Disgust slammed into him. He stood from the bed, stalkingthrough the darkness in search of his dressing gown. “I made a promise to herthat I would be true to her for an entire month, and at the very least I intendto keep that promise. You must go, Eleanor. I demand it.”
“Very well.” Her voice was drawn with hurt. “I shall go. Butyou will beg for me to be in your bed again, Sandy. This much I know.”
“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice hoarse. Christ, he didn’tknow what to believe any longer. Part of him wanted Eleanor and the love they’donce shared. But a part of him wanted Maggie and the life he’d known with her,filled with poetry and laughter and sensuality. Filled with freedom. He was hopelesslytorn. “You’re wrong, Eleanor,” he repeated, as much for her benefit as for his,and, throwing the sash about his waist, he strode from the room.
* * * * *
Maggie couldn’t sleep. The ugly ramifications of the daytaunted her so that even when she closed her eyes, she could see LadyBillingsley’s fine-boned face, her tiny waist, the halo of blonde hair thatmarked her a true English beauty. Her head ached. Her heart hurt. She wasalternately hot, then cold, uncomfortable trapped beneath too many coveringsand then not enough.
With a sigh, she attempted to plump her pillow with perhapsmore force than required of the task. Simon had come to her earlier in theevening, and their lovemaking had been slow and sweet, but she’d been almosttoo gripped with the sudden reappearance of the woman he loved to enjoy thesimple mating of their bodies.
Dinner earlier had been an unbearably stilted affair. LadyBillingsley joined them, and while Maggie had yearned for nothing more than tohide herself in the private comfort of her chamber for the duration of themeal, she knew she could not allow the awful woman to see her weakness. Maggiewas born from the stock of warriors, and she wasn’t about to be beaten by asylph who had broken her husband’s heart only to return as if she could onceagain draw him back into her web.
She hoped she had retained her dignity. Twice, she had losther head and had almost allowed her true feelings to billow forth. She hadprivately longed for Lady Billingsley to choke upon the soup course, much toher inner shame. But through it all, she had somehow managed to act the part ofhostess, as if she weren’t about to engage in battle with the woman seatedopposite her at table.
Battle.
Maggie grimaced and turned to her left side, desperate to thrashthe misgivings from her mind, at least for the night. Did she want to dobattle? A few weeks before, the answer would have been a sure and steady “no”.She had been disillusioned with life, with a husband who hadn’t wanted her,with a life of solitude and longing for something more. And then Lady Needham’shouse party. Meeting Simon free of the encumbrances between them had beenexhilarating. Her body had been awakened to desires she’d never even imaginedexisted. Their bargain of one month in each other’s arms had seemed fortuitousfor the both of them. She yearned for passion, he for a woman to take the placeof his heartache.
But now it was all so hopelessly, painfully complicated. Herheart had somehow become involved. She cared for Simon, the man who she’d oncethought cold and distant but who she’d discovered still wore the scars of hispast beneath his elegant façade. Dear heavens, she had not meant to allow himto make her feel so much.
A soft noise filtered through her troubled musings just then,putting a halt to her runaway mind for the moment. She held her breath andlistened. It seemed to be coming from Simon’s adjoining chamber. Filled withmisgiving, she rose from her bed and padded across the carpet to listen at thedoor. A low rumble reached her ears, unmistakably Simon’s voice. Then there wasthe softer voice of a woman.
Maggie pressed her ear to the door, not caring that it wasan act better suited to a schoolroom girl than to a woman of her years. She wasdesperate to know what was being said, yet terrified to know at the same time.Unfortunately, she couldn’t decipher their words no matter how hard she tried,but perhaps it was because of the blood rushing to her head. Anger took herover first. How dare the woman be so bold as to go to Simon’s chamber? How dareSimon give her entrance?
Beneath the anger, an awful tide of hurt rose through her.How could he betray her in their home, and so soon after he had made love toher? How could he show her such passion only to give the same to another woman?A mere month ago, you never entered my thoughts, and now you’re all I candamn well think about, he had told her, the rotten liar. Perhaps she hadbeen wrong and he did not possess a heart after all.
