The Virgin at Goodrich Hall (6 page)

He could not name another time when a woman had enticed him as she did. Her hands, even unskilled as they were, had brought him more fire than he would have thought possible. He needed her, and would have her.

Bringing the Scotch to his lips, he took a sip, scanning the room, searching for the woman who had worked her way into his very soul.

* * * *

Claire linked her arm with Margaret’s as they moved up the stairs into the large foyer to await the evening’s performance. Lord Belfort walked with them, and her parents were ahead.

“I am so glad you are here,” Margaret muttered to Claire as they reached the foyer.

Lord Belfort handed each of them a glass of champagne from a passing waiter before he ordered a Scotch for himself.

“So am I, though for many reasons,” Claire said and took a sip from her flute. “Do you know this will be my first opera?”

Her husband growled something under his breath about Claire’s father, causing Claire to reach out and pat his arm in a soothing manner.

“I had forgotten that,” Margaret said with a sigh. “I shall look forward to experiencing it with you.”

Claire raised an eyebrow before they both let out long breaths that turned into laughter. How grand it was to be around a true friend.

“Will you ladies excuse me?” Lord Belfort asked before he moved away.

“Of course,” Claire said while removing a handkerchief from her purse to wipe away her tears of delight.

“I must say, Claire, I envy you. The love of a good man is something I crave over all else.”

Claire sighed and whispered, “You left while he slept. How do you know love was not on his mind?”

“It was not. Love is not on a man’s mind when he goes to a place like that. Pleasure is, just as it was my only intention as well.”

Despair filled her, as did the knowledge that love was possible. She felt it, knew it. Disappointment cut deep. The truth of the matter was, her love would never be returned.

* * * *

It was Belfort who first gained his notice, then his eyes moved over the two women with him. The taller woman was no doubt Lady Belfort. He had heard talk amongst the
ton
of his friend’s new wife, though he was yet to meet her himself. It was the girl by her side who held his attention.

Her auburn hair was pinned up high, tendrils hanging around her face. She turned to speak with Lady Belfort and his breath caught. She was stunning! Her high cheekbones shimmered in the soft light as her lips moved into a smile. He knew those lips—they were lips he’d kissed but a day ago.

His view of her was obstructed by Belfort and he wished for the man to pass, but they did not. He focused on Belfort, only to note he was approaching Victor, his face as guarded as it always was.

Victor nodded to his friend. Belfort said nothing but came up and stood beside him, facing back towards the crowd. Victor moved his eyes back to the woman he was sure was his Maggie.

“You went to Goodrich last night.”

Victor stiffened slightly. Belfort did not phrase it as a question, simply as a comment. “Did I?” he asked, slanting a look at Belfort.

Belfort took a sip of his drink and eyed him for a moment. “Last eve my wife received a letter from a dear friend, announcing she had learned what occurred at Goodrich Hall and had decided to attend. Claire fretted for her safety and demanded we come to London to check on her.”

There was knowledge in Belfort’s eyes adding to what he said, and what he didn’t voice. Belfort knew in depth what happened at Goodrich Hall. He was not one to attend although Anna had tried to convince him. “And is her friend well?”

Belfort shrugged slightly. “That would depend on your point of view.”

“How so?” Victor asked, unsurprised at how demanding his words sounded as they left his lips.

Belfort raised an eyebrow but did not face him. Victor knew at whom his friend’s vision was directed, and it took all of his self-control not to follow it.

“Why are you here, Duke?” Belfort asked, using his title in a malicious tone. “You hate the theatre.”

“I do,” he confirmed, and allowed his gaze to seek out whom he desired. The women were laughing now. Maggie snatched a hankie out of her friend’s hand and dried her eyes as she chuckled. But he still felt a sadness from her.

“Is there a woman you seek tonight, Duke?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like an introduction?”

Victor snapped his gaze to the man who so many feared, but whom he had always got along with. Still, he sensed danger from Belfort at that moment.

“What do you know of last night?”

Belfort shrugged. “Only what my wife has told me, and I think she left out a great deal,” he muttered. “Your only saving grace is that you didn’t bed her.”

“Did you not bed your wife before your marriage?” Victor snapped, irritated.

Belfort turned to him. His expression held restraint, but his jaw was clenched and there was a look in his eyes that could send several men running. “Yes, but I declared my intention. You have not.”

