Wicked Nights With a Lover
Page 8

“Of course I wanted to meet you. Both of you.” Especially before I leave. Marguerite took a hesitant step, unsure where to sit.
“Come, seat yourself. I’m Grier and this is Cleopatra.”
“Cleo,” the one with hair nearly as dark as Marguerite’s hastily corrected. A grim smile curved the lips. “My mother’s a bit fanciful.”
“You live with your mother?” It was on the tip of Marguerite’s tongue to ask why she was here then, if she had a mother.
“Yes, and my stepfather.” A grimace flickered across her pale face. “And my half brothers and half sisters.”
“Fourteen, can you believe?” Grier volunteered, tucking an auburn strand back into her loosely arranged chignon. Her skin was unfashionably tan, but even that did not hide the spattering of brown freckles over her nose and cheeks.
Grier leaned forward. Reaching for the tea service, she poured a cup for Marguerite.
“Fourteen? How lovely,” Marguerite murmured.
Cleo shrugged. “Not really. Why else would I answer the summons of a father who never sought to acknowledge me before?”
Marguerite nodded slowly, appreciating her candor and feeling the echo of that sentiment rush through her. “That’s why you’re here then?”
“That’s why we’re both here,” Grier clarified. “We’re both short on opportunities. Cleo is tired of being maid, cook, and nanny all rolled into one, and I’m … well. I just needed to get away from home.” Grier’s dark eyes took on a faraway glint. She tugged at her snug sleeve and scratched beneath at her wrist, convincing Marguerite she would be vastly more comfortable wearing something else. “I should have left a long time ago, but never had the opportunity before now. So, here we are then. And what of you? Are you here to stay?”
“It wasn’t my intention. I came to meet you both.” Marguerite cleared her throat, deciding now was as good a moment as any to explain that she would be leaving the country. “Before I go.”
“Go?” Cleo asked. “Where are you going? You just arrived.”
“I’m leaving. Tomorrow. For Spain.”
“Spain? How exciting.” Grier took a healthy swig of her tea and reached for a biscuit. “This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home. It’s fair to assume then that you’re not locked into sad circumstances that force you to accept the hospitality of the father who’s neglected you all your life? Good for you.”
Marguerite winced. She would scarcely consider her circumstances good.
“But what of tonight?” Cleo asked, her eyes bright with disappointment. “You do not intend to join us then?”
“Tonight?”
“Did you not receive my letter?” Cleo shook her head. The light streaming through the mullioned glass struck her dark hair, making it appear blue in places. “Jack gave me your address. I sent it two days ago. I thought that’s why you were coming today.”
Marguerite swallowed. She’d moved from the boardinghouse yesterday. Ever since her horrid nightmare, she’d been eager to leave the boardinghouse behind. Every time she glanced at the corner of the rented room, she expected to see the dark cloaked figure of Death again.
Aside from that, Roger insisted on putting her up at a hotel until they departed. His sisters resided with him in Town, so it was hardly appropriate to stay with him, but he was eager to begin his role of benefactor.
“What’s tonight?” she repeated.
“Jack is throwing a little soiree for us.” Cleo’s smile looked tight and brittle on her lips, as if the words hurt to speak.
“Oh, call it for what it is,” Grier bit out, brushing the crumbs from her skirts as she finished her biscuit.
“I’m certain we can find you something to wear,” Cleo offered, the hope rife in her voice.
“Did you not hear her?” Grier asked. “She’s leaving for Spain. I don’t think she wishes to snare a husband tonight. Not as we are meant to.”
Husband. The word knifed through Marguerite, settling like a noose around her neck. It was as if Madame Foster was beside her now, whispering in her ear, you will marry.
“Snare a husband?” she managed to get out past dry lips.
“Jack has invited a few gentlemen to meet us this evening. It’s to be a special gathering.”
“Special.” Grier snorted. “An auction more like it, so that these bluebloods may assess us as potential wives. It’s why he’s gathered us. He wants to wed us to some blue-blooded dandies, so he can call himself one of them.” She sighed. “But the prospect of marrying well, security … never having to worry about the roof over my head …” She gave a single hard nod. “I’d be a fool to pass up such an opportunity.”
Marguerite stood on shaking legs, her head spinning. “I must go.”
“You just got here.”
“I’m sorry. This isn’t what I thought … what I expected.”
“Marguerite,” Cleo settled her gaze on her. “You can’t mean to leave so soon. We haven’t even begun to acquaint ourselves.”
“She’s white as a ghost.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t stay … I’ll be back—”
“When? You’re leaving for Spain,” Grier reminded her.
She was correct, of course. Marguerite took a calming breath. She was leaving for Spain. She was not getting married. Not getting married. No need to dart from the room like a panicked hare at the mere mention of a husband. No need to react so irrationally. Still, the word hung there, too much, too close … too dangerous.
“I will call on you when I return.” Hopefully, her father will have deserted all mad notions of marrying her off by then and satisfied himself with the more obliging Grier and Cleo. She nodded doggedly, backing out of the room. “I must go. Take care. Both of you.”
