes would frame the window like a picture, enhancing the view rather than detracting from it."

He leaned one shoulder against the door jamb. "What else would you do?"

Margaret pointed to the hideous baroque sofa table. "I'd get rid of that thing," she said decidedly. "I hate gilt paint. And I'd
replaster
the ceiling," she added, glancing overhead. "It looks like there's been water damage."

She began to walk slowly around the room. "The Queen Anne fire screen is lovely. I'd keep that. But I'd move the Ming vase. It's cracked on one side, so I'd put it over in a corner, where you could hide the crack." She pointed to the heavy brass figurines on the mantel and shuddered. "What are those things?"

"Statues of the goddess Kali. My great grand uncle Monty brought them back with him from India in
1848."

"Well, I mean no offense to Uncle Monty, but they're awful, and I can't think of a single room in which to put them. I'd toss them out."

"So much for old Monty's brass goddesses. Anything else?"

She nodded. "I'd change the color scheme. A music room is a place to relax, and it ought to be a serene and restful place. Yellow is the wrong color—too busy. I'd decorate in ivory and green, which would be soothing. When I came into this room after a long, hard day, this would be my haven, a place where I could feel at home—"