Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,59

Meggie once more. “He threatened to spread rumors about Daisy being a light skirt if I didn’t pay him. My fortunes were increasing, and he saw me as a source of income.”

“And you agreed?”

“No,” he said, his mouth set firm. “I didn’t. A man who succumbs to blackmail is a fool. He shows himself to be weak-minded for not facing the consequences of his sins. I am not such a man.”

“What about Daisy?” Meggie asked.

Hurt rippled across his expression. “She wouldn’t have been happy in a coerced marriage, however much she wanted it.”

“A marriage like ours?”

He sighed. “The circumstances that brought us together were different,” he said. “And Daisy is happier now than she would have been, had I yielded to her seducer.”

“How so?”

“An old friend of mine offered for her. I believe they are fond of each other.”

“You believe? Don’t you see them?”

The tenderness in his eyes disappeared. “I should see to our guests,” he said, “lest they feel neglected.”

His reluctance to continue the conversation was understandable. But she had to know one thing—to determine whether she could, as he claimed, trust him completely.

“Dexter?”

“What is it?”

“When your sister was ruined…” His jaw gave a tic, and he narrowed his eyes. Summoning her courage, she continued. “Was she with child?”

“No,” he said. “Thank the Almighty I was spared that indignation. Her husband’s a good man, but even he has his limits. No man should suffer the indignation of having a wife who bore another man’s bastard.”

He drew out his pocket watch and opened it. “Now, run along, my dear. I have much to do, and I want you well-rested before you face our guests again. Mrs. Wells, I trust you’ll be able to conceal the mark on my wife’s face before she joins us for supper.”

“Of course, sir,” the housekeeper said. “Come, mistress, let’s get you settled upstairs.”

Meggie let herself be led away, her heart aching in the knowledge that she’d never be able to trust her husband completely.

Not with the truth about her past.

Chapter Twenty-Four

When Meggie woke, she didn’t recognize her surroundings, and a wave of panic rose within her.

She was in an enormous bed with a thick, carved wooden post at each corner and a vast canopy overhead. The only familiar object she could see was the vase of wildflowers she’d picked the day before, next to a silver tray bearing an empty glass.

Of course!

Mrs. Wells had moved her belongings to the lady’s chamber.

She stretched and looked about her. The room wasn’t as imposing as it had been the first time she’d seen it. Someone had replaced the dark furnishings with warmer, sunnier colors, and the remnants of a fire glowed in the fireplace.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, her feet sinking into the thick pile of the rug, then padded over to the window.

The garden stretched before her. Neatly clipped shrubs formed a regimental line, alongside a hedge of purple flowers. Beyond, a lake rippled in the sunlight, a myriad of colors dancing along the water’s surface.

It all seemed smaller, less imposing than before. Had so much changed in so little time?

Or was it she who’d changed?

The sun was low on the horizon, casting long, silent shadows. How long had she slept?

She returned to the bed and brushed her fingertips over the flowers in the vase. Then she picked up the glass from the tray and sniffed it.

Laudanum.

Mrs. Wells had insisted she take a drink of milk before her rest as if she were an ailing child—and she’d slipped a spoonful of the sleeping draught in it. When Meggie had protested, the housekeeper responded, saying it was the master’s orders.

She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. There were at least four hours until dinner. The laudanum hadn’t completely worn off. If she closed her eyes, she’d fall asleep again. But she wanted her wits about her before she faced the Alderleys again, and the most effective remedy for an addled mind was fresh air.

She’d noticed a large, ornate armoire through the dressing room door when Mrs. Wells had helped her into her shift. Sure enough, her clothes had been moved there—presumably on Dexter’s orders. She ought to have been annoyed at her husband taking control of her belongings, but it stemmed from a wish to care for her.

And she’d never felt genuinely cared for in her life, until now.

What would he do when their guests left? Would he stay with her so they could become better acquainted? Or would he