Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,69
already knew that. He’s come to see you.”
Meggie swallowed her fear. If she must face her past, then at least Dexter wasn’t here to witness it. But could the servants be trusted not to gossip?
She pushed open the parlor door. A solitary figure occupied the wing-backed chair in a dark corner of the room. As she entered, he stood and turned.
A wave of relief rushed through her.
It wasn’t him.
He might be clad in a gentleman’s clothes, but he did not wear them well. He seemed to fidget in his suit as if he found it distasteful. But his most distinguishing feature was the black silk mask covering the upper portion of his face. Thick, dark hair framed his face, and she could discern two brown eyes behind the mask. She’d always thought brown eyes conveyed warmth, but a frost lingered in this man’s eyes. His mouth was set in a frown, made all the more acute for being the only visible feature, save his eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He clicked his heels together in the manner of a soldier standing to attention.
“I suppose I’m your brother-in-law.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Major Devon Hart, at your service.” His voice held a note of sarcasm.
“My husband never mentioned a brother,” she said.
He curled his mouth into a sneer. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Do you mean to insult my husband or me with that remark?” she asked.
“Neither.”
“Would you like tea, Major Hart?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then why are you here?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Dexter said I had to pay my respects to his bride.”
“And you chose to do so at a time when he was out?”
“Exactly.”
“May I ask why?”
“I can’t prevent you from asking.”
What a strange man he was! No wonder Dexter hadn’t mentioned him.
“The last thing I want is to be visited out of a sense of duty,” she said. “If you’d rather be elsewhere, I’ll gladly relieve you of any obligation you feel toward me.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I doubt you’ll want me to visit again.”
“Why not?”
“Because of this.”
He reached behind his head and lowered the mask, and she let out a low cry.
One side of his face was beautiful—strong, chiseled features, a square jaw, straight nose, and deep, chocolate-brown eyes that looked almost liquid in the light. But the other side…
A thick, jagged scar bisected one cheek, narrowly missing his right eye from just above the chin to his temple. The flesh around it was puckered where the wound had healed, distorting his features.
Were it not for the scar, he’d have been one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen.
He stood, stiff and erect, facing her head-on as if challenging her to scream or throw him out. What must he have endured to learn such stoicism? How many insults would have been hurled in his direction in a world where appearance meant everything?
She blinked, and tears stung her eyes. His expression hardened.
“I don’t want your pity, madam.”
“What happened?”
“I was injured in a fight.”
“In a battle?”
“A street brawl, near the docks,” he said. “I encountered a group of men assaulting a prostitute and intervened. One of them slashed me with a broken gin bottle.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Nothing honorable, I’m afraid.”
“There’s honor in saving a life.”
“And what if I told you I’d gone there in search of a street whore?”
She flinched at the bitterness in his voice. “Does it matter?” she asked. “You put yourself in danger to help someone in need. That makes you a hero, whether it happened at Waterloo or in a brothel.”
She held out her hand. “You must stay for tea,” she said. “I usually take it at this hour, and I have so few friends that any new acquaintance is welcome.”
He stared at her hand as if trying to discern whether it was an illusion.
“Please?”
He nodded and took her hand. His skin was dry and rough—evidence, perhaps, of soldiering.
When he released her, she rang the bell for tea, then gestured for him to sit.
He picked up a book from the table beside the chair and read the cover.
“Mo Chridhe,” he said. His lips lifted into a smile. “Lilah’s poems. Are you reading them?”
“I am,” she said. “They’re extraordinary. I struggle to comprehend some of the words, but when you hear them in your head, it’s like they sing to you. I can’t wait to meet your sister. She must be very clever to write such work.”
“Little Lilah? Don’t tell her that, or you’ll never hear the end of it! Once you get her talking, the day is done, for