Lord of Darkness

“Have I ever given you cause to doubt my fidelity?” she asked as soon as they came together once more.

“No, but—”

“And yet you accuse me of the worst thing a man can accuse a woman of.”

“Margaret,” he said helplessly, all his eloquence evaporated.

She inhaled and spoke quietly as he paced around her. “Why do you even care? You’ve made plain your disinterest. Why play the dog in the manger? Why did you marry me in the first place?”

His eyes slid away from her face, noting all those trying to hear their conversation without seeming to do so. “Your brother asked me—”

“Griffin hardly knew you.”

He glanced back at her and saw the determined expression on her face. “This is not the place—”

“Why?”

“I had no choice!” he finally growled, and immediately regretted his words.

Oh, God, she looked so stricken.

“Margaret,” he began, but she was already out of earshot, and he wasn’t sure if he was glad or not. He should be disinterested. Whether she slept with another man or not should be no concern of his. He’d been willing to accept her child by another man before … and yet he simply could not now.

The thought astonished him. Everything had changed, it seemed, in only a matter of days. Ever since, in fact, he’d discovered his wife in St. Giles.

Damnation. What was Margaret doing to him?

He couldn’t consider the matter now. They were on a dance floor with the better half of London’s elite surrounding them. He needed to bring his wife under his control and try to retain some normalcy.

When at last they drew together again, he was ready, speaking low and steadily. “Despite your behavior earlier tonight and right now, Margaret, I have never held you in low regard. Rather, I wish to make sure you don’t let your overpassionate nature lead you astray.”

To which reasoned words she leaned in close and said, “I may be overpassionate, but at least I do not act as if I’m already dead. And I loathe the name Margaret!”

Whirling, she glided off the dance floor in high dungeon, the scent of orange blossoms trailing in her wake.

Which Godric couldn’t help but admire, even though it left him alone in the middle of a dance like a prize ass.

A large form loomed on his right-hand side.

“Marriage certainly has effected a change in your personality,” Caire drawled. “I’ve never seen you come so close to a duel—and to top that with a sparring match with your lady wife on the dance floor. Words fail me.”

Godric closed his eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“You mistake me, man.”

Godric opened his eyes to see Caire grinning at him. Caire, grinning! “Good God, St. John. I’d nearly given you up for dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Godric muttered.

“The whole of London knows that now,” Caire said. “Come. I’ve an idea where our host keeps his brandy.”

And Godric followed his old friend gratefully, because if this was life, it was much more complicated than he remembered.

Chapter Six

The Hellequin opened his mouth and paused. How long had it been since he’d spoken? Years? Decades? Millenniums? When at last his voice emerged, it was a creaky croak.

“It matters not how good the lad was in life. He died unshriven.”

Was the Hellequin’s heart moved by Faith’s sad face? Even if it were so, he could do nothing, for the rules were clear. So he turned the horse’s head to go. And as he did, Faith jumped upon his back. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

Megs stormed from the ballroom, uncaring of the scene she was making. How dare he? How dare he think her a loose woman when all she’d been doing was laughing with Lord d’Arque? Trying to find out if the man had heard any news about Roger’s death.

She swiped at a hot tear coursing down her cheek and ran down the stairs. She hadn’t even been able to get as far as questioning the viscount about the Ghost before Godric had shown up and started insulting the man—and her.

“Megs!”

She stopped and turned on the landing.

Sarah was panting behind her and Megs realized that this wasn’t the first time the other woman had called her name.

“Are you all right?” Sarah paused, looking worriedly into her face.

“I …” Megs tried for a calm, ladylike tone but in the end burst out, “Oh, Sarah, I just want to hit him sometimes!”

“Well, and I don’t blame you,” Sarah said loyally—or rather disloyally since she was taking Megs’s side over her own brother’s.

But Megs couldn’t be anything but happy that Sarah was such a good friend. “I can’t go back in there—not right now.”

Sarah frowned. “Where will you go?”

“I need …” She needed to speak to Griffin. The thought bloomed in her mind fully formed, and she knew at once that it was the right thing to do. She had to ask Griffin several long-overdue questions.

Megs focused on Sarah. “I have to leave. Actually, there’s something important I need to talk to my brother Griffin about. Can you make my apologies to the earl and countess?”

“Of course.” Sarah’s eyes softened in sympathy—and a touch of curiosity. “But we only brought the one carriage.”

“Oh.” Megs felt her face fall.

But Sarah had already rallied. “Your great-aunt Elvina has been gossiping with Lady Bingham all evening. I’m sure she’ll be amenable to giving us a ride home.”

“You’re an angel.” Megs just took the time to press an affectionate kiss to her sister-in-law’s cheek and then she was down the stairs.

Fifteen minutes later, she was the sole occupant of the carriage and on her way to Griffin and Hero’s town house. Only now did it occur to her that her brother might not be home at this hour. But considering the matter as her carriage clattered through the dark streets of London, she decided there was a good chance that he’d be in tonight. She knew from Hero’s letters that her brother, once one of the wildest rakes in society, now spent most of his evenings at home with his wife and small son.

