Kate Pearce - Simply Wicked

“With all due respect, Marguerite, Justin did love you; he told me so.” Harry swallowed hard. “And if we are being honest, he also knew I was attracted to you, that if we’d stayed together, I would’ve wanted to make love to you myself. He didn’t want that. Didn’t want to share either of us with the other.”

Marguerite stared into Harry’s eyes, feeling Anthony stiffen and shift forward on the bed. “If you had stayed, I would probably have let you.”

“Did you tell Justin that?”

“I tried. On our last night together in London, when I was still trying to work out exactly why you had left so abruptly and why Justin was so angry.”

Silence fell between them until Marguerite lowered her gaze. Now Anthony knew the truth she’d held so close to her heart, her impure thoughts, her responsibility for the tragedy. She’d been prepared to promise anything, to do anything, simply to keep her sham of a marriage alive. He believed he was a coward, but she was far worse.

“I thought it would help bring you back, not result in Justin’s death.”

Harry sighed, “Marguerite, Justin made his own choices that night. I gave him every opportunity to stand down. He chose not to, and we can’t blame ourselves for that.”

“So how did he end up dead and not you?” Marguerite’s sharp question made Harry visibly wince.

“I told Justin I would delope, that I would never shoot at him, that he could kill me if he wanted to. On the morning of the duel, his pistol misfired. I brought my gun down to my side to indicate I wouldn’t take a shot, but he kept coming at me, tried to grab my pistol, tried to kill me with my own gun, said if he couldn’t have me, no one would. In the struggle the pistol went off, and he was hit in the chest.”

Sir Harry stared at the floor. “If there had been another loaded gun there, I would’ve killed myself and covered his body with my own. But I was dragged away by my seconds and taken across the channel before I even knew if he was dead or not.”

He raised his head, and tears glinted in the corners of his brown eyes. “I loved him, Marguerite, for all his selfishness and arrogance, I loved him, and I’ll never forgive myself for what happened until the day I die.”

Marguerite felt answering tears slide down her cheeks. She tried to make sense of what she’d heard, felt every word twisting and turning in her mind until she wanted to scream. Despite everything she’d done, Justin had loved Harry more than he’d loved her, had been prepared to kill him rather than lose him. Whatever she did, she’d always be blamed for the duel because Justin had used her to get what he wanted. Yet again she was irrelevant, second best, pushed out . . .

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“For what? I’m the one who is apologizing; I’m the one who killed your husband.”

“If I hadn’t married Justin, none of this would’ve happened, so I am just as guilty.”

“Marguerite . . .”

She ignored Anthony’s attempt to intervene, fixing her attention on Harry. “Will you give me your address in France? I would like to write to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I think Justin would’ve wanted to know that you were safe.”

Harry scrubbed at his face. “As I said, I’m going to India. That’s why I came back to England. A relative of mine has found me an obscure post with one of the trading companies where I can work hard to redeem myself.”

“Then write to me when you are settled. Please.” Marguerite hesitated. “I want to forgive you, but I need to think about what I’ve heard. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, my lady.” Harry stood up and bowed. “It’s taken me two years to get to a point where I can accept my responsibility for this tragedy and also accept that Justin wasn’t blameless. I hope you can do the same. I will write to you.”

Marguerite rose as well and curtsied. “I hope your sea voyage is safe and that your new life is everything you want it to be.”

Harry walked across the room and went down on one knee before her, took her hand and kissed it. “I’m sorrier than I can say about Justin. I’ve gone over what happened a thousand times, and I still can’t decide what I could’ve done to change the outcome.”

She patted his shoulder. “I understand, and I know you loved him. I’ll pray for you.”

He looked up, the pain in his face almost unbearable to see. “Thank you.”

Marguerite went toward the door, and Christian opened it for her. She barely noticed Anthony fall in behind her. They reached the ground floor, and the noise of the tavern was even more startling after the quietness of upstairs. A chorus of boos and jeers went up as they headed for the door and didn’t join in the festivities. Marguerite almost smiled. How ludicrous life sometimes was, the blaze of color and laughter down here compared to the stark story of the destruction of a man’s life she’d just heard upstairs.

She gulped in the slightly fresher air, forcing herself to walk to the wall that protected the river down below.

“Are you all right, Marguerite?”

She suddenly became aware of Christian’s calm voice in her ear and Anthony’s firm grasp of her upper arm as the whole river vista swayed and dipped before her eyes.

“Yes, I want to go home.”

“I can take her, Delornay.”

“ Non .” Marguerite removed herself from Anthony’s possessive grasp. “I want to go home , to my mother.”

Anthony stepped back and bowed, his face impassive. “Then I’ll come and see you in the pleasure house tomorrow, after you have rested. Good night, my lady, Mr. Delornay.”

She watched him leave, vault on his horse and disappear into the night. She’d have to talk to him at some point, but why did it have to be tomorrow?

“Are you ready to go now, Marguerite?” Christian leaned against the stone wall beside her, arms folded as if he were happy to wait on her all night. She shivered and drew her cloak tighter.

“Yes, and thank you for coming with me.”

He straightened and buttoned up his coat, shoved one hand in his pocket and offered her the other. “Thank you for helping me understand what happened.”

She glanced up at him as he led her back toward the carriage. “Do you still love me?”

He stopped and put both hands on her shoulders. “Sometimes, Marguerite, you ask the most ridiculous questions. You married the wrong man. He made a fool of himself. Why wouldn’t I still love you?” He shook her gently. “It was not your fault or poor Sir Harry’s. You must try to remember that.”

She bit her lip. If it were only that easy. Perhaps it was for Christian, who had never been in love. She nodded and managed a smile.

“It’s freezing out here. Let’s go home.”

“ Maman , I don’t want to see him!”

“Marguerite, you have to.”

Marguerite swung around to glare at her mother, who had invaded her bedroom at the break of dawn complete with a breakfast tray and a lecture.

“Why must I see him?”

“Because you owe him an explanation?”

“He got an explanation. Thanks to your interference, he was there last night! I’m sure he heard everything he needed to hear about my transgressions.”

“There is no need to be rude.” Helene settled her skirts around her knees. “Obviously he’s not satisfied if he insisted on meeting you again this morning.”

“He probably just wants to tell me he never wants to see me again.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he knows what I did, he knows everything.”

“He knows that your marriage was full of problems and that your husband caused most of them.”

Marguerite rounded on her mother, fists clenched at her sides. “Why are you being so nice to me? Why isn’t anyone blaming me?”