Kate Pearce - Simply Wicked

Amelia dropped her embroidery on the floor, her mouth a perfect O. She craned her neck to look behind Marguerite. “Where is Mrs. Jones?”

“She decided not to accompany me. Lord Anthony very kindly brought me down in his curricle.”

“You were alone?”

Marguerite pretended to frown. “Well hardly that, Amelia. We were together.”

Anthony nudged Marguerite and swept Amelia a perfect bow. “Good afternoon, my lady, and thank you for inviting me into your home.”

Amelia smiled distractedly at Anthony and continued to stare at Marguerite as if she’d never seen her before. Marguerite hoped she looked calm and confident. It was harder to pretend she hadn’t behaved shockingly than she had imagined. She had no idea how Lisette carried it off so convincingly, but perhaps it was time she learned. Amelia got to her feet and held out her hand to Anthony.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.” She cast Marguerite a sly glance. “I’m even more intrigued about how you came to meet my dear sister-in-law.”

“Oh, through mutual friends. Isn’t that always the case?”

“I suppose it is.” Amelia beckoned to a footman. “Please show my guests to their rooms.” She nodded at Marguerite. “And we’ll see you down here for dinner in an hour or so?”

“That would be lovely, Amelia,” Marguerite said. “Is Charles here?”

“No, I believe he’s out shooting at some kind of bird. He should be back soon. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you both.” Amelia studied Anthony. “Especially you, my lord.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him as well. I know Marguerite holds him in high regard.”

With a last cordial nod in Amelia’s direction, Anthony escorted Marguerite back into the hall and up the carved oak staircase. To her surprise, the footman led them to adjoining rooms. She remembered to thank him as he closed the door behind him. Her luggage sat in a pile on the blue rug in front of a welcoming fire.

With a sigh, she took off her bonnet, set it on the dressing table and studied her face. Despite the openness of the carriage she looked remarkably well, her cheeks flushed from the cold and wind, her eyes bright.

A knock on the door made her straighten and turn away from the mirror. A young woman entered the room and bobbed a curtsey.

“Good afternoon, my lady. I’m Rachel. I’m here to unpack your luggage and help you change.”

“That would be lovely.” Marguerite smiled and resigned herself to not getting a moment to see if Anthony was all right. He’d seemed more than capable of dealing with Amelia. His manners were always exquisite, his countenance serene. In truth, she suspected he was as good at hiding his inner turmoil as she was.

As she helped the maid unpack, Marguerite pondered his revelations about his family. Did they disapprove of his sexual tastes? Was that why he was being forced to move out? Despite being at odds with her own family, she still believed that when they realized she was happy, they’d come around to her involvement with Anthony.

She stared down at the petticoat she was attempting to fold. Would Anthony ever receive that acceptance? And if not, how would he deal with it? She would hate to lose him.

By the time Marguerite emerged from her room, darkness had fallen and the candle sconces in the hallways had been lit. Anthony leaned against the wall beside his door, immaculately turned out in shades of brown and black, his dark hair glinting in the soft light. He bowed and offered her his arm. “You look very nice. Blue suits you.”

“Thank you. Were you waiting for me?”

“Of course I was. Do you think I want to brave your relatives alone?”

“They aren’t that bad. I’m quite fond of Charles. He’s always been very kind to me.”

“I’m sure he has.”

His dry tone made her look up at him. “Do you mean because he got to inherit everything instead of Justin?”

“Good God, no! After seeing how his wife reacts to you, I meant that he’s probably infatuated with you.”

“It’s true that Amelia doesn’t like me. I’ve never bothered to ask why. I always try to be nice to her.”

“And that probably makes her dislike you even more.” Anthony continued down the stairs until they reached the bottom and then stopped. He cupped Marguerite’s chin in his hand so she had to look at him.

“Why don’t you believe you have a right to be part of the Lockwood family?”

“Because they didn’t want me. After Justin’s death, they tried to annul the marriage, tried to pretend it had never happened.”

“But you know it did. Why don’t you act as if you believe it?”

“That is hardly fair. I’ve done my best to fit in.”

“Have you?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes, I have, and it’s no use. How would your father feel if you brought home a girl whose mother was a notorious brothel owner and your father . . . your father wasn’t even named, because . . .”

Anthony’s fingers covered her mouth. “Don’t.”

She shoved his fingers and his sympathy away. “. . . not even your mother knew who he was, because she was forced to bed so many men in the Bastille.” She choked a laugh. “I could have royal blood or the blood of murderers in my veins. What a perfect addition to an aristocratic family.”

She wiped hastily at her eyes and glared at Anthony. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.”

“I won’t.” He brushed her cheek once, twice, taking the tears and some of the hurt away. “You are an amazing woman, Marguerite. Any man should be honored to have you in his family.” He held her gaze, kissed her fingers and placed her hand back on his sleeve. “Now, let’s go and make ourselves pleasant to our hosts, and perhaps you’ll finally tell me what on earth we are doing here.”

Marguerite was right; the Lockwoods didn’t like her. So why had she braved their chilly disapproval? Anthony observed the various members of the intimate gathering as they sat around the dining room table. Eleven chairs were full. The twelfth guest apparently delayed in London. Four of the couples, including their hosts, were members of the Lockwood clan, and none of them, except Charles, bothered to address a word to Marguerite unless forced to out of politeness.

Marguerite seemed as serene as ever, her smile charming, her interest in the conversation around her genuine. Was he the only one who knew how hard this was for her? How much effort it took to pretend that everything was fine? He knew. He’d played the same game his whole life. He tried to make up to his father for Valentin’s loss by being the perfect son, tried to fade into the background and pretend that nothing had changed when Val returned . . .

