Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,21
heard mumbled voices, then the footsteps faded into the distance.
She crept out and ventured toward the library. It was empty. A decanter stood on the edge of the desk, next to two empty glasses.
A chessboard had been set up on the desk, the pieces scattered about as if a game was in progress. She studied the pieces. White had the advantage, with two castles and a bishop surrounding the black king. With a single move, white would checkmate black by bringing the queen into play.
She picked up the white queen and studied it. Carved from wood, the piece was more functional than decorative, but beauty was always to be found in simplicity. The most powerful piece on the board, players guarded the queen jealously, often at the expense of the lesser pieces.
Sighing, she replaced the queen and picked up a pawn—an overlooked piece that players often sacrificed on a whim for no real gain, to be cast aside on the edge of the board and forgotten.
Like a bastard daughter.
Or an unwanted wife.
A splintering crash came from outside, followed by a curse.
“Damn!”
She opened the door to see her husband holding pieces of a vase, the remainder of which lay at his feet. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Fetching a book,” she replied. “What have you done?”
“What do you think?” he asked, irritation in his voice. He dropped the shards. “Hated the bloody thing anyway. It contained the remains of the seventh Count Von Hirschtein.”
“And you didn’t like him?”
“Rumor has it he murdered both his wives.”
“Then, a fitting end for him might be to get swept up and discarded with the rest of the rubbish,” she said.
His mouth twitched into a smile.
“It seems as if the count has effected one last injury,” Meggie said, nodding toward his hand where a patch of red had appeared. He lifted his hand and blanched.
A long gash covered his palm.
Charles appeared from a side door. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“What the devil does it look like!” he roared, an edge of panic in his voice. “Do you think I’ve been playing…”
“Charles,” Meggie interrupted her husband. “Would you be so good at to fetch a bandage or some strips of linen and some honey, if there’s any in the house?
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Ask Mrs. Draper if you’re unsure,” she said. “We’ll be in the library. And I’ll need some alcohol.” She glanced at her husband. “Preferably something the master places little value on.”
Charles gave a bow and disappeared.
Meggie gestured toward her husband. “Will you come into the library?”
He remained still.
“Please?”
He sighed. “I can deal with it myself, Margaret.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I’m sure you’d not want any more of your blood mingling with the ashes of a murderer.”
A smile played on his lips again, and he followed her into the library.
Chapter Ten
Dexter sat at his wife’s direction while she inspected his hand with silent, detached professionalism. Unlike most ladies, she came to the fore at the sight of blood, rather than fainting in a fit of hysterics. Elizabeth would have swooned, throwing herself into his arms in an attempt to elicit chivalry—even though he was the most unchivalrous man in London.
When Charles appeared, brandishing a tray laden with a small pile of linen, a jar of honey, and a decanter, she took it and bobbed a curtsey. The footman raised his eyebrow, but more out of surprise than contempt. She flushed and lowered her gaze.
Dexter dismissed the footman, but he hadn’t the heart to admonish his wife for her faux pas. He made a mental note to instruct Mrs. Draper to warn Charles not to gossip about his wife’s unladylike demeanor.
“May I?” she asked.
At his nod, she knelt at his feet and set the tray on the floor. Then she reached for his hand. Gentle fingers uncurled his, and he grimaced at the sight of the red liquid pooling in his palm. He closed his eyes, but the memory was too strong—the stream of red at his feet and the pain across his back, which burned like a flame.
“Husband?”
He opened his eyes to see her staring up at him, concern in her expression. Her eyes, which he’d thought an unremarkable brown, bore the warm, comforting hue of chocolate, punctuated by golden flecks that reminded him of the sun.
For a brief moment, another memory flashed past him—a different woman at his feet, taking him in her mouth to exert her sexual power over him. But rather than lust, he