Wicked Nights With a Lover (21 page)

They stared at each other, father and daughter, unspeaking for a long moment. Then he blinked, breaking the standoff, and his voice returned, cold, flat, like he was discussing business and not partaking in a conversation with his once unacknowledged child. “I’m sorry this has happened to you.” He glanced around them, his expression one of distaste. “Ash can be ruthless. I knew I offended him and should have realized he would resort to something like this. But fear not, nothing has happened that cannot be undone.”

“Indeed?” She shook her head, prepared to tell him that nothing required
undoing.

He continued, “I realize you might think it a little late for me to play at the protective father.”

“A little?”

He stopped and leveled her a cross look. As if she were a wayward child and he the beleaguered parent. “Whatever the case, I am your father, your sole living parent—”

“I’m not a child to be commanded!” She followed this with a single stomp of her foot. The action clearly did little to support her claim.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “You will be coming with me, Marguerite—”

She shook her head, incredulous that he should think to order her anywhere. “No!”

“I have powerful friends and wealth to see that this travesty of a marriage is set aside—”

“No!” she shouted again, beyond outraged now. “I’m not asking you to—”

“You can’t mean to stay wedded to Courtland, Marguerite. Are you that daft?” He stared at her, his brown eyes cruelly bright. “Don’t tell me he’s woven his spell over you. Don’t you know how many skirts he’s rooted beneath?”

“Surely no more than the great Jack Hadley.”

He pressed his mouth into a grim line. “True. He and I are very alike, and that is not to his recommendation. His favorite pastime is diddling the girls in his employ.”

She gazed at her father, speechless, his words sinking like heavy rocks. She pressed a hand to her suddenly queasy stomach. Was it true? Did Ash occupy himself with other women? Did he do that even now?

Her father shook his head. “You’ve no idea what type of man he is. For all his money, he’s ruthless, only one step above the gutter, he’s—”

“You!” she spat, her voice stinging with defiance.

His face burned red, even purple in some spots. His hands knotted into fists at his sides and she knew she’d hit a nerve. “Indeed I have said as much. If you can move past your hatred of me, you’ll see the sense in gathering your things and leaving with me at once before you make a fool of yourself over the blackguard. He’s broken countless hearts. I’d have that he not add my daughter to his list of conquered skirts. You will come with me, Marguerite.”

She began to shake her head, but his next words cut her off.

“I’ve two men in the carriage. I can call for them if need be.”

“You would drag me by force? Your own daughter?”

He shrugged, his face as hard as granite. “I’ll do what I must.”

And suddenly she was reminded that her father was every inch the villain who grew his wealth by crushing all in his path. He did not rise to the designation of “King of St. Giles” through his compassionate endeavors.

She nodded, her throat thick, clogged with emotion. “Very well. I’ll go.” She would leave with him rather than create a scene and risk Mrs. Harkens’s safety, or that of one of the other servants who had treated her so kindly and welcomed her with such warmth. She’d not have them harmed by two of her father’s henchmen.

“Smart girl,” he drawled, reaching for her arm. She steered herself clear of him and swept from the room, head held high even as she was quivering with rage.

“Shall we have someone fetch your things?” he asked behind her.

“Unnecessary. I’ll return soon.” Bold words. Even as she uttered them, she wondered if they were true.

Would Ash confront her father and demand her return? Or had he proved his point, winning his majority share of the business and punishing the great Jack Hadley by stealing one of his daughters out from under him and then having his way with her?

Her quivering suddenly had little to do with rage. Other emotions pressed down on her, making her throat burn and eyes sting. Did Ash care what happened to her at all? She would soon find out.

Ash returned home well after nightfall. The townhouse was silent, the footman in the foyer dozing in his chair as Ash ascended the stairs. Cowardly of him, he knew, to stay away so long in order to avoid his bride as if she were some shrew who had been thrust upon him, and not the other way around.

True, he did have business awaiting him after his absence, but nothing so pressing he could not have attended more care to his wife. He could have worked at home, but that would have been close to Marguerite, and he needed distance from her … and the dangerous feelings she stirred.

