After she had left the dinner table last night, he’d taken a half dozen brandies, then stumbled upstairs to her room, the memory of her near-naked body in the lake fueling his ardor.
Then regret had conquered lust. He had no right to inflict himself on her. The church and the law might decree that he could do whatever he wanted to her, but a higher power existed. That of common decency. Of kindness. And more than anything, he wanted to treat her kindly.
But first, he needed to ensure she learned how to be a lady, which included punctuality in the breakfast room.
He pushed back his chair, left the room, and waved down a passing footman.
“Would you ask Mrs. Wells to rouse my wife?”
“The mistress is already up, sir,” the footman said.
“Has she breakfasted?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Then, where the bloody hell is she!”
The footman flinched. “You’ll find her in the morning room, sir.”
The morning room was situated on the opposite end of the house. As Dexter approached it, he heard female voices, followed by laughter.
He pushed open the door and entered.
A ladder stretched from floor to ceiling beside the windows. At its foot stood a young woman in a maid’s uniform. But his eye was drawn to the woman standing halfway up the ladder.
His wife clung to the ladder with one hand while she polished the window with the other. At this angle, her delectable behind was in full view, which left little to the imagination.
He drew in a sharp breath as he hardened in his breeches.
The laughter stopped. The maid turned and caught sight of him.
“Mistress!” she cried. “The master’s here!”
The ladder wobbled. His wife dropped the cloth and clutched the ladder as she turned to face him.
“Sarah, go to the scullery,” she said, panic in her voice.
“But, mistress, you need help to…”
“Now!” she cried. “Must I repeat myself?”
The maid bobbed a curtsey then fled, her pace increasing as she passed Dexter in the doorway.
He approached the ladder and held out his hand.
“Let me help you down.”
“I can manage,” she replied, “or do you think me incapable in this, as in everything else?”
He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t offer my hand out of a belief of your weakness, Margaret,” he said. “I offer it for my sake, for I’ve no wish to see you fall. Indulge me if you will.”
She took his hand. A crackle of need rushed through him, and he squeezed her fingers. Her breath hitched, then she tightened her grip and climbed down.
“Why did you dismiss the maid so abruptly?” he asked. She colored and looked away, withdrawing her hand. “It’s time she took a break,” she said. “We’ve been working since breakfast.”
She bit her lip—the same gesture she’d made when she lied about the bruise on her wrist on their wedding day.
“Margaret,” he said softly. “Did we not promise to be truthful to each other?”
“Very well,” she said. “I sent her away because I didn’t want her to be punished.”
“Why would I punish her?”
She gestured around the room. “There’s so much work to do,” she said. “It’ll only get done if I help.”
“And you think that would make me angry?”
She tipped her chin and gave him that familiar look of defiance. “I’m not afraid of hard work,” she said. “I’ve worked all my life and don’t see why I have to languish in a chair while others clean the house. If that breaks your rules, then so be it. But punish me. Not the servants. I can weather it.”
A stray curl had come loose over her forehead. He lifted his hand to catch it, and she flinched.
Good lord—she really did think him a monster!
“I’d never lay a finger on you,” he said quietly. He brushed aside the curl, then traced the outline of her face with his fingertip until he reached her lips. He brushed his thumb against her mouth. She closed her eyes and sighed, and he felt her warm breath against his hand.
What had she said?
I can weather it.
Had she been beaten before? By Alderley? Dexter understood a victim’s shame all too well. He’d suffered it as a child and had vowed never to feel it again. Was it shame that had prevented her from telling the truth about the bruise on her wrist?
“Open your eyes, Margaret,” he whispered.
She did so, and he was met with the full force of her gaze. Intelligence and insight sparked behind her eyes. He placed his hand on her cheek and caressed her skin.
“I would never hurt you,” he said. “I may be a little…strict…on matters of decorum, but I have your best interests at heart. And, mine, too, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps it would help if we found a little common ground which we’ve both walked on,” he said. “Despite our difference in rank, I believe we’ve had similar childhoods.”
He dipped his head to kiss her. Her eyes widened, and he withdrew.
“We could begin by your telling me what you’ve been doing with your days here,” he said.
“I’ve been trying to prepare the house.”
“I know,” he replied, Mrs. Wells’s admonishment ringing in his hears. “It pleases me to see how hard you’re working.”
“I’ve also helped Mrs. Brown in the kitchens,” she said. “She’s been making bread for my father’s visit.” She cast him a wary glance, as if concerned she’d committed another transgression.
“Would you show me how?” he asked.
Her eyes widened.
“I have some skills in bread-making.” he continued. “Shall we try it together this morning before I see the estate?”
She nodded. “Very well.”
“Then let us attend Mrs. Brown.”
Half an hour later, Dexter stood at the kitchen table with his wife, kneading a ball of dough. He had no idea what had possessed him to suggest it. A whim, perhaps, fueled by the memory of happier childhood times. Mrs. Brown had stared at him, open-mouthed when he asked her to fetch the flour, then she’d shaken her head, muttering about the eccentricities of the nouveaux riches, set out the ingredients and left them to it.
He folded the dough and kneaded with his hands, relishing the once-familiar sensation as it became more pliant, the more he worked it. His wife watched him, surprise in her expression. He buried his fingers in the dough, relishing the silken texture—as silken as her flesh. As he massaged it, he imagined his hands on those soft, round breasts which peeked out of the top of her dress—what it would be like to run his tongue across the top of that creamy white flesh and dip it into the valley between. He flicked his tongue out to wet his lips. She mirrored the gesture, and he wanted her.
Did she know what she was doing to him? Or was she unaware that she had the power to render him hard with a single glance? He inhaled deeply, then swallowed to cool his ardor. The image of her legs open, begging him to take her, was clouding his mind.
She wiped her brow and left a smear of flour across her forehead.
“Here,” he said. “Let me.” He lifted his hand to brush away the flour. Her eyes widened as their bodies touched, and his manhood strained against her stomach.