CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It was his wedding night, but Hart took his time undressing. He dismissed his surprisingly sober valet so the man wouldn’t have anything to gossip about and proceeded to remove every last shred of his clothing as slowly as possible. It was petty of him, but he wanted to make Meg wait.
She was worried. She was nervous. Good. She should be. He hadn’t decided how this evening would go, but as each article of clothing came off he was more and more certain.
His father had gifted him a magnificent town house. One his father never used. One meant for Hart since birth, to live in with hiswife. Raise a family. Hart had had his things brought from his apartments in St. James and put into the master suite. That’s where they were now.
He and Meg had spent as long as they could at his parents’ house today. The wedding this morning, thenthe insufferably long breakfast celebration, in which his new wife had become decidedly drunk. Then a long afternoon of talking in the study with his father and Berkeley while the ladies took naps. Finally, they’d had a late dinner, one during which his wife seemed particularly sober and nervous, and then they’d been carted off to Belgravia to spend their first night together in their new home.
Father had been ruthless this afternoon after the Timmonses had left. “Not only did you manage to get yourself forced into marriage, you couldn’t have possibly picked a less deserving bit of baggage. Didn’t I warn you about this? Hell, didn’t you already have one such experience with that Cardiff chit? Yet somehow you managed to fall into the same trap with the last girl on earth I’d pick for you. She is a money-seeking whore.”
Some of what his father said had been true, of course, but he refused to listen to the old man call Meg a whore. Hart slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk his father sat behind. “She’s mywifenow, Father, and I won’t allow you to call her names.”
Why he’d defended her, Hart didn’t know. Perhaps it was because he enjoyed taking the opposite stance of his father. Partially it was because he’d been the one to traipse out to the gardens. He’d walked directly into the scandal that brought him down. That was his fault.
“So sheisyour wife,” Father had replied. “I hope you’re happy with her. Especially since she didn’t bring a bloody red cent with her in marriage. Your mother said she doesn’t even have a trousseau.”
“There was no time for a trousseau,” Hart ground out.
“Yes, because you couldn’t bloody well keep your hands off that rubbish.”
“Call her a name one more time and I’ll call you out,” Hart ground out, bracing both fists on the desktop and glaring straight into his father’s eyes.
While the two men argued, Berkeley had merely raised his brows and taken a stiff drink of brandy—and if Berkeley was drinking, you knew it was serious.
Father leaned back in his chair and contemplated Hart over his steepled fingers. “I knew all along that Annabelle Cardiff wanted nothing more than your title and your money. I tried to tell you that. But did you listen? No.”
“Are you serious? You pressured me to marry her.”
His father ignored that. “I even tried to warn you about this Timmons chit recently when you brought her up, and you still didn’t listen. What’s wrong with you?”
Hart paced away from his father’s desk. “I don’t know. I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
His father half rose from his seat. “You dare to compare yourself tome? At least I didn’t marry a penniless nobody who brought shame upon my household.”
Hart lunged toward his father. Berkeley intercepted him, backing him away until he’d calmed down enough to pace in front of the fireplace.
“Why would you defend her?” His father leaned back in his chair, his face still red with wrath.
“She’s mywife,” Hart said through clenched teeth.
“Don’t remind me.” Father nearly spit the words.
Hart growled but finally took a seat.
Berkeley made his way to the sideboard and poured more brandy into his glass. “Come, gentlemen, there is a bright side to this.”
“What’s the bright side?” Father glared at Berkeley.
“Your son is finally married. An heir is certain to follow,” Berkeley replied.
Those words haunted Hart now. An heir? An heir is certain to follow? He wasn’t less certain of anything at the moment. The last three days had been a blur. A blur of anger, confusion, and betrayal. Every dark emotion had roiled around in his brain while the words Delilah Montebank had called out were seared in his mind forever. “Your Grace. I found them. And it’s a scandal just likeyou said it would be.”
The events from the days prior to that moment had kaleidoscoped in Hart’s mind. The dinner at Lucy’s house, her asking him to fetch Meg from the silver closet. The dancing, even Sir Winford. It had been an elaborate ruse. A ruse that his ownsisterhad been part of. Sarah had been the one to insist he go to dinner at Lucy’s house so Lucy and Meg could spring their trap.
He’d never forget the moment he saw Lucy whispering to Meg in the dining room just before she got up and left. Left to go out in the gardens. Left to hide in wait for him. He’d walked straight into it, fool that he was. He’d trusted Meg, but she and Lucy and Sarah were nothing more than wretched schemers.
Meg had been clear about wanting to find a husband. She’d been nothing but honest about the fact that she needed a proposal to keep her father from taking her off to the Continent. After Sir Winford failed to come up to scratch, she’d sprung her trap on Hart.
