Margery reached into her desk drawer with shaking fingers, lifting out the small plain wooden box from within. When she had hidden the blackmail letter there nearly a fortnight ago, she had not wanted to touch the thing again. She felt soiled just looking at it; to pick the thing up was like branding those damning words into her flesh.
But over the past two days, since their trip to Swallowhill, she had found she was rapidly losing sight of her purpose in finding Daniel a wife.
She was still working hard at securing scenarios where he might finally make his choice of which lady on the Isle he might like to marry, of course. Not an afternoon passed that didn’t see them in town on some pretext or other, no evening where they weren’t at a dinner party or card party.
Nor was there a moment when she didn’t think about that kiss and her conversation with Lenora.
Take a lover? Certainly not. She still openly mourned her husband, after all. It would be the grossest betrayal to take another man to her bed.
Each day that passed, however, made that argument weaker and weaker. It was only physical, after all. Her heart would not be involved.
And perhaps, with her increasingly vivid thoughts of what it might feel like to have him trail his hands over her body, how it might be to have him slide between her legs, easing the ache deep inside her, which was growing stronger by the day, she could finally focus on finding him a wife. Because whether she liked it or not, the deadline to pay the blackmailer was marching closer. And Daniel was no more decided on which of the young women he wanted to marry. And if she did not stop mooning over the man and start focusing all her efforts on securing that bride for him—thereby making certain she received her fee and was able to keep Aaron’s memory protected—she would fail. She bit her lip, tension strumming through her veins as she recalled the neat black checks on the calendar in her desk, bringing her closer to October first and her day of reckoning. And she could not fail; she just couldn’t.
Before she went down the path of diving into an affair with the duke to quiet the urges inside her, however—goodness knew if she did, there would be no returning to the person she was now—she was determined to utilize every defense in her arsenal against the pull of him. Even if that meant reading once more that most disturbing, vile letter.
Dragging in a deep breath, she unfolded the parchment. It was common stock; no expensive vellum here, but neither was it rough paper. The words glared up at her, sharp and bold in their construction, the ink harsh against the white background. Disgust and fear shuddered through her, but she fought the urge to crumple the hated thing and hurl it into the fire, instead focusing on the message. Fragments of it stood out:
Your husband was not the hero you believe him to be…
…traitor to his country…
…keep this fact silent…
…one hundred pounds…
…Don’t fail me in this.
Nauseated, she felt bile rising up in her throat. She fought it back, forcing herself to read the letter again and again. She could obtain the means to pay off the evil creature who had sent it. She need only get through these last weeks and secure a wife for Daniel. Surely, she thought as she hid the letter back in its box and left her room to join the others for their trip to the Assembly Rooms and the ball that was to take place, she could manage the rest of their time together with little trouble.
As she caught sight of Daniel in the front hall with his mother and Gran, resplendent in his stark black evening wear, dread—and a kind of anticipation—churned inside her as her gaze met his and she knew, she would be lucky if she could manage an evening.
* * *
“And what is your opinion, Your Grace?”
Daniel started, dragging his gaze away from Margery. She looked exceedingly pretty tonight, the soft light from the glittering chandeliers catching in her upswept curls, highlighting the myriad hues within the seemingly plain brown locks. He’d been doing that with disturbing regularity this evening, finding his mind and his eyes wandering to her when he should be paying attention to whatever young woman he was supposed to be conversing with. Which, in that particular moment, was Miss Peacham. Who was waiting in patient expectation for him to answer her on whatever it was she’d been talking about.
He gave her a sickly smile. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
Annoyance flared in her eyes, there and gone in a moment. And no wonder, for it was not the first time in the past ten minutes he had lost track of the conversation. “Now that you have swum at the tide pool, what is your opinion on the effects of saltwater therapy?”
Which was the very last thing he wanted to think about just then, for it brought to mind that kiss, something he had been thinking about with disturbing frequency ever since it happened. “Ah, it was quite invigorating. That is,” he hurried to say, his face going hot, “I do believe it helped. My leg, I mean.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Your Grace,” Miss Peacham said. “And will you be returning to the tide pool?”
