“God forgive me, Meggie, what you do to me!” He fumbled at his necktie and threw it onto the floor, then began to unbutton his shirt. “Oh, to hell with it!”
He fisted his hands in the shirt and ripped it open, and buttons clattered to the floor. Then he reached for her skirts, and she grasped his wrists.
“Dexter, no.”
Raw, primal lust flashed in his eyes, but he stopped.
“Is this not what you want?”
Dear lord, yes, she wanted him! The smoldering gazes he’d cast in her direction over dinner had sent shockwaves of desire through her. When he’d licked the sorbet spoon, devouring her with his eyes, she imagined the feel of his tongue on her flesh and squeezed her thighs together to ease the ache, praying that Mr. Peyton didn’t notice her state of arousal.
“Do you want me because I’ve earned you a thousand pounds?” she asked. “If so, what does that make me?”
“A damned clever woman, “he said, “and the best wife a man could hope for.” He reached for her skirts again.
“Do you think me a harlot?”
“God, no, Meggie,” he said. “I’ve wanted to make love to you all evening. Had Peyton not been with us, I’d have swept that sorbet aside, spread you over the table, and feasted on you instead.”
Her insides throbbed at the image of him crawling over the dining room table.
He sighed. “How did you know how to win the game?”
“I studied chess at the school,” she said. “I learned the moves from one of the books there.”
“But what you did tonight wasn’t the mere execution of moves. There were very few pieces left, and you moved one of them right into the path of Peyton’s knight.”
“I sacrificed it,” she said. “To force him to move his knight out of the way and weaken his defenses. I learned a long time ago that sacrifice was the key to victory. And, if necessary, you sacrifice your most powerful piece to gain a strategic advantage.”
He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips. His expression had softened into one of compassion—and love.
“Not all sacrifices are justified,” he said. “I would never sacrifice my queen, for she is my strength, even though she doesn’t know it.” He cupped her face and placed a gentle kiss on her lips.
“You are my queen, Meggie,” he whispered, “the one piece on my board, which I never wish to be without.”
She blinked, and her eyes filmed over with moisture.
“I must yield the spoils to you,” he said. “One thousand pounds. Peyton would never forgive me if I kept it for myself, given that it was you who secured the final victory.”
One thousand pounds…
The answer to all her problems.
“I should like that,” she said. “Would it be mine to spend how I wish?”
“It is a rather large sum.”
“I’m thinking of patronizing a charity,” she said. “Mrs. Pelham told me about some of her ventures—such as a shelter for disadvantaged widows.”
How easily the lie slipped off her tongue! Was this what happened when one had a secret? A small lie was required to conceal it, then a second lie to hide the first—then lie after lie, until the perpetrator had forgotten the truth.
“How like you, to think of others!” Dexter said.
He traced a line across the front of her gown, then dipped his finger into the valley between her breasts.
“Now…where were we?”
She lay back and lifted her skirts. His smile broadened as she parted her legs, and he unbuttoned his breeches.
Her release came as soon as he entered inside her, the pleasure magnifying with each powerful thrust. At the moment of his dissolution, he cried out her name and collapsed on top of her, his movement growing weaker until he buried his head in her shoulder and grew still. Before he fell asleep, she heard a faint whisper.
“I love you, Meggie.”
She cradled his head in her arms, fighting back the tears. She had won his heart, but at what cost? She’d deceived him and parted her legs for cash.
She was no better than a harlot, and if he ever discovered the truth, she’d lose his love forever.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dexter looked up at the knock on the door.
“What is it?”
A timid-looking face appeared.
“Come in,” he said. “I like to know my staff have bodies as well as heads.”
The clerk shuffled in. “There’s a gentleman to see you.”
“Does he have an appointment?”
“N-no.”
“Tell him to make one,” Dexter said. “Can’t you see I’m busy—what’s your name?”
“Jenkins, sir. He said he has a large deposit to make and insists on seeing you personally.”
“How large?”
“He wouldn’t say, but he said the meeting would be to your advantage.”
Dexter sighed. “Let him in.”
Jenkins bowed and disappeared, closing the door behind him.
Imbecile! A few months ago, Dexter would have dismissed him on the spot. What the blazes was happening to him?
His wife, that’s what. She’d taught him that there was no shame in a little kindness.
The door opened again, and a man stepped inside.
Dexter looked up. “You!” he cried.
He was more finely dressed than when Dexter had last seen him. He wore a gentleman’s suit, not the livery of a footman of Alderley Hall. But he’d recognize that face anywhere—the finely chiseled lines and the cold gray eyes.
The man gestured to the chair opposite the desk. “May I?”
Without waiting for a reply, he drew back the chair and sat, leaning back and crossing his legs with a presence at nonchalance.
George Hanson.
George bloody Hanson, the reprobate who’d seduced Daisy, then abandoned her when he’d realized Dexter wasn’t going to give him any money.
“What do you want, Hanson?”
“Didn’t your man tell you? I wish to make a deposit.”
“I hardly think you have sufficient funds to make it worth my while,” Dexter said. “I suggest you leave before I throw you out.”
Hanson smiled, and Dexter’s fists itched to smash that smug grin off his face. He rose to his feet and reached for the man’s collar.
“Wait!” Hanson cried. “Will a thousand pounds be sufficient?”
“Where the devil did you get such a sum from?” Dexter sneered. “Did you steal it?”
“It was a most generous gift.”
“Do you think I care?” Dexter asked. “After what you did to my sister? I wouldn’t want your filthy money tainting my bank, however much you have.”
“Your sister?” Hanson laughed. “This has nothing to do with your sister.”
“Then, get out.”
“I’m here about your wife.”
Dexter froze. “My wife?”
Hanson folded his arms and gave him a triumphant smile. “Old habits die hard,” he said. “She was a little too quick to give me what I wanted.”
He picked up Dexter’s inkpot—cut crystal set in gold.
“May I have this?” He slipped it into his pocket. “Most generous. I’ll wager you’ll be more inclined to give me what I want. Now you’re rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty. For you have further to fall.”