Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,43
dinner is served.”
“Could you bring mine up here?” she asked.
“The master’s expecting you in the dining room.”
“Tell him I’m not hungry.”
“The master was most particular about you joining him.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “He said he had no wish to be kept waiting.”
“Go,” a soft voice said from the bed. “I’ll be all right.”
Meggie placed a soft kiss on Milly’s hand, then followed the footman out of the attic and down the stairs.
“Shall I fetch Sarah to help you dress for dinner?” the footman asked.
“No,” she replied firmly. “If my husband is demanding to see me as soon as possible, then he must be obeyed. If he dislikes my apparel, then he can blame his impatience.”
Dexter might have explained the reasoning for his actions. He might have ordered someone to dress Milly’s wounds. But Meggie couldn’t forgive him.
She found him in the dining room, seated at one end of the table. He rose as she entered and arched an eyebrow as he looked her up and down. Hair still wet, loose tendrils on her face, she looked the antithesis of the elegant lady he’d wanted for a wife, but she cared not. She tilted her chin and stared at him as if in challenge.
His gaze settled on her, the blue of his eyes like a deep, cold ocean. They regarded each other across the table.
For a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. Then he gestured toward her chair.
“Please, sit,” he said. “Then, we can dine, at last.”
At last…
A footman approached with a tureen. Meggie ladled soup into the bowl in front of her, waited until he served her husband, and then began eating.
“Did you find everything to your satisfaction when you visited the attic, my dear?”
She looked up to find him staring directly at her.
“She’s sleeping,” she said.
“I thought as much,” he replied. “Laudanum is very effective when needed.”
“Yes, husband,” Meggie said, sipping her soup. “And there was much need of it today.”
He frowned but did not respond. When he finished his soup, he set his spoon down, and the footman rushed forward to clear his place.
“May I ask whether the maidservant…”
“Milly,” Meggie interrupted. “Her name’s Milly. You should at least remember the name of the girl you thrashed.”
“It wasn’t my hand on the whip.”
“No, you left that for others to ease your conscience.”
He flinched and picked up his wineglass. “I don’t regret my decision,” he said. “She would have known that her behavior warranted such a punishment. Worse, in fact. Any master worth his salt would be within his rights to have her dismissed immediately.”
“Then why don’t you?” she cried.
“Because I’m not a monster,” he said quietly. “I’m not so devoid of feeling that I cannot see how much it hurts you to see another suffer as a result of your actions.”
“Nobody should suffer for the crimes of another,” Meggie said.
“But they often do.”
“Did you see the marks on her back?” Meggie asked. “She’s barely out of childhood, yet she was lashed as if she were a man!”
“That cannot be right,” he said. “I told Billings to ensure that…” he trailed off and drained his glass, motioning to the footman to refill it.
“How long will she have to lie on her stomach?” Meggie cried. “The skin on her might be ruined! The pain—the humiliation…” She shook her head, blinking back the tears. “You cannot possibly know how she suffers.”
“I do know, Margaret,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”
“How can you? You have no understanding of the feelings of others!”
He slammed his glass on the table. “Do not presume to know what I do, or do not, understand,” he said through gritted teeth. “I know that with each lash, it’s like your body’s on fire. You tell yourself you’ll survive by counting the strokes, that the pain will reach a point where it cannot get worse. But it does get worse. Then you pray that the skin won’t break—and when it does, it’s like your whole body is being sliced open with knives. After the tenth lash, you pray for oblivion, for the relief it will give you from the pain. But it does not come, so you bite your tongue and taste the blood, hoping that it lessens the pain on your back. Then you hear the laughter—the triumph of the hand on the whip—when you realize that you’ve been reduced to mere flesh for the entertainment of others.”
He closed his eyes, as if reliving a memory, then