Forbidden Read online

  She did not miss the look that flashed between Henry and Mr. Churchward.

  “You may, of course, speak with your brother just as soon as it can be arranged,” Henry said smoothly. “But in the meantime—” he glanced at the pretty little china clock on the mantel “—it is a matter of urgency that we leave for Berkshire as soon as we can.”

  Margery felt as though everything was happening too quickly, reality sliding away from her. She grasped for something familiar. “I want to see Jem,” she insisted. “It cannot be so urgent that we have to go at once. We could send for him—”

  “You are seeking to delay the inevitable, Miss Mallon,” Henry said, with brutal directness. “It is urgent we leave, because your grandfather is dying. If we do not go at once, it may be too late.”

  Margery’s gaze instinctively sought out Mr. Churchward. He nodded. “Lord Wardeaux is correct. The Earl of Templemore is a very sick man. I am sorry, my lady.”

  My lady, Margery thought. Help.

  “I think,” Lord Grant said, effortlessly taking charge, “that it might be a good idea to slow matters down a little. We shall send immediately to Lord Templemore to tell him that his granddaughter is now apprised of her situation and will be setting out for Berkshire later this morning. I am sure that the good news will give him heart and lift his spirits. Then—” he smiled at Margery “—Miss…um…Lady Marguerite will have a little time to prepare for her journey, send a message to her brother to join her in Berkshire and do whatever else is necessary.”

  “An excellent idea, Alex, darling.” Lady Grant leapt in to second her husband. “A lady has so many matters to consider at a time like this. I shall advise Lady Marguerite on what to pack, though I scarcely know where to start.”

  “Please,” Margery said. “No more of this ‘Lady Marguerite.�� My name has been Margery for twenty years and I cannot adjust to another now.”

  Henry looked doubtful and Lady Grant seemed most put out. “But Margery, darling,” she said plaintively, “that is a name fit only for servants whereas you are going to be a countess.”

  Margery blinked. She looked at Churchward again. “Am I?” she said faintly.

  “The Templemore title and estate is one of only a handful in the country that may devolve down the female line,” Mr. Churchward confirmed. “Until you were found, Lord Wardeaux was the Earl of Templemore’s heir—” He stopped abruptly, his face the picture of guilt. There was a long, heavy silence. Margery looked at Henry. His expression was completely blank.

  “I see,” she said slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Churchward.” She looked at the array of faces looking back at her. “I should like to speak to Lord Wardeaux now,” she said. “Alone, if you please.”

  “It would be most improper,” Lady Grant pointed out. “You are a young, unmarried heiress.”

  Margery laughed. “And I have been a young unmarried maidservant for the last twelve years,” she said. “I assure you, ma’am, that my life has been most improper by the standards of society and nothing will be able to rectify that. Now, please, I would like to speak with Lord Wardeaux.”

  And because she was now Lady Marguerite and heir to Templemore, no one argued with her.

  * * *

  THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND Lord and Lady Grant and Mr. Churchward. Through the thick walnut panels Henry could still hear Lady Grant’s voice. “This will set the town by the ears, Alex! How are we to make Margery respectable enough to be a lady?”

  Henry also heard Lord Grant’s laconic reply. “My love, Lady Marguerite’s immense fortune will make her the most respectable heiress in London without any help from you.”

  “Lord Wardeaux,” Margery said, claiming his attention. She spoke very precisely, as though she had been raised with a silver spoon in her mouth rather than gaining one five minutes before. Everything about her, the determined jut of her chin, the challenge in her steady gray eyes and the indignant grace with which she held herself, spoke of character and strength.

  This morning she looked neat and buttoned up, a far cry from the passionate woman Henry had held in his arms the previous night. The silken gold-brown of her hair was fastened up in a bun beneath a ridiculously frumpy lace cap. Not a single strand escaped the pins. The plain black gown she wore as befitting her status as a lady’s maid was unflattering, draining the color from her face and obscuring her figure, making her almost invisible. None of this seemed to influence the potent physical desire Henry discovered he still had for her. In fact, it made it worse. The prim uniform was already driving him to distraction. He wanted to peel it off her. He had never had a fixation about servants or uniforms. This was something new and, he suspected, an attraction confined solely to Margery.