Seeing her in the arms of her
protector
had sent a blind rage knifing through him. In that moment, he’d felt like his father, full of fury and violence whenever Ash’s mother returned home with coin in her reticule from the men she’d serviced. Of course, it failed to matter that his father was the one who sent her whoring for their dinner in the first place. The fury was there just the same.

The memory of that man’s hands on Marguerite twisted his gut into knots even now. It made Ash recall why he’d never wanted to marry. He did not want the same bitterness that had poisoned his father to contaminate him, and the best way to guarantee that was to return to his original plan of a short-lived marriage of convenience. A wife in name only. Not a wife he craved as desperately as oxygen.

His tread fell whisper-soft, and he shook off the feeling that he’d done something wrong that would make him move about with such stealth. Many husbands and wives lived separate lives, hardly intersecting. What he had with Marguerite was more than that. Better. He’d secured her in
his
bedchamber the moment they returned home, after all. More than what many
ton
gentlemen would do. Of course, his motives were selfish. Ash wasn’t about to deny himself access to Marguerite.

The bedchamber was dark when he entered, the fire low, dying embers barely glowing. Frowning, he quickly stoked the logs, shooting sparks into the air. Turning, his gaze fell on the curtained bed. He moved toward the great monstrosity. Marguerite had to use the steps to climb within.

Pulse pounding against his neck, he pulled back the curtain, easing one knee down as he reached for his wife’s body, eager for her yielding heat. His arm stretched, finding nothing.

Scowling, he scanned the shadows of the bed for her lithesome shape.

Rising, he stalked across the room and yanked open the door to her dressing room. Finding no sight of her within, he swept back through the bedchamber. Flinging open the door, he called for Mrs. Harkens, heedless that he sounded like a bellowing tyrant or that he likely woke his entire staff.

His temper seethed at a dangerous simmer. Had Marguerite requested a room change? Tired of his absence, did she think to avoid him? He’d quickly remedy her of that notion.

He was frothing by the time Mrs. Harkens appeared, her brow knitted in concern as she belted her dressing gown. “Mr. Courtland?”

“My wife,” he gritted. “Where is she?”

The housekeeper blinked. “Did she not send you word? Oh, dear. I thought she would—” “My wife,” he barked.

“She’s gone.”

Gone.
He felt as though he just took a punch to his chest with those words. “Where?”

“Her father fetched her.” Mrs. Harkens twisted one shoulder in an awkward shrug. “Thought it a bit odd, but Mrs. Courtland told me not to worry. Though I must say she didn’t look too happy to see him.”

Bloody hell.
Apparently, Jack had gotten wind that he and Marguerite were back in Town—and
married.
No surprise that he hadn’t been pleased with the news. With Jack’s connections, Ash should have expected something like this. It was his own damn fault he’d left her alone.

Without a word, he stormed past his gaping housekeeper and out of the house, intent on reclaiming his wife, and doing a better job of keeping her.

Chapter 20

M
arguerite paced the bedchamber she had been given for the night. A servant had arrived earlier to invite her downstairs to dinner. She had refused, too angry to sit across from her father and abide the sight of him. How had her mother ever loved such an arrogant wretch?

Wearing a night rail she presumed belonged to one of her sisters, she resigned herself to the fact that she would have to stay the night. At least one night. Whether Ash came for her or not, she refused to stay a second night in her father’s house. Simply begetting her did not make him her father—did not give him any rights as a parent. A knock at the door brought her pacing to a halt.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“Grier and Cleo,” a voice called.

A feeling of both elation and dread stole over her. The last visit with her half sisters had been awkward, mostly because she had wanted the encounter to be … well, something.
Everything.

Foolish, she knew. How can a lifetime bond be formed in a first meeting? It was too much to expect. Also, she had rushed from the room with such haste they probably thought she wanted nothing to do with them.

“Come in,” she called.

They tumbled into the room, reminding her of a pair of anxious little girls tripping over each other in their haste to reach a table laden with cakes and biscuits.

