Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,62

indisposed.”

“Indisposed?”

“Yes, sir, she…” The servant hesitated, uncertainty in his expression.

“Spit it out,” Dexter growled. “I don’t have all day.”

“She was in a hurry, sir. She was running from the direction of the study…”

“The study?”

“Yes, sir. About a minute before you arrived with Miss Alderley. I-I believe she may have heard voices.”

The footman’s expression told him exactly whose voices Meggie had heard.

Shit.

“Where did you say she went?” he asked.

“I-I don’t know, sir. She ran down the steps as if a pack of dogs was after her.”

A pack of dogs, indeed. They were all bloody dogs—himself included.

“Shall I help you find her, sir?”

“No,” Dexter said. “You can assist Mrs. Wells in ridding me of my guests. I’ll find my wife.”

“Very good, sir.”

Did he imagine it, or did he sense disapproval in the footman’s voice?

But he could hardly blame the man. Disapproval was an understatement compared to Dexter’s opinion of himself.

Where had she gone?

Hoofbeats crunched on the gravel outside. That was impressive. Billings must have worked a miracle to prepare the Alderley carriage so quickly.

But there was no carriage. Instead, a single horse stood before the front door, its rider already dismounting.

It was Oliver Peyton.

“Good lord!” Dexter exclaimed.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Peyton said. “I’m here on your instruction.”

“So much has happened, I quite forgot.”

“That’s unlike you!” Peyton laughed. “Perhaps you’ve been distracted by something far pleasanter than the running of a bank. Didn’t I say, your adorable little wife…”

“Forgive me, Peyton,” Dexter said. “I have an urgent errand to see to. I trust you’ll make yourself at home in the interim.”

“Can I help?”

“If you can dispatch two unwelcome guests, find my wife, and hire a full complement of staff, then I daresay you can,” Dexter said. “Failing that, I’d suggest you let Stephen here show you to my study where you can indulge in a dialogue with my brandy until I return.”

Leaving his friend open-mouthed at the threshold, he sprinted off toward the forest.

If he knew his wife at all, there was one place she would go.

***

As Dexter emerged from the woods, he saw a solitary figure sitting beside the waterfall at the edge of the forest lake, dangling her legs in the water.

“Margaret.”

She stiffened but did not attempt to look up as he approached. Her body vibrated with tension, but she continued to stare at the water as if by not seeing him, she could will him to disappear.

He bent down and reached for the ankle of his boot and yanked at it. It hardly budged. How the devil did his valet manage to take the damn things off? He tried again and almost lost his balance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn her head to observe him. He pulled it a third time, and it came off, but he lost his balance and toppled onto his back.

“Shit.”

Aware of her eyes on him, he removed the second boot—much easier now he was positioned like an upended turtle—then pulled his stockings off. Then he stood up, brushed himself down, and sat beside her. He dipped his feet into the water and drew in a sharp breath.

Bloody hell, that was cold!

The corner of her mouth twitched in a smile.

“Margaret,” he said.

The smile disappeared.

He took her hand. “Meggie?”

“What do you want?”

“Forgiveness.”

She sighed. “What purpose would it serve? Will it absolve you of your sins such that you consider yourself at liberty to commit them once more?”

He lifted her hand to his lips. She didn’t resist, but, if anything, that pierced his heart even more. She believed the worst of him, yet she was resigned to his attentions. Overcome with shame, he released her hand. He had no right to touch her—or even look her in the eyes.

“I cannot begin to think what you imagine I’ve done,” he said, “and I have no right to expect you to believe me now.”

She made no move. But she didn’t slap him—neither did she push him into the lake.

Which he saw as a good sign.

“But,” he continued, “I will explain what you witnessed if you have no objection.”

He waited for her response, but she said nothing. The silence stretched, forming an uncomfortable void which he felt compelled to fill with words.

Was this what his rivals felt when he adopted the same tactics in the boardroom? Stony silence was the most effective method of coercing a man into saying what he intended to keep to himself.

Once again, he was reminded of how different his wife was from every other woman he’d met.

“I confess that Elizabeth