Wicked Nights With a Lover
Page 24Marguerite nodded distractedly, trying not to imagine those babes. Toddlers with dark eyes and gold-kissed hair. It was too painful to consider they may never exist. She did, however, understand the housekeeper’s meaning perfectly. The house felt empty. Marguerite had never been buried in such hushed silence. If not for Mrs. Harkens and the occasional servant lurking about, she would have thought herself quite alone here.
She glanced around at the splendid room with its great panels of windows that revealed a rather typical dreary winter day. Nothing inspiring in the sight.
She returned her attention to Mrs. Harkens, still prattling on. “At times, the master doesn’t appear for days. Eats and sleeps and works at the hells, he does. It’s nice to have someone to feed and dote on for a change.”
Marguerite frowned. They’d arrived only two days ago, but Ash had been absent except for a few hours of sleep their first night in Town. She had not seen him since then, when he had pulled her beneath him and treated her to fierce and silent lovemaking. Clearly, he was still angered over the incident with Roger.
He had not appeared yesterday. Not last night. Nor today.
Was she to expect what Mrs. Harkens described? Would he only rarely put in an appearance? Did overseeing his establishments truly require so much of his time? Or was he merely avoiding her?
Already the memory of those idyllic days in Scotland seemed distant, the intimacy and closeness a thing of the past. Deep in thought, she selected a biscuit from the tray. Nibbling on a frosted edge, she watched the housekeeper as she tidied the elegant pillows scattered along the window seat, appearing more than happy to linger.
“Mrs. Harkens, would you mind having a carriage brought around? I should like to pay a call.”
The craggy-faced woman nodded agreeably. “Aye, of course. No sense you staying holed up here all alone with the master gone so much.”
A smile wobbled on her lips at the less than heartening reply. She had expected to spend some time with her new husband. She had counted on the magic they shared in Scotland to continue here. Evidently, he had not formed the same level of attachment. She had believed him when he told her their marriage wasn’t about her father. Perhaps that had been foolish on her part given how quickly he’d abandoned her side. Was he simply using his anger at her over Roger as an excuse to push her away? To forget she was even around?
“I’ll fetch Roland. He’s a crack driver,” Mrs. Harkens hastened from the room.
Marguerite rose and smoothed a hand over her skirts, trying to decide whether to change for her visit to Madame Foster. Before she could decide, Mrs. Harkens returned, her face flushed.
“Sorry, Mrs. Courtland.”
Marguerite blinked, still unaccustomed to the designation.
“You’ve a caller. I tried to make him wait, but—”
“I insisted on seeing you at once.”
Marguerite’s head snapped in the direction of the rough, uncultured voice. Staring into the heavily lined face, she instantly knew she faced her father. The deep-set whiskey eyes resembled her own. Just as her mother had always said. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. The father who never had time for her now suddenly found her worth his attention.
“Enough. Don’t speak of Courtland to me. Be gone, woman.”
Mrs. Harkens’s chin jerked to an obstinate angle. She squared herself, settling her feet onto the carpet, clearly determined to stay put.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Harkens,” Marguerite said softly. “I will be fine. You may go now.”
With a last baleful look at Jack, she departed the room. “Just shout if you need me.”
Her father crossed his arms over his barrel of a chest and stared down his nose at her. “I suppose it’s too much to expect you call me ‘Father.’ ”
She pulled back her shoulders, hot indignation flaming through her chest. “Yes, that would be a bit of a stretch.”
“Very well.” His gaze flicked her up and down, and she could not help feeling as though she were a bit of horseflesh being examined for market value. “You’ve the look of your mother about you.”
Her hands knotted to fists at her sides. Did he expect an acknowledgment of that observation?
That she resembled the woman he had sequestered in the country like some shameful secret?
“Suppose that’s a good thing,” he grunted. “She was beautiful.”
They stared at each other, father and daughter, unspeaking for a long moment. Then he blinked, breaking the standoff, and his voice returned, cold, flat, like he was discussing business and not partaking in a conversation with his once unacknowledged child. “I’m sorry this has happened to you.” He glanced around them, his expression one of distaste. “Ash can be ruthless. I knew I offended him and should have realized he would resort to something like this. But fear not, nothing has happened that cannot be undone.”
“Indeed?” She shook her head, prepared to tell him that nothing required undoing.
He continued, “I realize you might think it a little late for me to play at the protective father.”
“A little?”
He stopped and leveled her a cross look. As if she were a wayward child and he the beleaguered parent. “Whatever the case, I am your father, your sole living parent—”
“I’m not a child to be commanded!” She followed this with a single stomp of her foot. The action clearly did little to support her claim.
She shook her head, incredulous that he should think to order her anywhere. “No!”