She left them, intent on leaving before coming face-to-face with her father, before she had to hear his mad, selfish scheme from his own lips.
Free of the room, her heart calmed. Once she was free of Jack Hadley’s house, she was certain her pulse would return to normal.
Sliding a shaking hand down her face, she started down the corridor. She hadn’t taken very many steps before she sensed she was not alone. A floorboard creaked, and the hair at her nape tingled.
A memory flashed through her mind—the cloaked figure in her dream. A chill chased down her spine. Her heart hammered anew.
She turned around swiftly, intent on putting her fears to rest, certain she would find nothing more than an approaching servant.
A dark, blurred shape swept toward her like a great rolling tide. In less than a second, she was twisted around into arms that felt like steel bands, a brick wall of a chest at her back. Marguerite opened her mouth to scream, but managed only a brief shriek. Her cry was quickly cut off as a wad of fabric found its way in her open mouth. Speech was useless.
Something was thrown over her, sealing her in like a great cocoon. Caught, trapped, swathed in darkness, she kicked and clawed at heavy fabric, afraid she would be smothered.
“You’re certain she’s one of them?” A man’s voice growled, velvet smooth despite the bite of his words.
She froze at the sound of it, a chill slithering through her and coiling around her heart.
A female voice, rushed and whispery as crackling parchment, quickly assured him. “Yes, yes, she’s one of them. Now take her and go. Go before someone comes.”
Then the thick voice returned, intruding in her dark, frightful world. She felt his face press close beside her head, imagined she felt his breath against her cheek.
“Hold silent and do not struggle. The sooner we’re free of here, the sooner I’ll lift this blanket from you. I’ve no wish to frighten you, nor is it in my practice to harm women. Understood?”
She nodded fiercely, anything to breathe again, to be rid of the suffocating fabric.
“Ash, be gone before someone comes. I’ll not lose my post for you, no matter how far we go back.” It was the whispering female again, a maid no doubt hired to assist the villain who dared to sneak into her father’s household and make off with her. Marguerite could almost laugh—or weep—at the irony of it. Her first day as Jack Hadley’s daughter—in a sense—and she suffered abduction. Why?
“Agreed then? You’ll behave?” her assailant pressed.
Behave? Like a good little victim? Her temper simmering, she nodded yet again. Spots had begun to flash in and out before her eyes. She’d promise anything to be free of the smothering fabric.
Then his head moved from beside hers and she was swung up into his arms. The blanket shifted, loosened, freed more air near her nose, and breathing became easier. She had a sense that he must be very tall. It felt as though the ground loomed far below. She grasped what she could of him through the unwieldy volumes of the blanket shrouding her, praying she wouldn’t fall.
They moved quickly. Before she knew it, cold, wet air curled around her dangling ankles and she knew they were outside. Panic rose in her chest, clawing through her. His footsteps fell louder, as though smacking on hard cobbles. She was free of her father’s house. The very thing she had wished for moments ago, only not in such circumstances.
Beneath the many folds of her shroud, she worked her hands up and tugged the gag free. “I’m afraid there’s been a dreadful mistake.” Her voice was still muffled, but she felt certain he could understand her.
He ignored her and continued to move with hard, jarring strides.
She didn’t allow his silence to defeat her. “I’m no one—nothing—to Jack Hadley. Whatever you hope to accomplish in seizing me, you will be sorely disappointed.”
“You’re one of his daughters,” the deep voice rumbled low. A statement, not a question. She bit back the denial. His inside source, the maid, had him quite convinced of that truth, so there was no sense denying it.
“Scarcely so. I’ve never even met the man. I only called upon him today after receiving his summons to meet my half sisters. I was leaving, never to return—”
“Like I said, Jack Hadley is your father. That’s all that matters to me.”
She felt the tension in him as he uttered this, in the hard body holding her, so strong, so big, so … male. He enveloped her, carried her without the faintest hitch of breath.
He was a laborer. He must be. There wasn’t an ounce of softness in the frame that held her so closely.
With a few more jarring steps, they stopped. She heard the squeak of a carriage door and then she was dumped unceremoniously upon soft squabs. As the door slammed shut, she fought free of her shroud. Tearing the fabric from her, she gulped air and woke to surroundings little changed from the dark world of moments ago.
The carriage was unlit. The curtains drawn. The barest light peeped out from the part. Even blind, she whipped her head around, blowing the hair that had fallen loose from her face.
Her fingers flexed on plush velvet squabs, digging until her knuckles ached. This was no hansom cab. The large shadow of a man sat across from her, still as marble, his eyes glowing faintly. She stilled like prey caught in his watchful gaze. It was almost as though he could see her, even in this oppressive gloom.
Her nose flared. She smelled the faint whiff of mint. From him? And something else, something indefinable that made her quiver in a strange way.
Oddly enough fear eluded her. She should be terrified. She’d been abducted. Instead, she heard only Madame Foster’s voice, her predictions ringing in her head. According to everything she had imparted, Marguerite would not die this day. It was too soon. Not enough time had passed, and she was unwed. She had not lived and loved as predicted. She would live through one more Christmas. This, she knew. For now, she was safe.