in the early hours of yesterday morning now walked towards her. His face was a blank mask.
Margaret closed her eyes, willing his face not to haunt her memory, but she knew it always would. Right now it felt like a curse, though later it may not. No, later she would wish for his face to fill her dreams, dreams that would remind her of their marvellous night together. The night she had felt loved.
She felt a tear escape and roll down her cheek. The touch of his finger, wiping away the wetness, startled a sob from her.
“What makes you cry, my Maggie?”
Another sob left her lips as she opened her eyes, gazing into his stormy ones. Victor. The man who had unknowingly taken her heart. He could not know how much his presence now hurt her.
“You do,” she whispered.
“I make you cry?”
She took a deep breath, shuddering as she inhaled, emotion thick in her tone. “I should not be here.”
“I can think of nowhere else I would rather you be.” A cunning smile graced his lips. “Well, perhaps I can.”
She shivered at his sexual undertone, though not with displeasure—far from it. Heat prickled her skin and arousal slowly dampened her cunt. Oh dear, being here only drew out her torment, but she could not force herself to turn around and depart. Every moment in his presence was something she would cherish, even while it came covered in future torment.
“You may be wondering why you are not at Belfort House,” he said softly. “Damon—Lord Belfort—was kind enough to allow me the use of his carriage this evening. I did not think you would accept my invitation without a chaperone to accompany you.”
“You have brought me here tonight for a further folly?”
He quickly reached out with warm hands, grasping hers where they wound together at her front. “No, nothing of the sort.”
Margaret looked up into his face. His features held the confirmation of his words. “Then why am I here? And how did you know who I was? Did Lord Belfort tell you?” she asked, feeling both anger and thankfulness towards Claire for abusing her confidence.
“No,” Victor said with a shake of his head, as he led her to a settee. He sat beside her, her hands still clutched in his, the roughness of his fingers caressing hers in a reassuring manner, though it did little to settle her. She tried to ignore his touch, but she could not. Margaret willed her body not to react, but it did not heed her pleas. Desire flowed through her blood—a need to explore this man the way she had done two nights past was heavy on her thoughts, but so were many other things.
“Smith, the butler at Goodrich Hall, learned of your identity from the driver of your hired hack. Your identity would have remained with him if I had not sought it out,” Victor reassured her. “I had to know, Maggie. Did you not wonder who I was?”
“I did not,” she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from his as sudden hurt crossed his features. “I do not live in a land of dreams, Victor. I know nothing can ever happen between us. You have given me a night I will never forget and you cannot know how much you mean to me.” Tears flowed freely from her eyes. She made no move to brush them away. There was little point—more would surely follow.
“Yet you left in the dead of night,” he stated, his grip growing tight around her hands.
“Because I-I could not f-face you,” she sobbed.
“Why?”
She cried harder and tried to look away, but he refused to allow it, his gaze intent on her. “Why could you not face me?”
The truth sat on the edge of Margaret’s tongue, but to speak it would ensure he never came near her again. Perhaps voicing her foolish, but no less strong, emotions would finally make him see. What man cared to have a girl declare her feelings? None.
“Because I love you.”
His eyes softened, his lips curving into a smile, lighting up his features in the candlelit room.
“You make light of my feelings?” she snapped.
His smile did
Margaret closed her eyes, willing his face not to haunt her memory, but she knew it always would. Right now it felt like a curse, though later it may not. No, later she would wish for his face to fill her dreams, dreams that would remind her of their marvellous night together. The night she had felt loved.
She felt a tear escape and roll down her cheek. The touch of his finger, wiping away the wetness, startled a sob from her.
“What makes you cry, my Maggie?”
Another sob left her lips as she opened her eyes, gazing into his stormy ones. Victor. The man who had unknowingly taken her heart. He could not know how much his presence now hurt her.
“You do,” she whispered.
“I make you cry?”
She took a deep breath, shuddering as she inhaled, emotion thick in her tone. “I should not be here.”
“I can think of nowhere else I would rather you be.” A cunning smile graced his lips. “Well, perhaps I can.”
She shivered at his sexual undertone, though not with displeasure—far from it. Heat prickled her skin and arousal slowly dampened her cunt. Oh dear, being here only drew out her torment, but she could not force herself to turn around and depart. Every moment in his presence was something she would cherish, even while it came covered in future torment.
“You may be wondering why you are not at Belfort House,” he said softly. “Damon—Lord Belfort—was kind enough to allow me the use of his carriage this evening. I did not think you would accept my invitation without a chaperone to accompany you.”
“You have brought me here tonight for a further folly?”
He quickly reached out with warm hands, grasping hers where they wound together at her front. “No, nothing of the sort.”
Margaret looked up into his face. His features held the confirmation of his words. “Then why am I here? And how did you know who I was? Did Lord Belfort tell you?” she asked, feeling both anger and thankfulness towards Claire for abusing her confidence.
“No,” Victor said with a shake of his head, as he led her to a settee. He sat beside her, her hands still clutched in his, the roughness of his fingers caressing hers in a reassuring manner, though it did little to settle her. She tried to ignore his touch, but she could not. Margaret willed her body not to react, but it did not heed her pleas. Desire flowed through her blood—a need to explore this man the way she had done two nights past was heavy on her thoughts, but so were many other things.
“Smith, the butler at Goodrich Hall, learned of your identity from the driver of your hired hack. Your identity would have remained with him if I had not sought it out,” Victor reassured her. “I had to know, Maggie. Did you not wonder who I was?”
“I did not,” she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from his as sudden hurt crossed his features. “I do not live in a land of dreams, Victor. I know nothing can ever happen between us. You have given me a night I will never forget and you cannot know how much you mean to me.” Tears flowed freely from her eyes. She made no move to brush them away. There was little point—more would surely follow.
“Yet you left in the dead of night,” he stated, his grip growing tight around her hands.
“Because I-I could not f-face you,” she sobbed.
“Why?”
She cried harder and tried to look away, but he refused to allow it, his gaze intent on her. “Why could you not face me?”
The truth sat on the edge of Margaret’s tongue, but to speak it would ensure he never came near her again. Perhaps voicing her foolish, but no less strong, emotions would finally make him see. What man cared to have a girl declare her feelings? None.
“Because I love you.”
His eyes softened, his lips curving into a smile, lighting up his features in the candlelit room.
“You make light of my feelings?” she snapped.
His smile did
Similar Books