“I have powerful friends and wealth to see that this travesty of a marriage is set aside—”
“No!” she shouted again, beyond outraged now. “I’m not asking you to—”
“You can’t mean to stay wedded to Courtland, Marguerite. Are you that daft?” He stared at her, his brown eyes cruelly bright. “Don’t tell me he’s woven his spell over you. Don’t you know how many skirts he’s rooted beneath?”
“Surely no more than the great Jack Hadley.”
He pressed his mouth into a grim line. “True. He and I are very alike, and that is not to his recommendation. His favorite pastime is diddling the girls in his employ.”
She gazed at her father, speechless, his words sinking like heavy rocks. She pressed a hand to her suddenly queasy stomach. Was it true? Did Ash occupy himself with other women? Did he do that even now?
Her father shook his head. “You’ve no idea what type of man he is. For all his money, he’s ruthless, only one step above the gutter, he’s—”
“You!” she spat, her voice stinging with defiance.
His face burned red, even purple in some spots. His hands knotted into fists at his sides and she knew she’d hit a nerve. “Indeed I have said as much. If you can move past your hatred of me, you’ll see the sense in gathering your things and leaving with me at once before you make a fool of yourself over the blackguard. He’s broken countless hearts. I’d have that he not add my daughter to his list of conquered skirts. You will come with me, Marguerite.”
She began to shake her head, but his next words cut her off.
“I’ve two men in the carriage. I can call for them if need be.”
“You would drag me by force? Your own daughter?”
He shrugged, his face as hard as granite. “I’ll do what I must.”
And suddenly she was reminded that her father was every inch the villain who grew his wealth by crushing all in his path. He did not rise to the designation of “King of St. Giles” through his compassionate endeavors.
She nodded, her throat thick, clogged with emotion. “Very well. I’ll go.” She would leave with him rather than create a scene and risk Mrs. Harkens’s safety, or that of one of the other servants who had treated her so kindly and welcomed her with such warmth. She’d not have them harmed by two of her father’s henchmen.
“Shall we have someone fetch your things?” he asked behind her.
“Unnecessary. I’ll return soon.” Bold words. Even as she uttered them, she wondered if they were true.
Would Ash confront her father and demand her return? Or had he proved his point, winning his majority share of the business and punishing the great Jack Hadley by stealing one of his daughters out from under him and then having his way with her?
Her quivering suddenly had little to do with rage. Other emotions pressed down on her, making her throat burn and eyes sting. Did Ash care what happened to her at all? She would soon find out.
Ash returned home well after nightfall. The townhouse was silent, the footman in the foyer dozing in his chair as Ash ascended the stairs. Cowardly of him, he knew, to stay away so long in order to avoid his bride as if she were some shrew who had been thrust upon him, and not the other way around.
True, he did have business awaiting him after his absence, but nothing so pressing he could not have attended more care to his wife. He could have worked at home, but that would have been close to Marguerite, and he needed distance from her … and the dangerous feelings she stirred.
Seeing her in the arms of her protector had sent a blind rage knifing through him. In that moment, he’d felt like his father, full of fury and violence whenever Ash’s mother returned home with coin in her reticule from the men she’d serviced. Of course, it failed to matter that his father was the one who sent her whoring for their dinner in the first place. The fury was there just the same.
The memory of that man’s hands on Marguerite twisted his gut into knots even now. It made Ash recall why he’d never wanted to marry. He did not want the same bitterness that had poisoned his father to contaminate him, and the best way to guarantee that was to return to his original plan of a short-lived marriage of convenience. A wife in name only. Not a wife he craved as desperately as oxygen.
His tread fell whisper-soft, and he shook off the feeling that he’d done something wrong that would make him move about with such stealth. Many husbands and wives lived separate lives, hardly intersecting. What he had with Marguerite was more than that. Better. He’d secured her in his bedchamber the moment they returned home, after all. More than what many ton gentlemen would do. Of course, his motives were selfish. Ash wasn’t about to deny himself access to Marguerite.
The bedchamber was dark when he entered, the fire low, dying embers barely glowing. Frowning, he quickly stoked the logs, shooting sparks into the air. Turning, his gaze fell on the curtained bed. He moved toward the great monstrosity. Marguerite had to use the steps to climb within.
Pulse pounding against his neck, he pulled back the curtain, easing one knee down as he reached for his wife’s body, eager for her yielding heat. His arm stretched, finding nothing.
Scowling, he scanned the shadows of the bed for her lithesome shape.
Rising, he stalked across the room and yanked open the door to her dressing room. Finding no sight of her within, he swept back through the bedchamber. Flinging open the door, he called for Mrs. Harkens, heedless that he sounded like a bellowing tyrant or that he likely woke his entire staff.
His temper seethed at a dangerous simmer. Had Marguerite requested a room change? Tired of his absence, did she think to avoid him? He’d quickly remedy her of that notion.
He was frothing by the time Mrs. Harkens appeared, her brow knitted in concern as she belted her dressing gown. “Mr. Courtland?”
“My wife,” he gritted. “Where is she?”