Forbidden Page 13

  “What on earth are you doing?” he asked, hearing the strain in his voice. All he seemed able to see was Margery’s exquisite nakedness, her dainty, perfect breasts, curvy buttocks and slender thighs. Even though she was now covered in both the robe and a shawl that Chessie had brought for her, he had to fight hard to try to expel those other images from his mind. He remembered the sensation of her breast against his palm that night in the park, the nipple hardening against his mouth, and almost groaned aloud.

  “What does it look as though I’m doing?” Margery said wrathfully. “Someone locked me in. It is not amusing. And what are you staring at?” she added furiously as Henry found himself incapable of tearing his gaze away from the slender curve of her legs below the thin silk of the robe. “It is not chivalrous of you to stare.”

  Chivalrous? She expected him to behave with chivalry? Henry closed his eyes briefly while he fought another vicious battle with his imagination. When he opened them again Margery was still standing there, her hair streaming loose down her back, her bare feet peeping from beneath the robe and a stormy expression in her eyes that simply made Henry want to grab her and kiss her.

  “Lord Wardeaux,” Chessie interposed. “This is very improper. If you would withdraw I shall call Lady Marguerite’s maid and help her to dress.”

  Henry jumped. “Oh. Of course.” He risked another look at Margery and wished he had not. Her face was pink now with indignation and self-consciousness. Henry wondered how far down that blush extended. He remembered that there had been freckles dusted across her shoulders. He wondered where else she might have them. Perhaps they were scattered across her breasts or sprinkled along the soft skin of her inner thighs….

  “Lord Wardeaux!” There was an irritated edge to Chessie’s voice now. “Please leave us. Lady Marguerite needs to put some clothes on.”

  That did not help Henry at all. All he seemed able to think of was Margery with her clothes off rather than on. He heard the sensuous shift of the silk robe against her skin as she walked quickly across to the chest and started to pull out random undergarments. He caught sight of white lace and felt another thud of lust.

  Damnation. In five brief minutes Margery had undone all the beneficial effects of his morning’s ride. He felt the frustrated desire tighten like a vise in his belly.

  He turned on his heel, went straight out into the yard and tipped a bucket of cold water over his head. The stable hands were looking at him with curiosity but he ignored them.

  The ice-cold water did not help at all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Empress: Abundance, material and domestic comfort

  Reversed: Tyranny and overprotectiveness

  “IT IS A PITY THAT MILADY lacks height.” The tall, thin, frighteningly elegant French modiste whom Lady Wardeaux had summoned that morning from Faringdon looked Margery over from head to toe and permitted a chilly smile to escape her lips. “She does however have excellent taste and a delicate bone structure.”

  Margery had never applied the word delicate to any part of herself. Nor did she appreciate being spoken of in the third person as though she were either deaf or absent. Not that either Madame or Lady Wardeaux considered that to be important. At present she had as much authority as a china doll, to be dressed and styled, pinned and picked over, her opinion of no account and her person held up to ruthless appraisal.

  Margery found it even more galling because as a lady’s maid she had developed excellent taste, whereas Madame Estelle, she suspected, was no more a French modiste than she was. In fact, Margery was almost certain that she had seen Madame in Wantage several years back when she had been plain Esther Jones working in one of the haberdashers’ shops.

  They were in Margery’s bedchamber and the entire room was crammed with clothes. They lay in piles on the bed and overflowed like a silken tide from the chest, the chairs and the window seat. Madame Estelle had brought with her a variety of ready-made gowns, which Lady Wardeaux had picked through like a costermonger at a fair, selecting a half dozen that were apparently intended to tide Margery over until the first of her originals were made.

  Margery felt it was all appallingly extravagant but oh, she could not resist. It was a very special treat suddenly to be swamped in exquisite silk and lace after wearing nothing but coarse linens all her life.

  Madame was busy with her tape measure.

  “My lady has breasts too small and no décolletage,” she mourned. “We shall need padding to fill out the bodice.”

  “Certainly not,” Margery said. “I refuse to be padded out like a stuffed chicken. Stays will have to do.”