Megs decided that she wouldn’t be jealous of her brother.

Twenty minutes later, her carriage was pulling up in front of a neat town house. On marriage, her brother had given up the house he’d spent his bachelor days in and moved here to a much better neighborhood.

Megs mounted the front steps, her heart dipping as she realized that although there were two bright lamps burning out front, the house itself was dark. For a moment she hesitated, but the matter really couldn’t wait: she wouldn’t face her husband again without clearing up this mystery.

She raised the knocker and let it fall twice.

There was a long pause and then a butler answered the door. It took a bit of wrangling to convince the manservant that she really was Lord Griffin’s sister come to visit him at a terribly inconvenient hour, but soon she’d been ushered into a pretty little sitting room. A sleepy maid had just got done stirring the dying fire and left when Griffin burst into the room.

Her brother strode across the sitting room and took her by the shoulders, examining her with piercing green eyes. “What is it, Megs? Are you all right?”

Oh, dear, she hadn’t meant to alarm him. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I just wanted to … uh … talk to you.”

Griffin blinked and stepped back. “Talk to me? At”—his gaze went to a brass clock on the mantelpiece—“half past midnight? Megs, you’ve been avoiding me for years.”

She gulped. “You noticed.”

He rolled his eyes. “That my favorite sister corresponds more often with my wife than with me? That she’s declined half a dozen invitations to come visit? That when you came after William’s birth you hardly spoke two words to me? I’m not stupid, Megs.”

“Oh.” She didn’t quite know what to say to that. All she could seem to do was stare at her fingers as she plucked at a loose thread on her gown.

Griffin cleared his throat. “Hero said I should give you time. Was she wrong?”

“No.” Megs took a breath and lifted her head. She was being a craven coward and it simply wouldn’t do. “Hero is almost maddeningly wise.”

He smiled crookedly. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a widgeon,” she said softly.

“The only time you’ve been a widgeon is right now,” he said almost irritably. “There’s no need to apologize to me.”

She caught her breath, feeling her eyes go all hot and liquidy, but really it was Griffin’s own fault for being such a sweetheart. Why had she ever stayed away from him?

She beamed through her tears and sat on a delicate primrose settee. “Come talk to me.”

He looked suddenly suspicious. “Megs?”

She patted the empty place beside her.

Griffin narrowed his eyes and picked up a wing chair, placing it in front of her before lowering himself to the chair. He’d obviously come from bed. He wore a dark blue banyan, edged in black and gold, and slippers on his feet, but in contrast to her husband, there was no soft hat on his bare head. Griffin, like most men who wore a wig, kept his hair cropped close to the skull.

“So,” he drawled, “what is so urgent you must drag me from my bed? My very warm bed?”

She blushed, for although most couples at their level of society kept separate rooms, she had the sudden strong impression that Griffin and Hero did not.

Megs inhaled. “I want to know why Godric married me.”

Griffin’s face went entirely blank, but before he could say a word, Hero appeared at the door, a pale green wrapper held close at her throat, her beautiful red hair a curling mass over one shoulder.

“Megs? What has happened?”

Griffin rose at once, crossing to Hero. He bent over her, murmuring something quietly and with one hand touching her cheek in a tender gesture that declared louder than any embrace what he felt for his wife.

Megs bit her lip, feeling again that miserly twinge of envy. It wasn’t that she didn’t wish Griffin all the marital happiness in the world. It was just … well. She’d never have that with Godric, would she?

She winced in something very like pain at the thought. She had friends, family that cared for her, wealth and privilege. Maybe, if she could change Godric’s mind, she might even have a baby.

Couldn’t she be happy just with those things?

Hero nodded at whatever Griffin said to her and then smiled at Megs and gave a little wave.

Megs mouthed, “Sorry.”

Hero nodded and retired from the room, closing the door behind her.

“Now, then,” Griffin said, lowering himself once more to the wing chair. “What has Godric done to make you ask?”

And Megs realized that Griffin had used the brief interruption to marshal his thoughts.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to tell her brother that her husband refused to consummate their marriage. Besides, she saw now, Griffin was probably throwing the question back at her in an effort to get her off the topic.

“Godric hasn’t done anything,” she said coolly, and when he frowned suspiciously, she sighed. “He’s been a perfect gentleman. That’s not why I’m here. I want to know what you did to him to make him marry me.”

His eyebrows flew up. “Make him?”

“He said he had no choice but to marry me, Griffin.” She gripped her hands in her lap, remembering again the stab of foolish pain at her husband’s words. “Why?”

Griffin took a breath, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. For a moment, Megs was afraid he wouldn’t speak at all.

Then his eyes opened and they were filled with brotherly love for her. “You were so broken, Meggie. So grief-stricken, it was like you’d lost part of your mind.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “And then there was the fact that you were with child.”