Lady Billingsley was of course beautiful as ever, wearing anethereal afternoon gown of rich navy that emphasized her tiny waist and lavishbosom. Maggie swore she was so heavily corseted it was a miracle she didn’tfaint whenever she seated herself. Her blonde curls were artfully arranged,golden as any angel’s. But an angel she was not. She raised her nose ever soslightly as her gaze settled upon Maggie, as if to say Maggie’s mere presencewas an affront to her sense of English nobility. Maggie’s brows snappedtogether into a frown. The feeling was mutual.
“Lady Billingsley, how lovely to see you,” she murmured,aware that she must at least uphold the pretense of being a happy hostess. Itwould never do for the woman to discover precisely how much she vexed her.
“My lady,” her foe acknowledged with a regally inclinedhead. “I’m delighted to find you here as it will save me the effort of seekingyou out.”
Maggie was taken aback and more than a bit dismayed. Itdidn’t escape her that the woman had refused to refer to her as Lady Sandhurst.“Why should you need to seek me out?”
Her ladyship crossed the room, closing the distance betweenthem, and reached into a pocket on her day gown, extracting a ribbon-boundstack of what appeared to be envelopes. “I have something I want to give you,something that I think will alter the way you must see me.”
Maggie shook her head, eyeing the packet dubiously. “I’msure it cannot. I don’t want it, my lady.”
“You must take them. I want you to have these,” LadyBillingsley told her, thrusting the envelopes into her hands.
Maggie accepted them, but only because it was either closeher fingers about them or allow them to drop to the carpet. She studied heradversary’s face, wishing it was not nearly so lovely. “I don’t want anythingfrom you, Lady Billingsley, other than to never see you again.”
“I understand that you despise me, but I love your husband,”she said, startling Maggie with her candor. “And I know that he still very muchloves me. I was wrong to leave him.”
“But youdidleave him,” she pointed out, “andregardless of whether or not you accept that, it changed everything. Once, youhad complete power over him. Now he no longer harbors even a hint of tenderfeelings for you.”
Of course, she was blustering. Even if she knew this was nota war she could win, her pride demanded she not allow the woman to see it. Intruth, she was terrified that her husband was still in love with the womanbefore her. After all, he had never given her any reason to hope for more thantheir month of passion. He had never spoken words of love to her. The lettersin her hand burned into her skin in an awful reminder.
Love letters. Maggie knew it without bothering to read them.What made their existence all the more humiliating was that he had neverwritten her a line. Not even to inquire after her welfare. Not even toascertain whether or not she still existed.
“He is attempting to make me jealous,” Lady Billingsleyinsisted. “You’re a distraction to him. Read the letters, I implore you. Youshall see how deep our connection runs. It cannot be broken by a mere Americangirl who has shared his bed for a month.”
“I’m no mere American girl,” she countered, anger lendingher pluck anew. “I am a woman of her own fortune, a poet, a wife. What are youother than the woman who clung to a man who could never truly be hers?”
“He was,” her nemesis hissed. “He has been mine and so he shallbe again. Let him free. Can’t you see how he feels trapped between us? Hepities you.”
Maggie looked from the insidious letters in her hand back tothe woman’s face. She was intent, her expression as if it had been chiseledfrom marble. But there was an underlying emotion in her voice, an urgency,perhaps. Her words rattled Maggie.He pities you, she’d said. Could itbe true? She wouldn’t allow herself to think it just now. “Let him free? I haveno hold over him.”
“This month you’ve made him promise to give you,” sheinsisted. “He’s told me all about it, and his sense of honor won’t allow him toextricate himself. It is solely in your hands. That is why I give you theseletters. You can never mean to him what I have meant to him. We have loved oneanother for years.”
“I have been his wife for a year,” she countered, eventhough she knew her protestation was a hollow one.
“In name only. You have been in his bed for a paltry threeweeks.”
It shocked Maggie that Simon had apparently shared thesecrets of their relationship with this woman, the very woman who had been aninsidious barrier between them from the moment she’d met him. Perhaps there wassomething to what Lady Billingsley was telling her. She had long ago lost hernaiveté, after all, and that largely thanks to Sandhurst.
“What we do together as husband and wife is none of yourconcern,” she forced herself to say through lips that had gone numb in herescalating fear. “You do not belong here, my lady. Indeed, you would do best toreturn to your husband.”
Her ladyship’s face transformed, her expression becomingsmug. “I cannot. Sandy loves me, and I love him. I’ll not make the same mistaketwice. I must have him in my life or it’s not worth living.”
Dear God. What hope did Maggie have of winning against thiswoman? She had not been able to win before. Now, she had nothing more thanheated embraces and wicked lovemaking to hold Simon to her. He had never spokenwords of love, nor written them. She stared down at the letters, her heartaching. Disappointment sank through her. She knew what she must do.
* * * * *
She was gone.
The realization was akin to a punch directly in his gut.Simon nearly doubled over, so violent was his reaction. He threw open the doorto her chamber and stalked inside, confirming what his butler had already toldhim. His wife had left in a flurry of hooves and portmanteaus. Her chamberstill smelled of her perfume, but other than her scent and the handful ofletters she’d left scattered over her bed, it was as if she had never beenthere at all.
Damn. He never should have allowed Eleanor to remain atDenver House, not even for a day. He scooped up a letter and scanned itscontents, recognizing his youthful signature at the bottom of the page.Instantly, he knew precisely what Eleanor had done. These letters were old.He’d never been one for dating his correspondence as he ought to have done, andhe cursed himself for it now. Christ, he’d been a lovesick milksop, he thoughtwith disgust as he read a particularly flowery line.
She had given these letters to Maggie, knowing she wouldread them and assume the very worst. And then he found another letter, tuckedinto an envelope bearing his name. Maggie had left him a note, it would seem.He snatched it up far too quickly and tore it open.
She wrote that she was freeing him. She did not wish to seehim ever again. She was going away, never to return. His fist tightened on theletter, crumpling it before he even finished reading.
Damn her. How dare she think she could leave him so easily,without warning, without a word? She couldn’t. He wouldn’t stand for it. He hadto find her. But first, he needed to confront Eleanor. Tossing the entire sheafof papers to the floor, he stalked from the chamber, his former lover’s name onhis lips as if it were a war cry.
