Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,49

as a railing?

A woman such as my wife.

What had he meant? That she was the commoner he regretted marrying, compared to the lady he’d wanted?

Tea concluded, Dexter directed their guests to their rooms to rest before dinner, and Meggie fled to her chamber. How would she even begin to make herself look presentable for tonight? But Elizabeth would, most likely, taunt her however she looked.

The woman loathed Meggie and wanted to bed her husband.

The question was—did he want to be bedded?

***

“Curse it!” Meggie exclaimed as the pin pricked her finger for the fourth time. Why could the damned things not stay in?

She pulled the remaining pins out of her hair, and it fell round her face in loose, limp tresses. Her hair refused to be curled into elegance—it possessed a will of its own.

She had seen little need to engage a maid. The notion of having another at her beck and call, performing tasks she could undertake herself, was neither right nor fair. But Mrs. Wells had explained that the lady’s maid position was highly sought after and that a maid did not only dress her mistress or style her hair. She was a respected confidante—a friend, even.

Elizabeth’s maid was unlikely to be treated as such. Meggie had passed the girl on her way to her chamber, and her heart had stung at the way she’d bobbed into a curtsey and mumbled her apology before scuttling off as if she feared Meggie would have her beaten for being seen abovestairs.

She grasped her hair, brushed it out again, and twisted it behind her head, then, holding it in place with her left hand, she picked up a pin with her right and drove it in, wincing at the stabbing sensation. She picked up another and another until there must have been at least a dozen pins in her hair.

Meggie lowered her hands and studied her reflection. Not as elegant as Elizabeth, but a ribbon or two might conceal the imperfections. She reached for a ribbon, and a pin fell out, causing part of her hair to tumble down.

With a cry of frustration, she pulled out the remaining pins, then buried her face in her hands, closing her eyes to stem the tears which threatened to spill onto her dress.

Would she forever be an outsider here? Might she never have a single friend in this world in which she’d been thrust?

“Why can’t they leave me alone?” she cried.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped with fright. She jerked her head up and opened her eyes. In the mirror’s reflection, she saw her husband standing behind her, one hand placed on her shoulder, long, lean fingers brushing against her neck. His fingertips caressed her collarbone.

“Hush…”

She blinked, and a single tear beaded and splashed onto her cheek. She wiped it away, ashamed that he witnessed her distress.

“Here,” he whispered. “Let me.”

He picked up the hairbrush, then ran it through her hair with long, smooth strokes. His mouth curled into a smile, then he lifted his gaze to hers.

For the first time since she’d laid eyes on him, the smile reached his eyes. They crinkled slightly at the edges, and their blue color resembled sapphires. As they continued to stare at each other, a light sparkled in his eyes, and an invisible knife pierced her heart.

With his gentle hands caressing her, and a smile to melt the harshest of frosts, he was in danger of capturing her heart.

He resumed his attention on her hair and curled it into a coil, sliding the pins in place with expert fingers as if the task were second nature to him. Then he pinned a ribbon in place and placed both hands on her shoulders to admire his handiwork.

“There!” he said. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

She shook her head. “I could never learn to do that.”

“You can apply yourself to anything if you have the inclination,” he replied. “Any task can be perfected with experience and practice.”

“How were you able to perfect the art of styling a woman’s hair?” she asked.

She could swear she saw a faint flush on his cheeks.

The knife twisted in her heart. The answer was obvious.

“You have performed the task for Elizabeth,” she said, “and, perhaps, your other mistresses.”

His smile slipped, and he broke eye contact.

“But, I never did this,” he whispered.

A warm hand caressed the back of her neck. Tender fingers traced a path along her collarbone, stroking, caressing. Then he began to massage her shoulders. The tips of his fingers ran