Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,11

“You’re not what I imagined you to be, Mrs. Hart.”

“What did you imagine?” Meggie asked, her temples throbbing with the onset of a headache. “A guttersnipe? Or a harlot?”

The conversation stopped, and she looked round to see her new husband staring directly at her, his expression dark. Behind him, Elizabeth watched her, a cold smile on her thin lips.

Mr. Peyton was wrong. No amount of knowledge would conquer her fear. Her husband loathed her and desired another.

Mr. Peyton touched her arm in a gentle gesture. “Are you well, Mrs. Hart?”

“I have a headache.”

“Perhaps you indulged in a little too much champagne,” he said. “I loathe the stuff. Overpriced, harsh on the palate, and guaranteed to elicit the most shocking pains behind the eyes. But society raves over it. By convincing each other of its prestige, viscounts and earls perpetuate the myth that only the best people drink the best champagne. The wine merchants must be laughing at their stupidity—laughing as they drive to their banks with their profits.”

“Banks such as my husband’s?”

He smiled. “The very same.”

She continued to watch as Elizabeth approached the groom and curled her fingers round his arm.

“Pay no attention to her,” Mr. Peyton said.

“He wanted her, didn’t he?” Meggie asked.

“Perhaps at first, when formulating his plans, but he feels very different now. He said so this morning.”

“His plans?”

Mr. Peyton colored and looked away.

“Forgive me, I’ve said too much,” he said. “Please permit me to offer my congratulations, and wish you every happiness. I have no reason to doubt you’ll be happy. You strike me as a very honest young woman. And my friend values honesty and sincerity above all.” He lowered his voice and winked. “Which is why the honorable Elizabeth would have proved a disastrous match. The adjective which applies to her title bears no reflection on her character.”

“Honesty, Mr. Peyton?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’ll find such a characteristic is sorely lacking among society. It seems that the higher born a man is, the less honesty he possesses. My friend may be an imposing sort of man, but his anger only comes to the fore when he finds himself deceived. I assure you, good lady, that you have nothing to fear from him, as long as you remain truthful and honest.”

He bowed and took his leave.

Well-meaning he might be, but he’d confirmed one thing—that her husband had wanted another woman.

As to fairness and honesty—Mr. Peyton’s words sent a shiver of dread through her. What would her husband think if he discovered her secret?

Chapter Six

Rather than soothe Meggie’s already strained nerves, the carriage only increased her nausea.

Elizabeth had been right. Not only was it unseemly to drink so much champagne, but unwise. The dulling of the senses, which she’d welcomed, had turned into an ache in her temples.

Her husband—the man to whom she now belonged—sat opposite, body stiff, jaw set into a firm line. Ever since ushering her inside the carriage and barking an order to the driver, he’d remained silent, his gaze fixed out of the window.

Mr. Peyton had opted to travel separately. After shaking the bridegroom’s hand and giving him a pat on the back, he’d bowed over her hand and offered her a smile of reassurance before taking his leave.

But looking at the stern, dark scowl before her, Meggie felt anything but reassured.

While his attention was fixed on the landscape outside, she could watch him unobserved. Taller than most, his broad frame filled out his jacket which, though cut in a clean, elegant style, was such a dark shade of blue one might mistake it for black. Even his waistcoat was a deep gray, devoid of color as the rest of his attire. Her husband clearly preferred stark, sharp colors. His boots, which had been polished until they gleamed, were black.

The only splash of color was his eyes—clear blue made all the more intense due to the lack of color elsewhere.

And his lips.

His mouth creased in a frown. Below, a small scar curled over his chin. But rather than render him unpalatable, it gave him a dangerous, piratical air.

What might that mouth look like if he smiled? Could those eyes, which carried such intensity, sparkle with joy?

Was he capable of happiness?

She lifted her gaze to find those eyes staring directly at her. He held her look as if she were an animal caught in a net.

She was no match for him, and he knew it. Her cheeks flaming, she looked away. When she glanced back, he had resumed his attention on the view