Part of her wanted to throw open the door and confront themboth, but the other part of her feared very much what awaited her on the otherside. She couldn’t bear to see him holding Lady Billingsley, kissing her,touching her. Feeling ill, she paced back to her bed and sank into it. She hadnowhere else to go, no one to turn to, and for the first time in her largelyunhappy stay in England, she felt completely and utterly alone.
Tears stung her eyes, and try though she might, she couldn’tkeep them from falling. After all this time, all the wisdom she had sworn she’dgained, he still had the power to hurt her, to crush her as if she were a paperdoll beneath his boot heel. It was a horrible realization. She wanted so muchto be impervious to him, to have been as worldly as Lady Needham. But she supposedthat in the end, she was still the same dreamer with a poet’s soul she hadalways been, a girl who naively believed in the promise of passion. A girl whofelt too much, who saw the best in others even when it was not present, and whoallowed a cad to strike too close to her heart. It had not been the first timeSimon had hurt her, but as she lay in the darkness planning what she ought todo, she decided that it would have to be the very last.
Chapter Eight
Simon was thoroughly inebriated. Sauced. In his cups.Whatever the words one preferred to use, he was claiming them all. He took ahealthy swig of whiskey, enjoying the burn down his throat. He’d been unable tosleep, so he’d spent the night in his study, drinking and wondering what in thehell he was going to do next. He’d never been more bloody confused in his life,torn between the past and a possible future with Maggie. Damn it all, why hadEleanor returned? It would have been so much simpler had she not.
He didn’t know if he was ready to say goodbye to herforever. He had loved her for too long, and her transgressions couldn’tentirely erase the way he had felt for her before he knew them. But there wasMaggie, his passionate poet who never failed to surprise him. Did he love her?The truth of it was that he had begun to believe love was more fiction thanfact, that it was an impossible state invented by fools and romantics. He wasdrawn to her, to her responsive body and kind heart. She had shown him moregenerosity than he deserved, and he would always admire her for that.
“Christ,” he muttered, taking another drag of spirits.Libations were not the solution to his problems either, but they did a fine jobof distracting him. His mind was lighter even if his heart was not.
A discreet tap at the door interrupted his solitude.“Enter,” he called out, assuming it was the butler with a breakfast tray.
Maggie swished into the room, looking formidably lovely in aday gown of aquamarine silk. Her flaming locks were styled simply, with curlscascading down over her shoulders. The bodice of her dress flattered her slimwaist and full bosom to perfection. Damned if he didn’t get hard just lookingat her, whiskey and all. A series of bows bedecked her skirts and sleeves, andhe itched to untie them all, then peel her out of her dress, spread her overhissecretaireand slide his cock deep inside her.
“My lord,” she greeted him formally, her tone as stiff asbaleen corset stays.
Hell. The chill emanating from her luscious body was enoughto dampen his ardor. Something was wrong. He belatedly realized her ordinarilyfull pink lips were pinched into an unhappy line. “Maggie,” he returned,standing as he recalled his manners. “Good morning.”
She stopped halfway across the room, hands clasped at herwaist. She was a fiercely unique beauty, all fire to Eleanor’s ice. “I don’tfind it to be a good morning at all, I’m afraid.”
He raised a brow, trying to fend off a looming sense of trepidation.“Indeed? And why would that be, my dear?”
“My slumber is frightful at best, easily interrupted.” Shestared at him in that knowing way she had. It quite stripped his soul bare. Andhe hadn’t even thought he possessed a soul any longer.
“Out with it, Maggie,” he commanded, doing his best to sortout what was amiss even with his whiskey-soaked brain. “What have you to say tome?”
She caught her luscious lower lip between her teeth beforeventuring into the dangerous waters before them. “I heard voices last night.”
The weight of dread settled down upon his shoulders. How muchhad she heard? “Indeed?” Oh damn it all, he’d said that twice now. Now he was acad and a twit in addition, of course, to being a drunkard.
