Lord of Darkness (19 page)

What if her family had been in financial straits—secret financial straits—and she’d never even known enough to
ask
?

“Does he still have that business in St. Giles?” she asked Godric in a very small voice.

“No.” He shook his head at once. “He closed it—actually it burned just before he married Lady Hero.”

She nodded, feeling deflated. “I’m glad. But if he needed money, how does he make it now?”

“I don’t know,” Godric said gently. “We haven’t been exactly on speaking terms the last couple of years. However, I’m sure Lady Hero’s dowry was more than adequate to see to their needs.”

A sudden, horrible thought crossed Megs’s mind. “And my dowry? Was it adequate?”

“Your brother didn’t offer one.”

Her eyes widened. “But—”

“It’s all right.” He held out his hands, forestalling her protest. “I have more than enough money. I never needed your dowry, Megs.”

Well, she supposed she should be glad of that at least. Megs poked at the apple tree rather irritably before heaving a sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t know of this before. You must’ve been terribly angry when my brother made his demand.”

She peeked at him from under her eyelashes.

He shrugged, his face gentle. “I’ve already told you: I was angry at him, yes, but never at you. It wasn’t such a hardship to marry you, after all.”

Faint praise
was better than none, she supposed. Or at least she told herself that as she pressed a fingernail into the bark of the tree. “I still don’t understand. Why did he never tell me what straits we were in?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I expect he was protecting you.”

Megs had rather dark thoughts about gentlemen who believed it best to
protect
ladies by leaving them in ignorance. At least Godric had told her the truth about her brother and his still.

She sighed and pushed away from the tree. “I suppose I ought to go now and inquire of Daniels if my new gowns will be ready in time for the theater.”

But as she made to walk past him, he forestalled her by the simple expedient of grasping her hand.

His fingers were cool as they wrapped around hers, and she froze, looking at him before he dropped her hand again as if her warmth had burned him.

He licked his lips, and if she didn’t know better, she’d say that Godric was nervous. “I actually came out here to tell you something.”

She tilted her head in inquiry. “Yes?”

“I’ve decided”—he focused those clear gray eyes on her face—“I’d like to consummate our marriage tonight.”

S
HE’D GOTTEN WHAT
she’d wanted: Godric’s agreement to come to her bed. Why, then, was she so nervous at the prospect?

A wave of laughter rose from the theater audience, and Megs focused on the stage where a pretty actress dressed as a young man was strutting about. The actress turned and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder as she made some
quip, and the audience roared again. Next to Megs, Hero was giggling and even Griffin wore a grin, but Godric wasn’t even smiling.

Perhaps he was as nervous as she about tonight.

The four of them sat in an elegant box over the stage at Harte’s Folly. Swaths of red velvet lined the interior of the box and gilt trimmed the rail. A small table of wine, tiny cakes, fruit, nuts, and cheeses sat to the side, and Megs couldn’t help reflecting how expensive the theater box must be to rent. If Griffin had been in financial straits three years ago, he didn’t appear to be so now.

But then he hadn’t seemed to lack for funds before marrying Hero either.

Megs blew out a restless breath, wishing she could have fifteen minutes alone with her brother. Wishing she could forget that when she and Godric returned home tonight, he intended to bed her.

She glanced down and then sideways at him. He wore a coffee-colored suit tonight, the cuffs and pockets worked in dull gold thread. Underneath, a silvery blue waistcoat hugged his torso, emphasizing the flatness of his belly. She’d seen him—briefly—without a shirt and had been stunned by the image. What would he look like entirely nude?

He seemed to sense her regard. His chin moved infinitesimally and his eyes flicked to her face. She caught her breath. His eyelids were half lowered, nearly but not quite hiding the gleam of those intense clear gray eyes. He looked at her as if he were deciding how, exactly, to eat her. Without thought, her lips parted and his gaze dropped, his eyes brooding as his nostrils flared slightly. Then he raised them slowly again, staring into her eyes, and Megs forgot entirely how to breathe.

The audience
broke into applause and Megs jerked at the sudden, thundering sound.

Griffin grunted. “Shall I fetch some ices before the second half begins?”

Hero smiled up at her husband. “Yes, please.”

Griffin nodded before glancing at Godric, his expression wary. “Join me?”

Godric raised his brows but rose willingly.

