Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,87
What have you done?”
The shadow moved forward, morphing into the shape of a man.
Dexter…
Meggie let out a cry and shot to her feet. Lady Guinevere jumped to the floor with a bark of protest.
As he advanced on her, his body seemed to fill the room. Meggie backed toward the wall, reaching behind her. Her fingers curled round a candlestick, and she picked it up, drawing comfort from its solidity.
He glanced at the candlestick, and his jaw bulged as if he ground his teeth, then his dark gaze focused, unblinking on her.
“Harold!” Anne cried. “What on earth possessed you to betray me?”
“Forgive me, Anne,” Mr. Pelham replied, “but whatever’s happened between Hart and his wife, we’ve no right to interfere.”
“I promised my friend!” Anne cried. “She trusted me. She values truth and honesty, and you’ve let her down.”
Meggie looked away, no longer able to meet her husband’s gaze.
“What about my friend?” Mr. Pelham asked. “I did what I thought was best, and I’d do it again.”
“Please,” Meggie pleaded. “Don’t fight on my account.”
“Come with me, Anne,” Mr. Pelham said. “Let Hart deal with it.”
“Harold, I…”
“Mrs. Hart will be quite safe. Isn’t that right, my friend?”
Dexter nodded, his gaze fixed on Meggie.
Anne addressed Meggie’s husband. “Lay a finger on her, and you’ll answer to me,” she said. “I care nothing for what the law says.”
“Understood,” Dexter said, his voice a low growl.
He waited until they were alone, then he gestured to a chair.
“Will you sit?”
Meggie made no move.
“If you believe you’re in danger in my presence, Margaret, then sitting or standing, it makes no difference.”
“I’m glad you’ve clarified that,” she said, finding her courage. She tightened her grip on the candlestick and sat.
“May I sit, also?”
“Do you need my permission?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
She nodded, and he sat. He said nothing, but her cheeks warmed under his scrutiny.
At length, he spoke. “Will you tell me your history?”
“Dexter, I-I’m sorry,” she said.
He raised his hand. “No, Meggie,” he said. “I asked for your history, not an apology. Will you tell me the truth?”
She lowered her gaze to the candlestick and ran her fingertips along the cold, smooth metal, tracing the pattern etched into the brass.
“About the child,” he prompted.
The long-buried memory resurfaced—pain she’d spent eight years trying to bury in the darkest corners of her mind.
“Meggie?”
She gripped the candlestick, taking comfort from its solidity.
“I grew up on the Alderley estate,” she said, “with the gamekeeper, Mr. Arnold, and his wife. I always wondered why the man from the big house visited me, though he never seemed to like me. But I always had to put on my best dress when he came.”
“Did you know he was your father?” Dexter asked.
“Not at first,” she said. “I dreaded his visits. One day I ran away before he visited, but Mr. Arnold found me and gave me a thrashing.”
She shifted in her seat. Dexter maintained his gaze on her, and she looked away, unable to look into his clear blue eyes.
“When the weather was bad, he came in the carriage and brought a footman with him. Compared to the old man who hated me, Georgie made me laugh. He slipped me a note one visit, then we started meeting in secret.” She blinked back tears. “He was the first person to show me kindness, to treat me like I was someone—not an inconvenience to be hidden away. I fell in love with him, and I believed he loved me.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I thought he wanted to marry me, but after I…” she hesitated, “…after I gave myself to him, he never visited me again.”
“Did he not accompany Alderley?”
“No,” she said. “I looked forward to every visit, praying Georgie would come. But he didn’t. Then…” she swallowed and closed her eyes, “…when I began to feel sick, I realized I was pregnant. I went to the big house to find Georgie.”
“And did you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “He said the child could be anybody’s, and he threw me out. Then, the next day, he came.”
“George?”
“No, my father.” She cringed at the memory. “I thought he was going to kill me! Georgie had gone to see him, asking for money.”
“And—the child?” Dexter asked.
She closed her eyes, searching for the memory, but the years had eroded the image of her child’s sweet face from her mind.
“I called him Billy,” she said. “I held him in my arms the day he was born, and for a brief moment, nothing else in the world mattered. There