At least on the top floor of Madame’s pleasure house he’d been allowed to attend to his own feelings, his own needs. To be recognized for what he was, rather than ignored or found wanting. He picked up his glass of red wine and drained it. Marguerite’s courage humbled him, made him realize how far he still had to go to find himself.

“Sokorvsky, are you enjoying the wine?”

He turned to look at his host, his empty glass still in his hand. Charles Lockwood clicked his fingers and a footman instantly refilled it.

“The wine. Is it to your liking?”

“It’s excellent.” Anthony put down his glass and gave his full attention to Charles, who didn’t look particularly friendly. “Thank you for inviting me for the weekend.”

“I didn’t invite you. Marguerite asked if you could come.”

“But you could’ve said no.”

“I was going to, but my wife had already sent you an invitation.”

Ah, so Charles believed in getting to the point. Anthony smiled. “Well, however it happened. I’m still grateful.”

“Why?”

“Because I always enjoy Marguerite’s company.”

“She permits you to address her by her first name?”

Anthony met Charles’s furious gaze. “She does.”

Charles busied himself lighting a cigarillo and didn’t offer one to Anthony. “I still consider Lady Justin part of this family.”

“Really?”

“Of course I do. And as such, she is still under my protection.”

“Do you think I mean to harm her?”

Charles scowled. “I’ve heard about your ramshackle ways, Sokorvsky.”

“I’m surprised you have time to listen to gossip, Lockwood. I never do.” Anthony sipped at his wine, wondered if the rest of the diners were straining to hear the muted conversation at the head of the table. “I have a great deal of respect for Marguerite.”

“I’m glad to hear it. She’s not been widowed for long.”

“More than two years, I believe.”

“Is it that long?” Surprise mixed with sadness filled Charles’s eyes. “It feels like only days since my brother died.”

Anthony let out his breath. “I knew your brother. He was a true gentleman.”

“Yet you are spending time with his wife.”

“His widow. You knew Justin better than anyone. Do you think he would want Marguerite to mourn him for the rest of her life? Wouldn’t he want her to be happy?”

“In principle, I agree with you.” Charles sighed. “In my heart, I find it difficult to let her go.”

“I can understand that. She is a wonderful woman.”

They both looked down the table toward Marguerite, who looked back, a puzzled expression on her face. Anthony winked, and she relaxed and turned back to her neighbor.

“She likes you, doesn’t she?”

“I hope so. She can certainly trust me.”

“Then I suppose I shouldn’t interfere.” Charles leaned close. “To be frank, I was surprised when Amelia suggested Marguerite attend this house party. They have never been close. Perhaps Amelia did it to show me that Marguerite doesn’t need me anymore.”

“I’m sure that was part of it. But, please, Marguerite is very fond of you. I’m sure she’ll want to remain friends.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll always look out for her, whether she likes it or not.”

Anthony raised his glass to Charles. “I’ll consider myself warned.”

Anthony’s gaze was drawn back to Marguerite, who was smiling at something the man sitting next to her had just said. Damnation, he wanted her. He wanted to take her upstairs, strip away her finery and make love to her until she cried out his name and begged him never to leave her.

Could he tell her everything? Could he share the excruciating details of his sex life and hope she would still want him? He glanced around the table. God knows, he wanted someone to know who he really was, someone who cared.

The door to the dining room opened, and a cold draft ruffled the tablecloth and the soft dresses of the ladies. Anthony looked up and the welcoming smile on his lips froze. Lord Minshom’s languid gaze swept everyone at the table, paused at Anthony and moved on to Charles. He inclined his head.

“I do apologize for my late arrival. I hope you’ve left me something to eat.”

While Lord Minshom made himself comfortable at the dining table, Marguerite’s attention was drawn back to Anthony. His gaze was fixed upon Minshom’s face, but his expression was unreadable. Foolishly, she hadn’t thought that her nemesis would actually be a fellow guest. She’d assumed Minshom would stay with Sir Harry, wherever he was hiding. Had she done the right thing bringing Anthony or had she inadvertently made things worse?

“Lady Justin, how lovely to see you again. I trust you are well?” Lord Minshom’s voice carried clearly across the table to her. There was no chance of pretending she hadn’t heard him. She met his stare with one of her own and watched his eyebrow rise.

“I’m quite well, thank you.”

“Excellent.”

Minshom’s cool gaze moved to Anthony, and Marguerite found herself tensing.

“And Sokorvsky. What brings you here?”

Anthony just looked at him, his hand fisted on the tablecloth. Amelia giggled.

“You’ll never guess. Lord Anthony came with Lady Justin.”

Charles cleared his throat. “Actually, darling, Lord Anthony was invited by us, as were all our guests, and we’re delighted to see him.”

Minshom smiled. “As am I. We’ve spent some interesting evenings together, haven’t we, Sokorvsky?”

Anthony kept his gaze on his hand wrapped around his wine glass. “In the past, perhaps.”

“Oh come, come, surely not that long ago?”

Marguerite tried to catch Amelia’s eye. Surely it was time for the ladies to leave the men to their port? She didn’t relish the spectacle of Lord Minshom toying with Anthony. The tension between the two men was almost palpable.

“In fact, I seem to remember encountering you at the theater the other week.” Minshom nodded at Marguerite. “You were escorting Lady Justin.”

Marguerite frowned. Minshom’s tone implied that she was somehow irrelevant, that something far more important had occurred between Anthony and him at the theater than she knew about. She fixed on a polite smile.