  Henry had had no complaints about her figure, she thought, when he had found her in the dressing room the previous morning. She had seen him looking at her, had felt for one disturbing moment the warmth of his hands branding her skin through the thin silk of her robe.

  Her pulse fluttered and she felt heat unfurl within her. Indeed, she must be very wicked to be glad that Henry found her so attractive even if she knew that men were so often driven by lust and that it meant nothing at all. She remembered the seduction of Henry’s kisses and the fierce ache they had aroused deep in her belly. She thought of his mouth tugging on her breast and felt an echo of that delicious need pulse in a knot deep inside her. She closed her eyes.

  “Milady is suffering the vapors?” Madame Estelle had paused in her measuring to shoot Margery a suspicious look. “She is faint with the effort of trying on so many gowns?”

  “No, indeed,” Margery said hastily, opening her eyes and banishing the image of Henry making love to her. “I am as strong as a carthorse.”

  Lady Wardeaux made a noise of disapproval. “My dear Marguerite, a lady simply does not make such inelegant remarks.”

  Margery sighed. Lady Wardeaux had lost no time in trying to improve her but it was going to be an uphill task.

  “All is not lost with milady’s figure, however,” Madame Estelle said. “She has a tiny waist and a rounded derriere. Bien!”

  “I am shaped like a pear,” Margery said, “albeit a small one.”

  Lady Wardeaux shook her head “Nor is a lady of quality ever shaped like a fruit,” she said.

  “I am.” Chessie spoke up from where she was sorting through scarves and gloves by the window. “I am the shape of an apple.”

  “A lady of quality,” Lady Wardeaux said, with emphasis, “resembles a pedigreed horse.”

  Madame Estelle was smiling sycophantically. “Just so, madame. A lady must be a thoroughbred.”

  Since Lady Wardeaux herself bore a startling similarity to a bad-tempered racehorse, Margery was hard put not to catch Chessie’s eye and dissolve into giggles.

  “I pray that you may do your best with such unpromising material, Madame,” she said meekly to the modiste. “I know that I lack height, but I have been called a perfect miniature.” Her grandfather had said so only the previous day.

  Lady Wardeaux sniffed. “A very inferior form of art, the miniature,” she said. Her cold dark gaze appraised Margery. “You take after your grandmama. She was very small. I am afraid she was the daughter of a banker.”

  “That explains everything then,” Margery said. Evidently Lady Wardeaux thought that the earl had made a deplorable misalliance in marrying into trade, even though presumably his wife had brought wealth into the family. She wondered about her grandmother. The earl had talked about his daughter, Margery’s mother, but had not mentioned his wife at all. Of course, there were so many things for them to talk about. They had barely started.

  Tired of Madame Estelle’s endless pinching and prodding, Margery excused herself and went across to the bed where the seamstress had laid out piles of different materials.

  “This silk is beautiful,” she said, gently touching a bolt of eau de nil shot through with silver thread. “I would like an evening gown in that color, please, and in the rose-pink.”

  Madame smiled. “Of course. As milady is not une jeune fille she may wear deeper colors
than the debutantes.”

  “I do think that the cream would suit you, though, Margery,” Chessie put in thoughtfully. She arranged a deliciously soft scarf about Margery’s throat and stood back to admire the effect. “Oh, yes. Not white, that is so draining, but the cream is rich and very flattering to you.”

  Lady Wardeaux, stylish to a fault herself in a gown that reeked of the London salons, gave the tiniest nod of approval of Chessie’s taste. “This will certainly do until Marguerite can travel to Town and buy some proper clothes.”

  Madame Estelle bristled at the slur on the quality of her work. Margery looked at Chessie. Chessie rolled her eyes.

  “I doubt I shall be returning to London quite yet,” Margery said quickly, to smooth matters over. “And Madame’s collection is perfect for me. If I might also have two day dresses—”

  “Two?” Lady Wardeaux looked scandalized. “My dear Marguerite, I have a list here. Ten day dresses, muslins and gauze, the cream muslin with metal thread embroidery, then six evening gowns, petticoats, colored and plain, three spencers, a green pelisse lined with blue, gloves, scarves, shawls, two riding habits, six bonnets…have I forgotten anything?”

