“Again?”
“Yes.”
“I thought…” She bowed her head and pulled the sheets higher. “Things had changed between us.”
“I thought so, too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
That night, Meg picked out a skin-colored gown she’d had made during her time in Northumbria. The garment hugged every curve, was tight in the bodice, and looked as if it were a second skin. It was nearly indecent, unlike anything else she’d ever worn. It was perfect for her purposes.
Sarah had employed a team of dressmakers from the nearby village to come to Berkeley Hall. She’d instructed them on the latest London fashions. The dressmakers had been happy for the work and the information, and Meg had ended up with a lovely new wardrobe purchased on her husband’s credit. At least her time in Northumbria had been good for something other than ruminating on her messy marriage.
The gown was a concoction she and Sarah had designed to make Hart salivate. The décolletage was decadent, the embroidery, expensive, and the pearlsshe wore with it, picked out by Sarah, who insisted Hart owed them to her.
Emily had straightened Meg’s hair again. She had just dismissed the maid and was dabbing passionflower perfume behind both ears when Hart came into her bedchamber wearing casual attire. Clearly, he wasn’t planning to go out this evening.
“Where are you going?” His eyes narrowed on the tops of her breasts.
“A ball.” She concentrated on keeping her voice even, calm.
He placed his fists on his hips. “You’re not going out of this house dressed like that.”
She set the vial of perfume back on her dressing table. “You’re not about to stop me.”
“Yes, I am,” he said through clenched teeth. “I am your husband.”
She swiveled on her stool and crossed her arms over her chest. “We don’t need to be in each other’s pockets,” she shot back. “Isn’t that what you said to me once?”
He clenched his jaw and a muscle ticked there. “What do you want from me, Meg?”
She stood and strode over to the window, crossing her arms over her chest. She couldn’t fight him anymore. Tears trickled down her cheeks, but she savagely wiped them away. “I’ll tell you what I want from you, Hart. I want love. That’s all I ever wanted from you. Do you know what I was going to say to you that night? That night when you didn’t give me a chance to say it? I’ve loved you since I was sixteen! I’ve wanted you to be my husband since then, but I also want a marriage full of love and children and happiness.”
She barely registered the fact that his face had gone pale. He held his breath. “Meg.” Hart took two large steps toward her and pulled her into his arms. She was beyond listening to him.
“On our wedding night,” she continued. “You reminded me of how I said I wanted a child, a family, but you forgot that I’d also said I wanted love. I’ve always loved you, Hart. Always. If you haven’t realized that by now, you’re either blind or stupid or both!”
“Meg.” He cradled her face in both hands.
“All Lucy and I were doing was attempting to get you to finally notice me.”
“Meg, stop.”
She furiously wiped away her tears with the backs of her hands, and her voice held a note of steely resolve. She pushed him away with both hands. “No! I refuse to stop. I’m through holding in what I want to say, what I need to say. I’ve done that my entire life. I’ve sat in the corner and been a good girl and done what I was told. I refuse to do it anymore. Here’s how it will be. I’m leaving here tonight. I’m going to a ball with Sarah and Lucy. You and I, we’re going to love each other and respect each other and be equals. If you want the same thing, you know where I’ll be. If you don’t want that,don’tcome for me.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Meg hurried down the corridor in the Litchfields’ town house. She clutched a note in her hand that said, “Meg, meet me in the silver drawing room in five minutes. Come alone.”
It had to be Hart. He’d come for her after all. Her heart raced as she neared the door. Just before entering she took a deep breath. This was it. The next few moments might decide their entire future together. She pushed open the door and raced inside.
She stopped and gasped.
Standing in the middle of the room, a glass of brandy in his hand, was Hart’s father, the Earl of Highfield.
“Miss Timmons,” he said, turning toward her.
“It’s Lady Highgate,” she intoned. “Or have you forgotten?” She turned to leave. She knew how Hart’s father felt about her. She had no intention of listening to his insults.