Beside her, Hero stirred and held out her hand. “I see my brother across the way. Will you accompany me to greet him?”

“Yes, of course.” Megs rose, staring worriedly at the retreating backs of her husband and brother.

“Don’t fret.” Hero drew her hand through her arm as they began strolling companionably toward the opposite side of the theater. The corridor behind the boxes was crowded as everyone took the opportunity during the interval to find acquaintances or to simply parade to show to best advantage their costumes. “Griffin and Godric will come to terms.”

“I wish I were as certain as you.”

Hero squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Griffin loves both you and me, and Godric is very fond of you, I know. They both have incentive to make up this little quarrel.”

Megs slanted a glance at her sister-in-law, strolling serenely in a mist-green frock trimmed in blond lace. “Godric is fond of me? However can you tell?”

Hero looked at her, amused. “By the way he cares for you, silly. He made very sure you had the best seat when you arrived—next to me so we might gossip. He filled a plate for you with cakes and grapes—no walnuts, as he knows you aren’t particularly fond of them—and the very fact he’s come to
the opera tonight … well. I half expected him to decline, I must tell you. He’s been a veritable hermit these last couple of years. Hardly anyone has seen him about in society. No, everything he’s done tonight, small matters as they are, has been for
you
, sister.”

Megs blinked. Was it true? Did Godric have feelings, however small, for her? He had, after all, conceded to her wish to try to make a child. The mere reminder made her body flush with heat, but she felt a pang of disquiet as well. When she’d been back at Laurelwood, dreaming up this plan to come to London and seduce her husband, he had been a mere cardboard figure. She’d known him only from his infrequent, curt letters. Bedding a cardboard man had seemed straightforward enough.

Bedding
Godric
was an entirely different matter.

He was real, flesh and blood, a man with powerful feelings—though he did his best to hide them from the world. Only now, at this terribly late date, did it occur to her that her emotions might be endangered if she lay with Godric.

Megs bit her lip. Emotional entanglement was not something that she’d accounted for. Roger was the love of her life, his loss a pain she felt every day. She had no other way to make a child for herself but to lie with Godric, but to
feel
for him as well—that seemed like a betrayal of her love for Roger.

A betrayal of Roger himself.

Hero suddenly squeezed her hand. “There she is.”

Megs blinked. “Who?”

“Hippolyta Royle,” Hero murmured. “The lady there in that delicious shade of dark coffee brown and pink.” Megs followed the discreet incline of Hero’s head. A tall lady
stood by herself, watching the crowd with hooded eyes. She couldn’t be called beautiful, but with her tawny complexion, dark hair, and regal bearing, she was certainly striking.

“Who is she?” Megs wondered aloud.

Hero huffed softly beside her. “You’d know if you hadn’t been hiding yourself away in the wilds of the countryside for two years. Miss Royle is a rather mysterious heiress. She appeared in London out of the blue a couple of months ago. Some say she was raised in Italy or even the East Indies. I’ve thought that she must be a very interesting person, but we’ve not been introduced yet.”

They watched as Miss Royle turned and began strolling away.

“And it looks like I won’t have the opportunity tonight either,” Hero said ruefully. “I see no one to make the proper introductions. But here’s Maximus’s box. Shall we?”

Megs nodded as Hero led the way into the splendid box. It was directly opposite Griffin’s rented box and so was over the other side of the stage from where they sat.

Inside, the box was as luxurious as Griffin’s—perhaps more so. Two ladies sat by themselves, and the elder of the two held out her hand at their entrance.

“Hero, how lovely to see you, my dear.” Miss Bathilda Picklewood had raised both Hero and her younger sister, Phoebe, after their parents’ death. A plump lady who wore her soft gray hair in ringlets across her forehead, she held a small, elderly King Charles spaniel on her lap.

Hero stepped gracefully forward and kissed Miss Picklewood on the cheek. “How are you, Cousin Bathilda?”

“Quite well,” Miss Picklewood said, “but I do declare it has been an age since you brought William ’round.”

As if to
emphasize her words, the spaniel gave one sharp bark.

Hero smiled. “I shall correct my error as soon as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact.”

“Splendid!”

“Who is that with you, Hero?” the second lady asked, and Megs felt a pang, for it was Lady Phoebe Batten.