  “Lord Wardeaux.” Margery sounded impatient and Henry realized that she had already addressed him once. “You are not concentrating.”

  Oh, he was concentrating, all right. Though not on the right things.

  “Lady Marguerite,” Henry said, sketching a bow.

  Her direct gray gaze made no secret of her dislike for him. “You were not so formal last night,” she said, her chin at a very haughty angle.

  “Nor,” Henry said, “were you.”

  He saw the anger in her eyes increase a notch at the reminder of just how informal they had been with each other. “I was under a misapprehension,” Margery said coolly. “For a start, I thought you were a gentleman.”

  Touché.

  “I am sorry—” Henry started to say, but she cut him off.

  “I beg leave to doubt that.” Her voice was laced with contempt. “I doubt that you regret anything that you did last night.” She paused as though struck by a sudden and unwelcome thought. “We are not related, are we?”

  “Nothing to signify,” Henry said. “Seventh cousins, perhaps. We are close enough for you to call me Henry if you wish.”

  Margery’s eyes narrowed. “There are many things I wish to call you,” she said, “but Lord Wardeaux will suffice for now.” She turned and walked away from him as though she could not bear to look at him.

  “Mr. Churchward said that my grandfather was also your godfather,” she said.

  “That is correct,” Henry said.

  She spun around. “And that before I was found, you were the heir to…Templemore, is it?”

  “That is also correct,” Henry said. He could see very clearly where this was leading. “But—”

  “And now I have taken all that from you,” Margery said, with devastating frankness. “The title, the estate and a fortune.”

  “Yes,” Henry said. “You have. You are the richest heiress in the country.”

  For a moment she looked shocked but she recovered herself quickly, partly, he suspected, because she had no idea quite how rich the richest heiress in the country would be. That would only become clear to her when she saw Templemore. And when the ton started toadying to her.

  “How gratifying it is to be so rich,” she said dryly. “The point I was intending to make, however, was that I know that your behavior last night—your low, scheming, despicable behavior toward me—” she enunciated very carefully with searing scorn “—was intended to lose me my inheritance.”

  Henry was entertained despite himself. “You know more than I do then,” he said politely.

  Her gaze narrowed on him. “You deny it?” she demanded. “When you were going to seduce me.” Her voice rose sharply with anger. “And then tell my grandfather I was no more than a strumpet so that he disinherited me in your favor?”

  Having delivered this broadside she stood, hands on hips, regarding Henry with disdain. There was something slightly comical about her tiny, dignified, infuriated figure. Henry tried to repress a smile but he was not quick enough. She saw his expression and glared at him.

  “Would that it were so easy,” Henry said. “Alas, Lady Marguerite, the laws of inheritance cannot be bent to my will. You could be the most notorious courtesan in London and it would not change the fact that you are heiress to Templemo
re.”

  He caught her wrist and pulled her close, moving so suddenly that she jumped even though he held her lightly. “Your logic is also at fault,” he said softly. “If I had intended to seduce you I would not have stopped.”

  So close to her now, he could smell the honey scent of her skin and feel the flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers. He allowed his gaze to travel over her. His gaze lingered on her lips and she blushed. Her own gaze fell, her lashes lowered against the curve of her cheek. The awareness flared between them as quick and hot as it had done the previous night. Arousal stung her cheeks pink and gave a slumberous glitter to her eyes. Her lips parted and all of a sudden he was within an ace of kissing her. He bent his head.

  “Do that and I shall plant my knee in your groin,” Margery said wrathfully. “You treacherous bastard.”

  Well, he had deserved that. Henry grinned and released her wrist. The ton, he thought, had never seen anything quite like Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre. The dowagers would be fainting in the ballrooms.

