“Where gossip’s concerned, I’m more the subject than a participant,” he said. He took her hand. “Forgive the incivility of a bitter old soldier. For all that Dex is an arse, he has one defining characteristic.”
“Which is?”
“Loyalty,” he said. “Stay true to him, and he’ll remain by your side until he draws his last breath.”
He kissed her hand. “But, on no account must you tell my brother I’ve said that. He’d be unbearable if he knew.”
“Knew what?” a new voice said.
Dexter stood in the doorway.
***
As soon as Dexter spoke, his brother turned to face him. It had been a long time since he’d seen Devon unmasked. The scar on his face was more extensive than he’d remembered.
Guilt needled at him. In a world where appearance ranked above loyalty, he’d abandoned the care of his brother in the pursuit of his goal to ally himself and Delilah with the nobility.
But what had caused him to stop short in astonishment was the fact that his younger brother was smiling. The man who’d not smiled or laughed in years.
Devon lifted his mask and set it in place.
“There’s no need to do that, brother,” Dexter said.
Devon ignored him. “Good day, sister,” he said. “I’ll leave you in your husband’s care.”
“Don’t go on my account,” Dexter said.
“You can’t order me about,” Devon replied. “Not like you did with Daisy, or how you tried and failed with Lilah. There’s only Thea left, now. Will you ruin her life as well?”
“Dev…”
“Save your breath,” Devon said. “I’m not interested. But let me say this, you’ve driven all of us away. Don’t make the same mistake with your wife.”
He bowed to Meggie. “Ma’am.”
After Devon had left, Dexter took his wife’s hands. “I trust he did nothing to upset you.”
“No,” she said. “I like him. I should like to know him better, and…” she hesitated, “…the rest of your family.”
“You’ll see Dorothea when she returns from visiting Delilah in Scotland,” he said. “Lilah herself, I expect, at some point in the future.”
“And Daisy?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
As if to lessen the blow of his outburst, he gave her a lopsided grin. “Let us speak of better things. What the devil is that furball sitting in cook’s vegetable basket in the front hallway?”
“I saw Anne Pelham today.”
“And she furnished you with a little friend. Does he have a name?”
“Titan,” she said. “I thought it appropriate given his size.”
He let out a laugh, lifted her hand, and kissed it. The pug was the smallest dog he’d ever seen.
“An excellent name!” he said. “Come, let us help him to settle in before dinner.”
His brother might still hate him, but he’d spoken the truth. Dexter had let his family down, but he had been given the opportunity to atone by caring for his wife. And he was right on another matter. Dexter would be loyal to anyone who stayed true.
And he knew of nobody more honest than his wife.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Titan!”
The puppy turned its head to stare at Meggie, then resumed sniffing the bush. She tugged at the leash, and he whined in protest.
“Don’t give me those eyes,” she scolded. “They won’t melt my heart this time.”
The animal whirled his tail. She could never be angry with him for long—not even when she’d found one of Dexter’s neckties in his basket, ripped to shreds.
Titan had taken a liking to Dexter, following him everywhere when he was at home. She smiled to herself at how her husband had finally relented and let Titan sit on his lap. But he refused to carry the dog when they walked together in the park, arguing that was one step removed from donning Meggie’s evening gown and adorning himself in pearls.
Her gown had arrived that morning from Mrs. Dupont’s. Pale orange silk with crimson trimmings and matching headdress, it was the most elegant thing she’d ever owned. Dexter had insisted she try it on, then lifted the skirt and made love to her.
She hadn’t imagined how deliciously decadent it would feel, indulging in pleasure, fully clothed. And now, each time she wore the dress, she’d be reminded of the feel of him inside her. Afterward, he’d lowered her skirts, set her on her feet, and called for Francine to assist her as if nothing had happened. Meggie had stood demurely while her maid helped her out of the dress, seemingly ignoring the fact that the faint aroma of arousal lingered in the chamber.
She had never imagined he’d be so attentive in the bedroom—or that she would come to crave his attention.
A gust of wind whipped her handkerchief out of her fingers, and she raced ahead to catch it, the dog trotting after her. It landed on the grass, and as she stooped to pick it up, a pair of booted feet appeared. The smell of cologne tickled her nostrils, and a hand grasped the handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“The pleasure’s all mine, Megs.”
She looked up into a familiar pair of gray eyes, and her heart somersaulted in her chest.
“Georgie!”
So, it had been him in the park the other day.
Fate had been kind to him. Instead of a footman’s livery, he wore a tailored suit. In the years since she’d seen him, he’d grown more muscular, his athletic form evident beneath the material of his finely cut jacket. He had always been handsome. Today, he was nothing short of breathtaking.
But she was no longer the lovesick young girl who had believed his honeyed promises.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Is that how you greet an old friend, Megs? Or must I address you as Mrs. Hart, now you’ve risen from the gutter?”
“An old friend?” she cried. “You seduced me, then disappeared without so much as a backward glance! Did you come to London in search of easy prey?”
“No, Megs,” he said. “Unlike you, I’ve not fucked my way to the top.”
She flinched at his crude expression.
“I was Lord Blessingham’s valet,” he said.
“Was?”
“The old codger died on me, but I’ll find another position soon. I don’t suppose your husband is looking for a new valet?”
“No,” she said, “he’s very happy with the present incumbent.”
“Is he happy with you, Megs?”
Her skin crawled at his familiar address, recalling the memory of the last time he’d used it.
“I hear he’s a changed man,” he continued. “Your influence, when on your back, is to be commended. Perhaps it can be utilized in other ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he a generous husband? Of course, he’ll expect to bed his wife for free, but I’m sure with a little inventiveness, he’d part with a little extra cash. A whore can charge what she likes if she’s prepared to degrade herself.”
She grimaced, though his turn of phrase was oddly familiar. Where had she heard it before?