“And therefore I have not bedded her,” he snapped back.

Belfort arched an eyebrow, then took a deep breath. “Are you planning to claim her as your wife? If not, leave and we will not speak of this again. She may know your face, but she does not know your name. I will ensure that stays the case until she marries.”

Victor sighed. Belfort was protecting Maggie. How could he be angry with the man for doing what he wished he himself could? Belfort was the husband of her friend, whereas Victor and Maggie had never been formally introduced.

“No, I do not want an introduction.”

Belfort’s features hardened once more.

“But I would like a favour.”  

Chapter Six

The clatter of hooves stopped as his carriage came to rest outside the Park Street house. It was a grand home, he had noted while his carriage had been parked down the street, the driver waiting for the opportune moment to descend upon it. The time had now come. Maggie had gone shopping with Lady Belfort, as he’d expected.

A footman opened the door to the carriage. Victor nodded and descended the step, removing his hat as he stopped at the door to the residence. The knock of his cane was quickly met by a butler.

“Duke of Rothbury to see Lord Carrieton,” Victor said, handing over his card.

The startled expression of the butler came and went in a fleeting moment as he stepped aside, allowing Victor to enter.

Victor was led into the library, a quaint and homey little room. He stood by the fireplace, his hand resting on the polished marble as he waited, his mind a muddle of thoughts and worries. She did not know his identity—Belfort had assured him of it. While he would not normally concern himself with his own worries of a woman disapproving of him owing to his rank, it concerned him now. Maggie was no ordinary woman. Would she resent him because of his wealth and stature? She had hinted at her desire to be normal, able to seek love. He could not offer her normality.

The doors opened and he looked up to see a startled lord pause at the door before hurrying forward in greeting. It seemed Victor would need to do little to win over her father. What man would not want a duke for a son-in-law? The question that concerned him was, would Lady Margaret want a duke for a husband?

* * * *

As Margaret’s shoes touched the stone that lined the walk outside the impressive home, surprise washed over her.

“Do you have the correct location? This is not Belfort House.”

“No, it is not Belfort House, my Lady, but the location Lord Belfort asked that you be delivered to,” the young footman said, with a bow.

“Oh? Well, thank you.”

She moved forward as the door to what looked to be an even grander home opened. She was not even sure where she was, but it certainly was not her friend’s new home. No moon shone tonight, and even with the lanterns lit in the street she could not recognise where she stood. The fog rolled thick this eve.

The butler bowed as she approached. He closed the door behind her and took her coat, then handed it to a footman, who also bowed before he departed.

“Good evening, Lady Margaret. I hope your journey to us was a pleasant one,” the older man said. “My name is O’Brian and I am the butler here.”

“Where exactly is ‘here’, O’Brian?” she asked suspiciously, and the man pursed his lips slightly.

“Forgive me, my Lady, but if you would follow me all can be revealed.”

Margaret took a deep breath. She was not in the mood for games. She was tired and wanted nothing better than to curl up in bed and cry her lonely tears. She was in no mood to dine with others. Margaret had only accepted Claire’s invitation because she missed her friend and had been assured it would be a quiet evening at Belfort House. This was certainly
not
Belfort House. While the house was grand, the foyer that she now moved through was more opulent than any other residence she had visited during her life.

O’Brian led her through a large archway into the most startling library she had ever seen. Books lined the walls on several levels, and paintings and sculptures had been lovingly displayed around the room. It was superb.

As the soft click behind her sounded, she turned sharply to look at the now closed doors she had walked through moments ago. Gooseflesh suddenly rose on her neck, prickles sending shivers down her spine.

Slowly, she turned to face the centre of the library again. A shadow of a man she had not noticed before stood at the end of the long room. It was not Lord Belfort. She could tell by the build of the man. While large, he did not carry the height and build the way her friend’s husband did. She focused on the figure, where he stood cloaked in the darkness.

Only as he stepped forward into the light did the breath in her lungs escape her. It could not be, yet it was. The man she had run from 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 not diminish. “You cannot know how pleased I am to hear you speak those words,” he said, and removed one of his hands from around hers to pull a small box from his waistcoat.

“This was my grandmother’s. She gave it to me when I turned fifteen, two weeks before she died,” Victor said, placing the box in her hands. “I want you to wear it, always.”