  Margery’s color was still high and she was rubbing her wrist where he had held her.

  “Even if you did not intend to ruin me,” she said, “you certainly meant to compromise me sufficiently that I would be obliged to marry you so you would regain your inheritance. You are a manipulative scoundrel.”

  “Acquit me of those motives,” Henry said. “I have no desire to marry you.”

  Now he had really annoyed her, which was hardly surprising since he had been less than flattering. She was upset, too. He saw hurt behind the anger in her eyes, though she tried quickly to hide it, turning away.

  “You do not trouble to charm me any longer, Lord Wardeaux,” she said. “Now that there is nothing to gain.”

  “I had to do it,” Henry said, exasperated by the distress he could see in her face. “My first loyalty was to the earl and to establishing the truth. I needed to know if you really were Marguerite Saint-Pierre.”

  “And you think that justifies your behaving like a snake and deceiving me?” Margery demanded. “You could simply have told me what you were about.”

  “I could not confide in you,” Henry said. He ran a hand abruptly through his hair. He felt frustrated and angry. It was impossible to tell her all the reasons behind his actions. This was not the time to warn her that as sole witness to her mother’s murder she might be in danger; already she had had to accept so much and frightening her further would achieve nothing. “Your family might have exploited the situation,” he said truthfully. “What if you had been an adventuress, set on preying upon the weakness of an old man? How easy it would be to convince Lord Templemore that you genuinely were his granddaughter—” He broke off, but not quickly enough. Margery’s eyes had widened with shock and for a moment he saw vivid pain reflected there.

  “I see,” she said. “Not only do you think my family are a bunch of criminals—and these are the people who took me in and cared for me out of no more than kindness—but you also suspected that I might have an eye to the main chance.” She turned her face away. “So that is your opinion of me.” The contempt in her voice was cutting. “I thought that we knew each other better than that—but of course I had not realized it was all a pretense.”

  Henry interrupted her, his voice hard and angry. “It was not all pretense—”

  Margery placed her hands over her ears. “Stop it! I do not want to hear any more of your justifications.”

  “You will hear me,” Henry said. It was terrifying how quickly she could cut through the cold logic that normally governed his actions and make him feel. He did not like losing control, yet he could feel it slipping from him. He stalked across the room and Margery retreated before him until she backed into a rosewood table. Henry placed one hand on each side of her, trapping her against the solid wood, his body only inches from hers. Immediately she went rigid.

  “Let me go,” she said through her teeth.

  “You will hear me out,” Henry said.

  Their gazes locked, turbulent, dark and stormy. Henry raised a hand and traced a line along her jaw. Her skin warmed beneath his touch. She tried to turn her face away from him.

  “You have all the Templemore pride, Lady Marguerite,” he said softly, mockingly.

  She jerked her chin away from his hand. “And you are every inch the arrogant nobleman.” Her eyes met his defiantly. “Very well, say your piece, but do not expect me to believe you.”

  “My motives were of the purest, I assure you,” Henry said. “I did what I had to do for the sake of your grandfather and for Templemore.”

  Clearly he had failed to convince her. “Is that the best you can do?” she asked contemptuously. “It would not convince a child. You did not need to kiss me to establish my ancestry. You did not need to make love to me.”

  Their eyes met. Awareness, sweet and hot, shimmered between them again. Antagonism gave it a sharp, dangerous edge.

  “No, I did not,” Henry said. “But how hypocritical you are being if you pretend that you did not enjoy it, too.”

  He heard her gasp of outrage a second before his mouth took hers in a tumultuous kiss. He felt her instant response and how hard she struggled to resist it. But she was as lost as he; where attraction flared there was no withstanding it. He held her still against the table and he bit down gently on her full lower lip, and when she opened for him he slid his tongue into her mouth. He kissed her with hunger and demand and felt her melt for him. It was delicious, and he most certainly should not be doing it, but he let his good intentions go to hell. Perhaps he had more of his late, unlamented, rakish father in him than he had previously realized.

