‘Sit.’ He came forward to her, taking her arm and leading her to a chair in the sitting room.
She resisted. ‘I would prefer that we finish what I have come for.’
‘And I would...’ Prefer. He could feel the P tremble in his throat, ‘I would rather we sit.’ He poured the wine for her, wrapping her fingers around the stem of the glass.
She downed it in one swallow. Then she looked over the rim of the glass. ‘Satisfied? May we begin, now?’
He refilled her glass. ‘No.’ He pushed the tray of oysters towards her.
She glanced down at them and shuddered. ‘They are out of season. I will likely end even more ill than I am already.’
‘Ill?’
She gave him a wan smile and drank the second glass of wine. ‘Yes. Perhaps it is the prospect of lying with you that makes me so.’
‘The first time is always...’ painful, difficult ‘...awkward. Tonight will be...’ different, better ‘...more enjoyable.’
She laughed. ‘For you, perhaps. But tomorrow, I will still be surrounded by people who know exactly what I have done and split their time between scolding me and worrying over me. I’ve had a week of that, while you grinned in the shop window at me like a dog at the butcher’s shop.’
‘Who knows?’ Damn them all. He had promised discretion.
‘My sister. Her friend. The rumours of your new lover were all about town before I’d even climbed from your bed. My employees guessed, just by looking at me. But they, at least, are too afraid to comment on it. Except for Mr Pratchet.’
‘He can be damned.’ Some words came easier than others and the curse flew unhindered. When he had visited the shop, he had seen Pratchet watching her just as she accused him of doing, as though she was the juiciest chop on the platter.
She gave Stephen a false smile and held out her glass for more champagne. ‘You should not say such things about the man who is likely to be the father of your natural son.’
‘I b-beg your p-p-pardon?’ The suggestion shocked him out of his sang-froid.
‘He has promised to marry me, should a pregnancy result from my indiscretions. For all I know, I am pregnant now. I feel like death warmed over.’
‘You are simply overwrought,’ he said. But if she was not? A mixture of terror and elation ran through him at the prospect that she might be carrying his child.
‘Perhaps I am,’ she said, then sprawled on the couch before him, almost spilling what wine was left in her glass. ‘Or perhaps it will happen tonight, when you take me. And then I will end by marrying Pratchet to salvage my reputation and give the child a name.’
‘That is nonsense,’ he said, without a second thought. ‘I would...’
‘You would what?’ she said with a bitter laugh. ‘Give me money? I have more than enough to raise a bastard, I assure you.’ She laughed again. ‘You must have realised that yourself. I assume that is why you tricked me into dishonour, instead of making the simple monetary offer my friends and family warned me about.’
‘I tricked you?’ He had done no such thing. She had no right to act the innocent in this.
‘Did you think Pratchet would keep your secret?’ She gave a sorry shake of her head. ‘He wants the shop for himself, you know. He was only too happy to buy the necklace when you brought it to him. In the end, he knew I would be the one to face the consequences.’
‘When I sold the necklace...’ he repeated. There was only one place she could have got such a ridiculous idea. Pratchet had misled her, probably hoping to leverage the lie into a quick marriage to a helpless, panicking female. It served the goldsmith right that the revelation had driven Margot straight into his bed. If he thought that Stephen would let her go again, he was sadly mistaken.
He looked at her, on the couch beside him, exhausted, but still beautiful. It was as if, for the first time in days, he could see her clearly. She was his beloved, not the conniving female his brother had...
Arthur.
It was all coming clear now. He had been tricked, right enough. And his offended honour had led him to punish an innocent.
She went on with her story, not noticing his silence. ‘You could not have picked a better ally in Pratchet. How neatly the spoils are divided between you. You took my virtue and, when you are through with me, he will take my shop.’ She reached for the bottle on her own this time, filling her glass to the brim and drinking deep. ‘I thought you were my friend. Or, perhaps, something more than that.’
‘I was. I am.’ He reached out to stroke her hair.
She gave no indication she had heard his words. But instinctively, she leaned into the pressure of his palm, as though seeking comfort. ‘Everyone warned me. They told me that you were dangerous and wanted to bed me. But I refused to believe.’
‘They were right.’ Though he could not have helped himself, it had been careless of him to love her. The world had assumed the worst.
‘Then you needn’t have bothered with trickery,’ she said, in a small, hopeless voice. ‘You were so handsome, so charming.’ She let out a shaking breath, half-sigh, half-sob. ‘There was no reason to steal the rubies or to threaten my business. If you needed money, I’d have given it to you. And if you wanted me, you had but to ask.’
His hand tightened on her shoulder, hiding his feelings of elation in a caress. She’d loved him, just as he’d hoped. ‘I want you,’ he said softly.
‘Then take me. Do what you wish with me, so I may go home and rest. For I am so tired.’ The defiance he had seen in her a week ago was gone now. She was too exhausted to resist him.
Which meant she was also too weak to accept. He removed his hand from her shoulder and stood. ‘Eat.’
‘I told you I could not.’
‘I have no wish to make love to a corpse.’ He pushed the tray to her, turning it so she might reach quail eggs, strawberries and cream. ‘If you wish something else, then ring.’
She gave him a militant look.
He glared back at her to hide his smile. ‘When you are through?’ He pointed at the bed. ‘Wait for me there.’
‘And where will you be?’
‘Out,’ he said. There were things he needed to think about and the thought of Margot de Bryun in his bed left him deliciously unclear. If he was not firm in his resolve, he would be back with her, before he had done anything to earn a place at her side. He walked quickly to the door and through, shutting and locking it behind him.
* * *
The next morning, despite an uneasy night spent on the couch of his sitting room, the Marquess of Fanworth was nearly as resplendent as he had been while waiting to greet his lover. When he had returned to his rooms an hour after ejecting himself, Margot lay huddled under the covers, asleep in the middle of his great, soft bed. She looked tiny and helpless, curled in upon herself as a protection against God knew what indignity.
How could he have thought this innocent child was a devious jewel thief, entrapping him with her feminine wiles? Not a child at all, even if she looked like one in sleep. Her clothing was piled neatly on a chair, as it had been on their last evening together. He tried not to think of the naked flesh beneath the sheet, as he examined the empty wine bottle and the few bites of food missing from the tray. She would have a foul head in the morning, but at least she would sleep uninterrupted. If her colour was not better after some rest, he would call for a physician.
* * *
And it seemed exhaustion had been her problem. When he left