A slow, knowing grin curved his sensual lips. “The sentimentis mutual, my dear.”
Dear heavens. He was certainly charming when he wished tobe. She found she had a difficult time resisting him. In fact, she didn’t wantto resist him, truth be told. “I’m glad,” she said simply. “I hope you’refinding marriage to me isn’t as horrid as you once supposed.”
“Do you truly care?” He cocked his head to the side,considering her in that intense way he had that made her feel as if he couldsee all the corners of herself she’d rather keep hidden. “I rather fancy youought to loathe me. I wouldn’t blame you, truly, and yet you’re so bloody sweetto me.”
His insight startled her. He’d gradually begun to openhimself to her, and she had discovered a great many things about her husbandthus far. One of them was that he had been searching for a family to belong toever since his boyhood. She suspected he didn’t realize it himself, but shefancied it was why he’d been so caught up in Lady Billingsley. But now thatMaggie was a true part of his life and not a faraway dust mote occasionallyflitting through his conscience, she hoped she could give him the family he’dbeen seeking. It was a frightening realization for her, just how connectedshe’d become to him. Dangerous to be sure. But worth the price.
“I’ve told you before I’m not the angel you think me.” Shethought of all the moments in her life where she had been unkind, had mademistakes. She thought of Jonathan, of how she had left him devastated when shehad broken off their romance to leave for England. No indeed, she wasaltogether not an angel.
He shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
She smiled sadly at his insistence. “I wish I were perfect.”
“You already are perfect, Maggie.” He picked up a dark-redhothouse strawberry, held it to his lips and took a bite. She watched,entranced. “And you make me perfectly mad with wanting you every time I so muchas think your name.”
Desire unwound within her. She liked that she at leastpossessed the power to make him desire her. It was something, a small battlewon in the war she hadn’t realized she’d wanted to wage. She wanted to win notjust his passion, his kisses, his admiration, but also his heart. There it was,with such awful clarity it made her throat nearly close. She was going to pryit from Lady Billingsley’s inglorious clutches. If she hadn’t already done so.Maggie had to wonder as she watched him slowly devour his strawberry, making aburn start deep inside her.
“But you dislike me,” she reminded him, licking her suddenlydry lips.
“I disliked the notion of you, yes,” he said agreeably. “AsI daresay you did me. For me, however, that dislike has changed immensely.”
“How has it changed?” she dared to ask him.
He sent her a wicked grin. “Shall I show you?”
Oh dear. He was such a tempting man. It was the midst of theday and they were in the open air. Anyone could happen upon them at any moment.Surely it would be foolish to indulge in the wickedness he promised. She oughtto tell him no.
She caught herself grinning back at him. “Yes.”
He was on her in an instant, pressing her all the way to thecoverlet with his powerful body. He kissed her as if he’d been starving for it,long and passion-fueled. Her hands went into his hair, knocking his hat fromhis head. Her jaunty headpiece too fell to the wayside, half crushed beneathher back. She didn’t care.
The day was alive with sunshine, singing birds and endlesspossibility. It was a feeling she could get lost in forever. A feeling shenever wanted to end.
Chapter Seven
Simon strode into the main hall of Denver House after aninvigorating ride, a grin on his face. He didn’t know why the devil he wasgrinning, but damn it, he was. An entire fortnight had passed since he’dbrought Maggie to his country holding, a place where he once never thought he’dfeel at home again. Something had changed, shifted inside him. The ghosts hadbeen banished.
Maggie had done that for him.
Yes, perhaps the reason he was grinning like a bloody foolwas blatantly apparent. His wife. Somehow, the woman he’d once resented hadbecome the woman he desperately wanted. Even now, thinking of her made himhard. Christ. It was the midst of the morning and he was covered in muck. He’djust had her mere hours before, but the prospect of locating her and draggingher off for an impromptu bout of lovemaking was too potent a lure.
“My lord.”
The somewhat aggrieved voice of his butler disturbed hispleasant musings. He slowed his steps, realizing he’d failed to notice thestaid Milton standing sentinel. “Good morning, Milton. Whatever’s the matter?You look as if someone’s eaten your lunch.”
Milton blinked at him, perhaps startled by his unusuallygood cheer. After all, the Marquis of Sandhurst didn’t joke. At least, not theold Marquis of Sandhurst. “You’ve aguest, sir.”
Bloody hell. He didn’t like the way his butler spat out theword as if it tasted poorly. This surely didn’t bode well. “Who can it be andwhere have you put him?”
“I have placed her in the drawing room, my lord.”
Her? His guest was a woman? A leaden weight descended in hisstomach, effectively crushing his former high spirits. There was only one womanwho would seek him out. He had no relationship with his mother’s sister theCountess of Northrup and his father had been the sole living child in hisfamily. Lady Northrup made no secret of her disdain for him. No indeed, itwould not be she who had called upon Denver House.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly gone dry. “Thank you,Milton. I shall see to her,” he managed to say before stalking straight for theroom in question.
It couldn’t beher, he thought, his mind swirlingwith the possibilities and ramifications. What if it was? Good sweet God.Feeling as if he were trapped in a bizarre dream, he crossed the threshold tothe drawing room, his heart about to gallop from his chest.
A woman stood with her back to him, her blonde curlsartfully piled beneath a dashing hat so typical of someone he knew all toowell. He took in her tiny, cinched waist and the frothy pink afternoon gowndraped with lace. Recognition traveled through him with the force of a heavystone being rolled downhill. The lady adored pastels and hats twice the size ofher head. He knew she smelled of lavender and sneezed at the slightest hint ofrose water. He knew she adored poetry, hated prose, and wrote lurid lettersthat once had made him mad with wanting. Ah yes, there was no mistaking her.