  “Admit it,” he said, as his lips left hers. “You like me.”

  She gave an infuriated squeak, pushing ineffectually against his chest. “Are you trying to prove something? You know I detest you.”

  “All right,” Henry said. “I accept that. But you are still attracted to me.” He stepped back an inch and Margery slid past him in an angry rustle of her black bombazine skirts.

  “Coxcomb,” she said, turning on him. “I do not find you remotely attractive.” She gave her head an impatient little shake. “You are insufferable. I want you to know that you were not the first to kiss me and you were certainly not the best.”

  Henry laughed. “I do not believe you on either score,” he said. “No one had kissed you before I did.”

  Margery looked infuriated. “They most certainly had!”

  “You lie badly,” Henry said. He smiled at her. “Most honest people do.”

  “You did not seem to have much trouble last night,” Margery said cuttingly. She made a dismissive gesture. “No matter. I am hopeful that, now you have informed me of my inheritance, I need not see you again.”

  “A vain hope, I fear,” Henry said. “I am escorting you to Templemore.”

  “You are mistaken,” Margery said. She was drumming her fingers on the top of the desk in anger and impatience. “I have no desire to be Lady Marguerite. I like being Margery Mallon. I don’t want the title or the estate. You were the heir. You wanted it.” Her gaze defied him. “You take it.”

  Henry could feel his impatience rising. “Once again, you misunderstand the laws of inheritance,” he said. “You cannot refuse your title. It is who you are.”

  “I’m not going,” Margery said. She crossed her arms, small but decidedly immovable.

  Damnation but she was stubborn. She had all the obstinacy of her grandfather and more. Henry toyed with the idea of simply picking her up and carrying her out to the waiting carriage.

  “Your grandfather…” He stopped. He had promised the old man that he would deliver his granddaughter to him and he was going to do precisely that. “He deserves better than this,” he said. “Templemore deserves better than this.”

  “They are nothing to me,” Margery said. “I am Margery Mallon, a lady’s maid. I want nothing more than that. Bring me the papers—” She snapped her fingers. “I will sign away my claim.”
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  With a monumental effort of will, Henry held on to his temper. The one thing he cared for, the only thing he loved, was Templemore, every brick, every blade of grass. He wanted the place with a passion. Margery was rejecting it sight unseen.

  It had not once occurred to him that Margery might repudiate her inheritance. What person in their right mind would give up the estate, the title, the position, the money? No servant, brought up in poverty, would turn down such advancement. It was absurd.

  “Your wits are gone begging if you think that Lady Grant would continue to employ you as her maid,” he said coldly. “Nor would your grandfather stand for it. You do not have a choice in this. If you refuse to go to Templemore I shall pick you up and put you in the carriage myself.”

  Margery had turned away. She pressed her hands together. “I’m not going,” she repeated, but this time there was a wobble in her voice and Henry heard it.

  “You’re afraid,” he said slowly.

  “No!” She rejected his comfort instantly. “Of course I am not.” Her shoulders were hunched, her entire body taut with tension. “I…I simply do not want to be Lady Marguerite.”

  Henry heard it again, the betraying tremble in her voice. She was trying so hard to conceal her fear but her body betrayed her. He came over to her. He put both hands on her shoulders, gently this time. He could feel her shaking; she was racked with tiny shivers. She would not meet his eyes.

  “It will be all right,” he said. He stroked her shoulders, feeling the slenderness of her beneath his hands. She was so taut it felt as though she might snap. He had no idea how to console her, how to help her. He wanted to pull her close and comfort her and the realization shocked him. He was no good at intimacy. He had no use for it.

  “What is he like?” she asked. “My grandfather?” She raised her gaze to Henry’s at last and he saw all the apprehension and bewilderment in her eyes. It was the look of someone whose life had been turned inside out in the space of a few short moments.

  It would not help to tell her that her grandfather was a terrifying autocrat who, once he had set his mind to something, would not be gainsaid.