  “Slippers and half boots,” Chessie said.

  “For riding.” Lady Wardeaux nodded. “Lady Marguerite will not be walking great distances. Energetic walking is not appropriate for a lady.” She took hold of Margery’s hands in both of hers, turning them over. “The gloves should not be too fine or Lady Marguerite’s hands will spoil them. I am afraid she has the skin of a scullery maid.” She dropped Margery’s hands as though she were diseased. “I will send my maid along with some rosewater cream in the hope we may soften them.”

  * * *

  “BETTER THE HANDS OF a scullery maid than the hide of an elephant,” Margery said to Chessie over tea a couple of hours later, when the fitting was at last finished and Madame had departed with promises that the first of the day gowns would be delivered the following morning. She shook her head. “Of course I have the hands of a servant. That was my job!”

  Chessie passed her a cup of tea and two chocolate pastries that Margery devoured one after the other. “Is it wrong of me to find Lady Wardeaux so difficult to like? She is so distant and disapproving! The more I get to know her the more puzzled I am that Henry was ever born.”

  “Why do you think Henry is an only child?” Chessie said expressively.

  Margery snorted inelegantly into her teacup. “I suppose she saw it as her duty at least to produce an heir. Fortunate for both Lord and Lady Wardeaux that the firstborn was a boy and they did not need to keep trying.”

  “Such froideur would wither any man,” Chessie said. “We should not laugh, though. I remember the late Lord Wardeaux. He was a frightful rake and his wife had a great deal to put up with. He humiliated her endlessly with his affaires.” She sighed. “Many women do not seem to enjoy the marriage bed. I remember that Lady Patchet was delighted when her husband took a mistress. She said to me that they could split the burden of Lord Patchet’s base demands between them. That was what she called them—base demands.”

  “How disheartening,” Margery said. “I thought—” She stopped. Not even with Chessie would she discuss those forbidden moments she had spent in Henry’s arms. She did not think that Chessie would be shocked, but it was too personal to share. Personal, intimate, delicious. She squirmed a little in the deep armchair. Either Lord Patchet had been doing it wrong, or Henry was very good or she was very wanton. Or perhaps all three were true.

  She glanced out of the window and saw Henry striding toward the house from the direction of the lake. He had a fishing rod in one hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder. The breeze flattened his shirt against his broad chest and the sunlight was on his thick dark hair. Margery noticed with a jump of the heart that he looked different, relaxed and content. They were not emotions she associated with him. It must be Templemore that had wrought the change in him. She could tell he loved it here.

  She wrenched her gaze away from Henry and tried to concentrate on what Chessie was saying.

  “With Fitz, the marriage bed was the best thing about being wed,” Chessie said. “But since our marriage was appalling in every other respect, that is not saying a great deal.”

  “Oh, dear,” Margery said. “To think that there is nothing to look forward to if I choose to wed.”

  “Choose?” Chessie lifted an expressive eyebrow. “I suspect the earl already has a list of approved candidates for you, Margery. He will want the matter settled quickly.” She looked up from stirring honey into her tea, a little frown between her brows. “You do understand that your marriage is almost as much of an issue as the royal succession? The continuation of the Earldom of Templemore is at stake.”

  “How medieval,” Margery said. “I feel like a brood mare.”

  “Lady Wardeaux has quite settled on the fact that you must marry Henry,” Chessie said. “How do you like the idea?”

  Margery jumped, splashing some of her tea onto the skirt of her new gown. “God forbid,” she said. She scrubbed at the stain, head bent, a maneuver that allowed her to hide the pinkness of her cheeks. “Henry is too much like his mother,” she said, by way of an excuse. “Too cold and stiff and formal for me.”

  “Do you think so?” Chessie looked thoughtful. “I think that underneath all that formality Henry positively seethes with passion. The fun would be in unlocking it.”

