Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,9

What had she suffered at Alderley’s hands, that she sought comfort from a stranger—the man she had looked at with such fear in her eyes?

But the last thing he wanted was a weak, needy woman clinging to his coattails.

He glanced toward Oliver, who frowned, his eyes conveying disapproval. His bride—what the devil was her name?—would have been better off with Oliver, for he had something Dexter did not possess.

A heart.

But it was too late, now.

“Very well, Alderley,” he said. “I would be delighted to accept your invitation.”

***

The walls of the drawing room were smothered with portraits. Everywhere Meggie looked, a grim face stared back at her with haughty disapproval. Alderley’s ancestors.

And hers. The blood of these reptiles ran through her veins.

Reptiles…

She giggled to herself, drained her glass, and set it aside. Almost immediately, a footman was upon her, sweeping aside the glass with a disapproving glare.

She pulled a face, then took a full glass from his tray and crossed the floor to inspect the ugliest of the portraits. A wrinkled face filled the frame, his skin a gray pallor, reminiscent of the lizards in Mrs. Preston’s zoological textbooks. Pale eyes with yellowing whites stared down at her. The wrinkles around the nose gave the impression as if a bad smell lingered in the room. She read the inscription, carved into a metal plate at the base of the portrait.

Phineas Ignatius, fifteenth Viscount Alderley.

Meggie’s great grandfather. Perhaps he turned in his grave at the notion of his grandson’s bastard staining the shades of Alderley Hall.

His lips had a bluish tinge, and to Meggie, it looked as if at any moment, a long reptilian tongue would leap out and snatch a fly.

And Meggie was that fly—viewed by the rest of the party as nothing more than a minor irritation. Not even her new husband wanted anything to do with her. After he’d steered her into Alderley Hall, a possessive hand on the small of her back, he’d removed his hand as if she might burn him, then abandoned her to talk to the vicar.

She took a mouthful of champagne. The bubbles burst on her tongue, warming her throat and softening her senses. Though she struggled to focus, the ache in her wrist and heart lessened with each glass until she felt the uncontrollable urge to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Enjoying the champagne?” a female voice spoke in clear-cut tones.

Up close, the honorable Elizabeth was even more elegant. Her hair shone with a rich luster and had been fashioned into a mass of elegant curls that must have taken her maid hours to perfect.

In comparison, Meggie was a grubby urchin.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and lowered her gaze to the half-empty glass in Meggie’s hand.

“Well? Do you have nothing to say?”

Meggie dipped into a curtsey, and Elizabeth gave her a cold smile. “At least you recognize our difference in rank,” she said. “Let me give you a little friendly advice. When a young woman has supped on gin and ditchwater all her life, it’s most unseemly to demonstrate the kind of enthusiasm for quality champagne that can only be equaled by a toper.”

Meggie shook her head. What was wrong with these people that they spoke in riddles all the time? Was unintelligible speech a trait of the upper classes?

From the cold smile twisting on Elizabeth’s lips, it was plain that she had issued an insult.

“Finest quality?” Meggie said. “I’m sure piss tastes better.”

Elizabeth’s lips thinned, and her eyes hardened, their pale blue the color of ice.

“Let me give you some more advice, my dear,” she said, lowering her voice. “As a friend, I feel it only kind to warn you. Prepare yourself for a painful introduction to the marriage bed.”

Meggie’s hand shook. “A-a what?”

Elizabeth smiled. “He’s like a bull,” she said. “A bride will bleed like a pig on her wedding night, and you’ll be no exception—assuming, of course, that he can stomach the notion of touching you.”

At that moment, Alderley’s steward approached them to issue his congratulations. Elizabeth gave him a haughty smile, waiting until he was out of earshot before resuming.

“My Dexter has a voracious appetite,” she continued. “But marriage is not as lucrative an enterprise as whoring, my dear. Dexter is a miser when it comes to parting with his cash. And a wife is expected to spread her legs for free.”

Meggie drew in a sharp breath and lifted her glass, but Elizabeth snatched it away.

“I think you’ve had enough of that.”

“Who are you to say whether I’ve had