When the dance brought them together again, he murmured low so the other dancers could not overhear, “I know it’s hard for you, wanting a child, but this isn’t the way.”
“What way do you mean?” she asked carefully. Too carefully.
Nonetheless, he could do naught but answer truthfully. “With d’Arque as your lover.”
For a second her eyes flashed with wild hurt before she could shield the emotion, and he realized he’d just dug himself into a hole.
“You think I’m a whore,” she said.
A very deep hole.
“No, of—”
But she whirled away, caught in the steps of the dance. This time he watched her anxiously, this wife he knew so little about. Had Clara ever thought she’d been so grievously insulted, she would’ve wept. Or perhaps stomped off. He truly didn’t know because he never would’ve gotten into a discussion like this in the first place with Clara. The very idea was ludicrous.
Margaret in contrast held her head high, her cheeks flagged with a becoming rose color. She looked like a goddess enraged. A goddess who might, if they were alone, assault his person—the thought of which unaccountably aroused him.
When the dance brought them together again, they both opened their mouths at once.
“I never meant—” he began.
“You convict me without trial,” she hissed over him, “and on pathetically thin evidence.”
“You were flirting, madam.”
“And if I was?” she asked, her eyes widening dramatically. “If every woman who flirted in a ballroom were deemed a slut, then all but nuns and babes would be thus branded. Do you truly think I meant to start an affair with the viscount?”
He hesitated a fraction of a breath too long.
Her beautiful brows snapped together. “You are the most maddening man.”
They were drawing stares, but he couldn’t let this bit of outrageousness pass.
“I? I am maddening? I assure you, my lady, that you are the maddening one. I’ve never caused a scene in a public venue before in my—”
“And now you’re on your second,” she flung back.
A childish retort, but also deeply annoying, as she managed to get it off just before they were forced to separate.
Which, naturally, gave her the last word.
He didn’t even bother hiding his scowl as he followed her movements broodingly. A slightly plump matron took one look at his face and tripped over herself, bumping into the next couple.
His scowl deepened.
“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.