Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,30
understanding in his eyes.
“Come on, my friend,” Pelham said. “I think we ought to join Anne before I do something unforgivable, such as unearth your conscience.”
As soon as they entered the drawing room, Anne Pelham rose from her seat.
“Coffee, Mr. Hart?”
“I can help myself, Mrs. Pelham,” he said. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”
She glanced at her husband. “Mr. Hart,” she said, “I didn’t mean to criticize you this evening. Though I hope you see me as a friend, I’ve no right to tell you how to behave in your marriage.”
“No,” he replied. “I value frankness above decorum, Mrs. Pelham. Too often, others seek to manipulate me by telling me what they believe I want to hear. I would prefer you to speak frankly, even if I don’t like what you have to say.”
She smiled. “Then, with your leave, may I suggest you refrain from neglecting your wife?”
“My wife is in the best place she can be,” Dexter replied. “The world believes I sent her away because I don’t care to have her with me, but the country is the kindest environment for her. London is populated by sharks, whereas Molineux Manor harbors much safer waters.”
She lifted the coffee pot and poured him a cup, dropping three sugar lumps in.
Just how he liked it. Some women were capable of silent observation, using their keen eye for others' benefit and comfort.
Like his wife. She had noticed his aversion to the sight of blood and had managed to soothe his fears without even mentioning them, thereby not only helping his hand to heal but also preserving his pride.
It took a rare woman to achieve that.
“Mr. Hart,” Mrs. Pelham continued, “despite your efforts at concealing it, a kind heart beats beneath the fine cut of your jacket. Why not bestow a little of that kindness where it might be needed the most?”
“My love, you’ve lectured our friend for long enough,” Pelham said. “How about some music?”
“Very well.” She crossed the floor to the pianoforte, and shortly after, the soft melodies of a Mozart sonata filled the room. Dexter leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes to savor the melody.
Anne Pelham was a handful. But her husband could be forgiven for being smitten with her.
***
When Dexter returned to his townhouse, he stopped in the main hall and looked around him. Though servants bustled about belowstairs, he’d never felt so alone. His sisters had moved out, and now he’d exiled his wife.
He handed his greatcoat to Charles and climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoing as if to emphasize his solitude. When he reached his wife’s chamber, on impulse, he pushed the door open.
The room had been cleaned, and the bed made—not a crease or a thing out of place. The shabby little trunk that had resided in the far corner was no longer there, exiled in the country with its owner.
A small object caught his eye on the floor underneath the bed, and he moved closer to get a better look.
A single stocking.
He plucked it off the floor and held it up. A thread had pulled apart, running along the stocking, toward a hole, halfway up.
He rubbed the soft silk between his finger and thumb, then lifted the stocking to his face, breathing in the faint aroma of earth and fresh air. The material was soft to the touch, as soft as the smooth, pale skin of the thigh it had once covered. Closing his eyes, he caressed it, relishing the memory of her skin, which had flushed a delectable shade of rose at his touch.
“Mr. Hart? Sir?”
He jumped to his feet, shifting position to conceal the erection tenting his breeches. It wouldn’t do for his valet to discover him fisting himself in his wife’s chamber.
“You may retire for the night, James,” he said. “I can see to myself.”
“Very good, sir,” came the reply.
When the valet’s footsteps faded, Dexter returned to his chamber, clutching his prize. After he’d undressed and settled into bed, he rolled the stocking up and stuffed it under his pillow.
Chapter Fourteen
Meggie bounced the little girl on her knee. “So, Betsy, if you gave Jack nine apples and he cut each one into seven pieces, how many pieces would there be in total?”
“She’d have none if I ate them all!” Jack cried, sticking out his tongue at his sister.
“Jack!” Meggie admonished. “That’s not very civil. Very well, you must answer this. If you then ate nine of those pieces, how many would there be left?”
“I know!” Betsy cried. Jack pulled a face.
“I’m sure