  Margery’s entire body blushed. She was appalled to find that her fingers were shaking so much that her cup rattled in its saucer like artillery fire. She knew all about the passion beneath Henry’s cool exterior.

  The gold and bejeweled clock on the mantel struck twelve, making her jump, but at least allowing her to change the subject.

  “I fear the clock is slow,” Chessie said, looking up. “It keeps poor time.”

  “And it is so very ugly,” Margery said. “Carved golden oxen for feet and jeweled butterflies on the dial! I would not give it house room.”

  “It must be worth at least twenty thousand pounds,” Chessie said. “I believe it was made for King Louis XIV.”

  “What use is that if it cannot keep time properly?” Margery asked. “One of the things about taste I simply don’t understand is how such an unsightly ornament can be considered so valuable.” She jumped to her feet. “I must go. I promised to take luncheon with my grandfather today. Oh, I almost forgot.” She gave Chessie a quick hug. “I purchased the cashmere shawl and a few other items for you. I hope you do not mind—I saw you admiring them.”

  Chessie turned quite pink with pleasure. “Oh, Margery! Thank you.”

  “I know we have not yet discussed your salary as my companion,” Margery said, feeling very awkward. “And, indeed, Lady Wardeaux would think it inelegant for me even to mention something as vulgar as money—”

  Chessie dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “I am not so refined as to refuse a wage,” she said, laughing. “When one is penniless, one must also be practical.”

  “Then I shall ask Mr. Churchward to sort the matter out,” Margery said, with great relief.

  Lord Templemore was not in his parlor so Margery waited out in the hall between two enormous suits of armor that guarded the main entrance. The silence in the house was deep and oppressive. It was as though Templemore was asleep. Margery could see her reflection in the endless gilt mirrors that lined the walls, a neat little figure in Madame Estelle’s hastily adapted creation of striped blue muslin. The room was enormous and she was so tiny. She felt utterly dwarfed by the scale of Templemore. It had been built for someone so much grander than she felt.

  Over in the north corner of the hall she also saw the huge polished wooden stair stretching away up to the first floor, wide enough for three people to ascend abreast. The polished banisters gleamed enticingly. Margery felt a wayward spark of mischief. She picked up her skirts, ran up to the first landing, climbed up on to the top of the banister and slid all the way down. It was so
much fun she did it again, going up to the second landing this time.

  It was as she whizzed past the turn in the stairs that she realized she had miscalculated. She was going faster and faster, her skirts were flying up around her knees and the floor was approaching at nerve-racking speed.

  She was just preparing herself for a very hard landing indeed when she saw Henry crossing the hall below. Immediately her racing heart performed another giddy somersault, quite different from the one induced by fear. Henry was still in his shirtsleeves, without his cravat, his pantaloons splashed, his boots muddy. He must have just come in from the estate rooms and be on his way to get changed. As she raced down the banister and shot off the end like a circus artist out of a cannon, she saw him break into a run.

  His arms closed hard about her and he staggered backward. For one long moment she was held close against his chest and she could feel the warmth of him through the linen of his shirt. He brought with him the scent of fresh air and sunshine. It was in his tousled hair, and on his skin, and all of a sudden the hall at Templemore, for all its size, felt airless and stifling, and Margery did not seem to be able to breathe properly, as though a weight were pressing on her chest.

  “It seems,” Henry said in her ear, “that clothes do not make the lady after all.” He placed her gently on her feet.

  “It takes more than striped muslin to change me,” Margery said.

  “I can see that.” His gaze traveled over her in slow appraisal. Then he smiled, a mocking smile that lit his dark brown eyes. “The stockings and the garters are very pretty, though. I had been wondering whether you had freckles on your thighs and now I know.”

  Margery, well aware that her petticoats, stockings and much more had been on display as she raced down the banister, turned scarlet. Her skin prickled all over with an odd sort of awareness. It was part embarrassment, part something far more potent. She smoothed down the offending skirts and tucked her feet away beneath the hem of her skirt. Henry’s hands were still resting lightly on her shoulders.