Megs stepped closer, hoping the dim candlelight in the box would help. “It’s me, Phoebe. Megs.”

“Of course,” Phoebe said in a confused flurry. Her eyes were focused on Megs’s face now, but Megs had the sinking feeling that the other woman still couldn’t see her properly. “Are you enjoying the play?”

“Oh, yes,” Megs said, though she’d hardly paid attention. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to one, so this is quite a treat.”

“Robin Goodfellow is so clever,” Miss Picklewood said, and Megs scrambled a bit before she remembered that was the name of the actress in man’s clothing. “I believe I’ve enjoyed every play she’s been in.”

“Harte was very smart to lure Miss Goodfellow away from the Royal,” a deep voice said behind them.

Both Megs and Hero turned to see Maximus Batten, the Duke of Wakefield, standing in the entrance to the box, two ices in his hands.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Had I known you’d join us, Hero, I would’ve gotten more ices.”

“Griffin and Mr. St. John have gone to get them for us,” Hero said. “You remember Lady Margaret?”

“Naturally.” The duke executed a very elegant bow, considering he was holding an ice in each hand.

“Your Grace.” Megs curtsied. She’d been acquainted with the
Duke of Wakefield for years—he was a political ally of her brother Thomas—but she didn’t know him well. He’d always struck her as a rather daunting gentleman.

“You know Harte of Harte’s Folly?” Hero asked her brother curiously. She took one of the ices and placed it in Phoebe’s hands.

“Not personally, no,” His Grace replied as he offered the remaining ice to Miss Picklewood. “Actually, I’m not even sure that ‘Harte’ is but one man—the backers of the pleasure garden could be a syndicate of businessmen—but in any case it’s well known that Miss Goodfellow was lured away from her previous theater, probably for an outrageous sum of money. It was a smart business move by whoever runs Harte’s Folly, though. The pleasure garden needed a renowned actress.”

“And Miss Goodfellow is the most renowned breeches-role actress in London,” Viscount d’Arque drawled as he strolled into the box. “Your Grace.” He swept a graceful bow. “Ladies.”

“D’Arque.” The duke eyed him noncommittally.

The viscount’s gaze swept over the ladies appreciatively before landing on Megs. He stepped forward and in a swift move had her fingers in his. “Lady Margaret, you’re looking enchanting this evening.”

Megs’s eyes widened as he bent over her fingers.

Directly behind the viscount was Griffin … and Godric.

“T
HE INTERVAL MUST
be nearly over,” Artemis Greaves murmured. “Perhaps we should return to the box?”

“Oh, pish.” Lady Penelope tossed her head, making the jeweled pins
in her dark locks sparkle. “Don’t fret so. I haven’t yet greeted the Duke of Wakefield.”

Artemis sighed silently, shifting Bon Bon in her arms as they strolled the corridor behind the theater boxes. The fluffy white dog gave a groan before falling back to sleep. Artemis wished—not for the first time—that Penelope had even a pinch of sense. The little dog, while quite sweet and docile, was getting too old to be dragged everywhere. She’d yipped when Artemis had lifted her from the carriage, and Artemis suspected rheumatism in the dog’s back legs.

“I don’t see why everyone thinks her so fascinating,” Penelope muttered now, drawing Artemis’s attention.

“Who?”

“
Her
.” Penelope waved an irritated hand to a tall lady disappearing into a box. “That Hippolyta Royle. Silliest name I’ve ever heard. She’s as dark as a savage from Africa, nearly as tall as a man, and not even
titled
.”

“She’s also rumored to be fabulously wealthy,” Artemis murmured before she could think.

Penelope turned to look at her, eyes narrowed.

Oh, dear.

“
I
am the wealthiest heiress in England,” Penelope hissed. “Everyone knows this.”

“Of course,” Artemis murmured placatingly, stroking the sleeping Bon Bon.

Penelope huffed one more exasperated breath and then her tone smoothed as she said, “Oh, here we are.”

And Artemis looked up to see they were at the door to the duke’s box.

Penelope swept in—or at least attempted to. The box, as it turned out, was rather crowded. Artemis squeezed in behind
her cousin and glanced around. Lady Hero was here with Lady Margaret as well as Lady Phoebe, Miss Picklewood, the duke himself, Lord Griffin, and Mr. St. John, who appeared to be in a staring contest with Viscount d’Arque.