“The prodigal daughter has returned,” Grier exclaimed, stepping forward, larger than life with her hands on her hips. She no doubt stood out in any group. She possessed that sort of presence. She was hard to miss, even without her unfashionably sun-browned freckled skin and deep auburn hair.

“Don’t you mean the prodigal son?” Cleo asked.

Grier rolled her eyes. “Have some imagination.”

“You’ve more than enough for all of us,” Cleo returned.

Marguerite glanced back and forth. They seemed even better acquainted than before. A situation that only made her feel more distant from them.

As if she read her mind, Cleo stepped forward and hugged Marguerite. “We’re so glad you’ve returned. Forgive us for intruding on your privacy. Jack said you were not feeling quite the thing, but we could not resist checking on you. Our last visit was dreadfully brief. Oh, but I confess I’m thrilled you did not go to Spain. But then what a shame,” she clucked. “We could have spent Christmas together.”

Grier dropped inelegantly upon the bed as if she planned to remain for a good while. “I hope you plan to stay longer this time.” Grier plucked at an invisible thread on the counterpane. “Jack would no doubt appreciate a daughter more accommodating to his matchmaking efforts. We haven’t been the most successful.”

“Grier,” Cleo admonished. “Give it time. He’s paraded a score of gentlemen before us.”

“Then I suppose he should parade a score more, because thus far, this entire endeavor has been quite the disappointment. Why not toss a real man our way and cease with all these sniveling dandies?”

“I’m certain we shall meet acceptable gentlemen in due time,” Cleo assured her. “Jack is determined, if nothing else.”

Marguerite glanced around the elegant bedchamber that served as her prison. Indeed, they possessed no notion how determined their father could be.

Grier pulled a face. “Yes, well, we aren’t all as young as you. And this city air is making me itch.” She rubbed her arm. “I can’t stay here forever.”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “I suppose we must yet again narrow your excessive criteria. Shall you now require a gentleman in possession of a country estate?”

“Not a bad idea, that,” Grier muttered, still chafing her arm, either missing or ignoring Cleo’s derision. “Wouldn’t hurt you to raise your standards a bit, too. Don’t you want more than to simply escape that overcrowded nest you call home? As unpleasant as it is to share your bed with two little sisters, don’t forget you’ll be sharing your bed with some man … best take care he’s someone you can tolerate for the next fifty years.”

Marguerite watched the pair, listening raptly, fascinated with the notion that they had turned their lives over so readily to Jack Hadley. And yet it made sense. From their remarks, she gathered that their lives fell short on opportunities.

Cleo caught her looking and lifted one slim shoulder in a fatalistic shrug.

A loud commotion from somewhere within the house drew their attention. Marguerite cocked her head to the side, straining to listen to the distant voices.

“What’s that?” Grier asked, moving to the door. Feet pounded up the stairs like stampeding horses.

“Holy hellfire!” Grier sputtered, peering out into the corridor.

Almost in answer to this, a masculine voice shouted, “Marguerite! Marguerite, where are you?”

Her heart tripped at the familiar voice.

“Ash,” she murmured, her chest seizing.

Grier swung her incredulous gaze to Marguerite. “You know him?” she demanded. “Who’s Ash?”

“My husband,” Marguerite volunteered, the words easier to say than she had ever imagined. Especially now that she knew he had not forgotten her.

“Your husband?” Cleo shook her head. “Since when?”

“Since he abducted me on my last visit here.” She refrained from adding that it could have been any one of them he snatched that evening.

Cleo gasped, eyes rounding in horror.

“The wretch! Shall I dispatch him for you?” Grier’s hands curled into fists at her sides as if she would pummel the offending man herself. And somehow, Marguerite didn’t doubt she would. There was something very
capable
about the woman.

“Fetch the Guard!” Cleo exclaimed, looking prepared to bolt from the room to do that very thing.

Jack’s voice rang out then, loud and intractable, booming at the end of the corridor as he commanded his men to remove Ash from the house.

“Marguerite!” Ash bellowed yet again, and this time there was a desperate quality to his voice.

Marguerite squeezed past Grier in the doorway, her breath falling fast and hard, anxious to reach her husband. He had come.
Ash had come for her.