Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,19

business to attend to, today and tomorrow.”

“Molineux Manor?”

“My country seat,” he said. “You’ll want for nothing there.”

“You’re sending me away?” she asked. “Is it because…” she hesitated. “Because of last night?”

“Partly.”

She flinched, and he cursed himself. The brutal honesty which elicited the desired result when conducting business was, perhaps, not the best quality in a marriage.

Which only confirmed the need to send her away. She was poorly equipped for the harsh realities of the world in which he lived, and he had neither the time nor the ability to deal with her. She needed a tender hand, and he was not a tender man.

“You’ll be better off in the country,” he continued. “You’re not suited to life in London.”

“I understand.”

She continued to eat, but her stricken expression threatened to melt his heart.

“You’ll enjoy the trappings of a wealthy wife if you have concerns in that quarter,” he said.

She stopped eating and pushed her plate away.

“You can learn the arts of being a lady in relative peace,” he said. “With no fear of ridicule.”

She set her mouth in a firm line.

“In fact, you’re at liberty to do everything you want,” he said. “On one condition.”

“Which is?” She spoke so softly, he almost believed he’d imagined it.

“You must keep yourself tidy,” he said.

“As in clean and presentable?”

“No…” he hesitated.

Damn it — naïve little creature! Why hadn’t some other woman explained it to her? Why did he have to speak of such matters?

“After what I discovered last night…in your chamber. About you…”

Understanding flooded her expression, and she sat back and folded her arms, her cheeks flaming.

“I would hear your promise,” he said.

“I’ve already said I’ll stand by my vows,” she replied. “Why demand I repeat what I’ve already said?”

“You cannot deny that you came to the marriage bed impure.”

“Can you deny any previous liaisons?” she asked. “With Elizabeth, perhaps? We should be judged on equal terms.”

“Men and women are judged differently,” he said. “And as for Elizabeth, whatever you think of her, she understands enough of the rules of society to know that she must remain—intact—before she marries. She is a maiden, still.”

“How do you know?”

He pushed his plate aside. “That’s not a subject on which a respectable married woman should speak.”

He picked up his napkin and dabbed the corners of his mouth, then rose from his seat.

“I have some business to tend to in my study,” he said, “and I wish not to be disturbed. But you are at liberty to explore the rest of the house if you so wish.”

Before she could respond, he gave her a stiff bow and left the room.

***

Meggie turned the page, her gaze following the lines of verse. She’d never read Byron before. Some of the phrases made her heart race. Such passion!

There had been so few books at Mrs. Preston’s school that any new book was a treasure.

And her husband had a library full of them. She closed the book and picked up another, tracing the gold lettering on the spine.

Mo Chridhe

A collection of verse

by

Delilah Hart.

Delilah Hart. It must be one of her husband’s sisters. Meggie smiled at the glimmer of hope. If he permitted his sister to employ her intellect, then he must believe a woman capable of more than simply submitting to the man who ruled her.

She heard a knock on the main doors.

Not another visitor! That was the fifth today. Why were so many people curious to see her? Was she a prize exhibit to be paraded along the street so that they could look down their nose at her?

Clutching the book, Meggie crossed the floor and peered out of the window.

A woman stood on the doorstep. Elegantly dressed in a purple coat with matching bonnet, she spoke to the footman, cradling a bundle of fur in her arms. She was small, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Meggie, but bore an air of elegance that gave her stature.

The woman lifted her gaze to the window. Meggie shrank behind the curtain, her heart racing with shame and embarrassment. Had she seen her? The voices stopped, and the door slammed. Meggie moved into the window and looked out again. The woman was walking away, but before she reached the end of the street, she stopped and turned.

She’d known Meggie was there.

Shortly after, the footman entered the parlor, brandishing a card on a silver tray.

“You had a visitor, ma’am,” he said, bowing. “I said you were not at home.”

“Thank you, Charles.”

She picked up the card and read the inscription.

Mrs. Harold Pelham.

The name was