Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,50

along the line of her muscles, coaxing her to relax.

“Have you…” she began.

“Hush, wife,” he whispered. He bent his head, and she felt his breath hot against her skin. He nuzzled her neck, and a warm fire radiated through her body.

“Is that better?” he asked, his voice a warm, soft burr.

Overwhelmed by a sensation she could not fathom as his fingers continued to administer to her, she tipped her head back.

“Meggie?”

A small cry erupted from her throat at his use of her name. She tipped her head further back and looked into her husband’s eyes. But she didn’t see the hunger she’d expected. Instead, she saw tenderness.

He lowered his mouth to hers.

“Meggie,” he whispered, his breath warm against her lips. “My own Meggie.”

She had only to move a fraction, and their lips would meet. His mouth curled into a knowing smile, and the hunger returned to his eyes. He knew she wanted him.

She pulled herself free. How could she give herself to him when his lover was, at this moment, preparing to taunt Meggie at the dinner table over her many shortcomings?

“Thank you for your assistance, husband,” she said, forcing the emotion out of her voice. “You should tend to our guests. I shall see you at eight.”

He frowned but nodded and left her chamber as silently as he came. She could swear she almost saw hurt in his expression. But he was incapable of such feeling.

She needed to steel herself for the ordeal to come—a formal dinner with guests who would relish every opportunity to point out her inferiority.

She could weather insults from the Alderleys, for she cared little for their good opinion. But, as for her husband—the man she was in danger of falling in love with…

She could not bear to have her heart broken.

Not again.

Chapter Twenty-One

After James helped him into his dinner jacket, Dexter dismissed the valet. He stood in front of the cheval mirror and stared at his reflection.

He’d traveled an almost impossible distance to reach his present position—from poverty, through hard work and determination, to become the head of one of the leading banks in London.

Where he’d once been thrashed like an urchin and spat at in the dirt, people now looked up as he walked into a room. They might not like him, but they respected him enough to value what he had to say.

He compared his reflection to that of his wife. Her discomfort was evident for all to see—including Alderley and Elizabeth.

Dexter wasn’t so foolish as to be blind to Elizabeth’s games. She’d meant to insult Margaret, and each arrow had met its target. But before he called out Elizabeth’s behavior, he must first find out what Alderley and his daughter were playing at. Was Elizabeth a queen—a powerful piece intended to entrap him? By believing they could behave as they pleased, they were playing into his hands.

He glanced at his pocket watch—ten to eight. The last thing he wanted was for Margaret to be on her own with those two vultures. At all costs, he must arrive in the drawing room first. If Elizabeth could insult Margaret in his presence, doubtless, she’d unleash the full force of her spite if he were not in the room.

He entered the drawing room to find his father-in-law pouring himself a glass of Madeira.

“Help yourself, Alderley,” he said. “Though you need no encouragement.”

Alderley flinched, and his lips thinned, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

He must want something from Dexter—and want it badly. Perhaps he could repay the man for his daughter’s insults to Margaret by indulging in a little game—see how far he could push the old bastard.

“You’ve chosen well,” he said, nodding toward the row of decanters on the side-table. “You’ve picked the finest in my collection. Doubtless, it’s not something you’ve been able to afford recently.”

Alderley frowned but did not respond.

“Now we’ve concluded the niceties,” Dexter said, “might you indulge me by explaining why you invited yourself here? I hardly think it came from a desire to further family relations, or whatever story you presented to my wife.”

Alderley drained his glass and reached for the decanter. “That’s always been the problem with you, Hart,” he said, refilling his glass, “a distinct lack of understanding of social traditions.”

Dexter filled himself a glass, then reclined in a chair.

“Come, come, Father,” he said, smiling to himself as Alderley flinched involuntarily at his address, “I doubt you were driven here by social tradition. I’d respect you more if you paid me the compliment of telling the