Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,13
elicited a secret thrill, the prospect of awakening new sensations…
“Do we have an agreement?” he asked.
“Y-yes,” she said. “I will abide by my vows. And…” steeling courage, she looked at him again to prove she was not afraid, “…and you shall abide by yours.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Then we have an agreement,” he said. “Above all things, I value the truth. In business and,” he gestured toward her, “in a marriage. Abide by that, and I’ll give you no cause to regret our union.”
She leaned back and relaxed, only then realizing she’d been tensing her body. Perhaps there was hope after all.
“Tell me what happened to your wrist, Margaret.” A flicker of compassion gleamed in his eyes.
Instinctively, she reached for her sleeve and pulled it down to conceal the bruise—evidence, as Alderley had said, of her willfulness and disobedience.
The last thing she wanted was her husband’s pity.
And what had Alderley said?
He’ll have you horsewhipped…
“I-I sprained it,” she said. “I slipped and fell.”
Almost at once, his expression hardened, and he sat back, curling a hand into a fist.
He hadn’t inquired out of compassion. He’d been testing her honesty.
And she had failed.
Chapter Seven
Dexter opened his pocket watch and checked the time.
Again.
Where the devil was she? Hadn’t she understood the need for punctuality? Not to mention the fact that he was starving.
He looked up as he heard a noise. Still in her wedding gown, she stood at the top of the staircase with the posture of the unrefined.
It was worse than he thought.
He held out his hand. “Come here, then.”
She hesitated, then descended the stairs and took his hand. Her little fingers were ice cold, and for a moment, he was struck by an overwhelming need to warm them. Then, propriety recalled, he grasped her wrist with his free hand and placed her hand on his arm.
The color rose in her cheeks, but she said nothing, and he led her into the dining room and escorted her to a chair at one end of the table, then took his seat at the opposite end.
A footman entered, brandishing a tureen of soup.
“Do we have guests?” she asked.
“Whatever for? I hardly want to be accompanied on my wedding night.”
“W-what about your family?”
“My sisters are currently residing in Bath,” he said, “and my brother chooses to live elsewhere. We are alone.”
She looked down. “The table is so big,” she said. “Will we dine here every night?”
“We can hardly dine in the kitchen.”
The footman approached her and presented the tureen. She eyed it with suspicion.
“You help yourself,” Dexter said. “Do I need to show you?”
“No.”
The footman’s lip curled in a sneer as she grasped the ladle, hands trembling, and lifted it. She deposited a ladleful of soup into the bowl in front of her. A drip of bright green liquid splashed onto the tablecloth. The footman tutted and stared at it markedly. Dexter glared at him. However lacking in grace his wife was, the servants had no right to point it out.
“John, see that wife is tended to properly,” he ordered. “Send someone to clean her place.”
“Very good, sir.” The footman gave a sly grin and slid out of the room.
Yet another servant needing to be dismissed. If they insulted his wife, then they also insulted him.
He’d seen their stares as she’d stumbled out of the carriage on their arrival, uttering a curse when she tripped on the steps. Word would spread around London that Dexter Hart, the man who aspired to rub shoulders with the aristocracy, had married a peasant, born on the wrong side of the blanket, who used the language of the gutter.
It wouldn’t do to dismiss a servant every day, or there’d be none left by the weekend.
He lifted his wine glass and drained the contents. How could a man such as he even begin to make this timid little thing happy?
Unpleasant as Elizabeth might be, he could, at least, have been able to satisfy her needs. All he’d need to do was furnish her with enough pin money to adorn herself with jewels, bed her four times a week, and turn a blind eye to the string of lovers she’d inevitably take once she realized how much he despised her.
In many respects, Margaret reminded him of his sister Daisy. But his wife was not his sister. Daisy had chosen to live a life of obscurity in the country and, try as he might, he’d never been able to persuade her to enjoy the comforts his successes could now afford them.
And as