Regency Surrender: Scandal And Deception. Marguerite Kaye
trying to disappear behind the scrap of veil that decorated its brim.
She counted down the row of doors until she came to the correct one and knocked quietly on the panel.
A scullery maid opened for her, wiping her wet hands against her apron.
For a moment, Margot’s voice faltered. Then she whispered, ‘Lord Fanworth?’
‘If you have business with him, then go ’round the front,’ the girl said, her suspicious glance sweeping Margot from head to toe.
‘It’s a private matter,’ Margot said, even more quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the other servants working in the room. ‘If you could show me how to get to his bedchamber...’
The girl let out a hiss of disapproval and held up a finger, indicating that she stay where she was. Then she turned from the door and went across the room to a woman sitting at one of the long wooden tables in the kitchen. Judging by the severe cut of her gown, and her equally severe expression, it was the housekeeper. There was a whispered conversation between the two and many sharp and disapproving glances cast in her direction.
Before a reason could be found to put her off, Margot stepped into the kitchen and shut the door behind her. Then she walked forward into the room to speak to the housekeeper directly. The woman did not rise as she approached, but watched her in silence.
‘I have come to see Lord Fanworth,’ she said, meeting the woman’s gaze without flinching. ‘He expects me.’
‘Then it is surprising he is not here to greet you,’ the woman responded, with a sour smile.
‘If I could wait for him...’
‘In his bedchamber,’ the woman finished. By the look in her eyes, it was clear that she knew exactly why Margot had come. And she did not approve.
Margot could not blame her. She was not proud of her own actions, either. But pride and approval were not necessary. All that mattered was that she fulfil her part of the bargain so her life might return to normal.
She squared her shoulders and stared the woman down. ‘Yes. I wish to wait for him in his bedchamber. No doubt he told you he would have a guest this evening. Unless you do not know what goes on in the house you manage.’
The woman opened her mouth as if to retort, then snapped it shut again. Without a word, she led the way to the servants’ stairs and they climbed to the first floor in silence. The housekeeper opened the door and pointed down the hall. ‘The third door is his suite of rooms. If the valet is there, it is up to you to explain yourself. I will not help you further.’ Then she disappeared.
Margot swallowed the response that help was not necessary. If she did not want to appear helpless, then why was she shaking in her shoes? She took a moment to steady her knees and her nerves. Then she walked briskly down to the indicated door, opened it, entered and shut it behind her.
She stood in a pleasant but unremarkable sitting room. It certainly did not seem like the stronghold of an evil seducer. It looked more suitable to the man she thought she’d known.
It was also blissfully empty, as was the dressing room that connected to it and the bedroom that connected to that. As with the sitting room, there was nothing about the place Fanworth slept that made her think of a seraglio. It was rather a relief. If lying with him turned out to be unpleasant, she would rather it be devoid of erotic nonsense that would make her feel more awkward than she did already.
There was no sign of him as yet. But it would be better to be prepared for his arrival. With a sigh, she pulled off her shawl and bonnet and slipped out of her shoes, wiggling her toes in the thick rug before undoing her gown and pulling it over her head. She draped it over a chair beside the bed and removed petticoat, stays, shift and stockings, folding her clothing and piling it neatly on the seat.
She stood for a moment, naked at his bedside. She felt both free and rather ridiculous, standing about in her skin and making no move to dress. As an afterthought, she picked up the man’s dressing gown spread at the end of the bed and slipped into it, knotting the sash loosely at her waist. She was more than covered now, lost in yards of silk. The sleeves fell to cover her hands and the hem trailed inches past her feet, pooling on floor around her.
It smelled of him. Because she could stop herself, she inhaled deeply and felt her knees go watery again. She wrapped her arms around her body to steady herself, but this only served to press the fabric of the gown against her bare skin and remind her of his arms the previous night. She sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly dizzy. If he did not come soon, she would lose her nerve, dress and leave.
But it was already too late to escape. There was a commotion somewhere in the house. Slamming, shouting, and stomping about on the lower floor. Was he always like this when at home? It certainly seemed in keeping with the sort of man who would go to such lengths to trick a humble shopkeeper out of her innocence.
She heard him shouting to a servant, as he approached his rooms. ‘I d-d-d-do not need your help. You cannot g-g-get me anything I need, unless you can haul a certain woman to j-j-justice by her p-p-pretty guh-g-gold hair. I will call for Smith tomorrow and p-p-p-p...’ The stutter ended in a clear exclamation of ‘Bloody hell!’ and a deep breath. ‘God’s teeth. I will bring the law down upon her. I...’
He stood in the doorway between the dressing room and the bedroom, tearing at his own cravat as a worried valet danced at his side, trying to catch the abused linen.
‘You are here,’ he said, frozen to the spot. The shouting was gone, replaced by quiet and confusion.
‘As I promised, last night,’ she said.
‘I went to the shop,’ he said.
That explained his anger. He thought she had gone back on their bargain. He was staring at her now, puzzlement clear in his eyes. But he did not speak, probably because asking how she had found his residence would result in another bout of stuttering.
She spared him. ‘I knew your direction from before. When I realised who you were, I enquired after it.’ She had made it a point to learn everything she could about the Marquess of Fanworth. Such curiosity was unladylike and all too embarrassing.
‘Oh.’ He was staring at her, obviously mollified, but still struggling with her sudden appearance in his rooms.
To remind him of the reason for it, she glanced in the direction of the valet and down at the dressing gown she wore.
He glanced at the valet as well and uttered a single word, ‘Out.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The servant evaporated with nothing more than a soft click of the sitting-room door.
Fanworth continued to stare at her, then said, ‘Have you taken supper?’
‘I am not hungry,’ she said, sure that so much as a bite would make her ill. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she stood, untied the sash and dropped the gown to the floor.
He continued to stare. At first, there was no change in his expression at all. Then, very deliberately, he looked into her eyes and gave a final tug on his cravat, letting it flutter to the floor. There was another pause, lasting several seconds, before he began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat.
Was it her imagination, or did his fingers tremble, just a little? Perhaps a more experienced woman would have helped him with his garments. It would have at least hurried the process of disrobing. He seemed to be taking unnecessary time with it.
The part of her that wanted this over as soon as possible warred with the part of her that wanted to grab her own clothes, turn and run before things progressed any further.
But if she was honest, there was a small portion of her soul loyal to neither of those sides. This one was fascinated by the deliberate pace he took and the patch of skin that had appeared at his neck, as he’d removed the neckcloth. As her eyes followed his hands down the line of undone buttons, she got occasional glimpses of bare chest through the gap in his shirt front.
He