“No!”
She drew back, no doubt startled by his overly forceful refusal. “I…see,” she managed, though it was obvious from her tone and the way her gaze flitted to the orchestra—no doubt praying they might finish their set with all haste—that she didn’t.
As if taking pity on her, the music ended just then. Miss Peacham, a look of abject relief plastered to her face, fairly leapt to her feet. Before he could so much as begin to rise she dipped into a quick curtsy, said a pretty, if rapid, farewell, and hurried off.
Margery, in the process of heading his way, stared after the proprietress in surprise. “And how did your set with Miss Peacham go?” she asked with impressive neutrality when she reached him, sinking into the seat vacated with such expediency by the lady in question.
“About as well as it appeared, I fear,” he mumbled. He cast a cautious glance her way. “Who is the next poor soul who will be forced to sit and talk to me?”
“Actually,” she said, “you’re free for this set.”
“Thank God.” He groaned.
Her lips twisted in commiseration. “Was it really that bad?”
He gave her a miserable look. “You witnessed for yourself the young lady’s relieved exit. I leave you to your own conclusions.”
She pressed her lips tightly together into a nearly nonexistent line. That did not stop the laughter from dancing in her eyes, however.
He narrowed his eyes. “It is not a cause for humor.” Nevertheless, he felt an answering smile tug on his lips. They stared at one another for several seconds before simultaneously bursting into laughter.
“You’re right, of course,” she managed between chuckles. “It’s not remotely funny. But did you see that woman’s face?”
Which made him laugh all the harder. “She could not get away fast enough,” he wheezed. “Truly, if you can manage to get me engaged to one of these ladies in two weeks you deserve much more than a paltry one hundred pounds.”
Her laughter cut off as quickly as it had begun. When he glanced her way, her expression was stark.
“Of course,” she mumbled. “We’ve just over a fortnight before the money is due.”
That sobered him as nothing could. “Due to whom?”
Fear flashed through her eyes before she quickly shuttered them. “Why, due to me, of course,” she said. She gave a strained laugh. “Though I suppose we must now cross Miss Peacham off our list of possibilities. Unless you think there’s a chance?”
She was hiding something. He was certain of it. Though, of course, he admitted morosely to himself, weren’t they all?
“No,” he answered quietly, “there’s no chance.”
She nodded, as if checking off some invisible list. Her gaze scanned the crowd, presumably to search for the remaining candidates. Or was it to keep him from seeing something in her eyes?
He mentally shook himself. It was no business of his if she was hiding something. And he’d best remember that.
“You must have some preference in a wife by now,” she said.
Yes, but you’ve refused. The words nearly escaped his lips. By some miracle he held them back. What the devil was wrong with him? By turning him down, she was saving him from what would have surely turned out to be a highly ill-conceived idea. She affected him too much for his heart to remain safe from her indefinitely, after all.
“N-no,” he managed. He cleared his throat. “Any one of them will do, really.” And the quicker the better. Though how he was supposed to court any of them while his every waking thought was spent on Margery he didn’t have a clue.
She must feel the same frustrations he did—or, at least, the same level of frustration. But there was no way on earth she could possibly be frustrated for the same reasons he was, he thought as she blew out an aggravated breath. “You should choose soon. We don’t have much time, after all. Before the month is up, I mean.”
Again that note of latent panic quickly muted. He frowned.
Before he could be tempted to question her on something that was no doubt a private matter, however, she pursed her lips, and it took all his willpower not to focus on the lusciousness of them. “I do believe you should decide by tomorrow morning, before breakfast. That way you might have the entirety of a fortnight to court her and secure her hand. Ah! But it’s nearly time for your set, such as it is, with Miss Emmeline. Let’s go find her, shall we?”
As he followed Margery down the length of the ballroom to where Miss Emmeline conversed with her cousins, he tried his damnedest to focus on his goal. By selecting a woman to court and, with luck, convince to marry him, he would not have to worry about such a thing when he arrived in London.
If, that was, he could rein in his desire for Margery in order to succeed.