Nicola Cornick - Forbidden

It was Margery’s evening off. She came up the area steps, tying her bonnet beneath her chin as she walked. She stopped dead when she found the gentleman she had danced with at the ball the previous night loitering at the top. He gave every appearance of waiting for her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone deliberately sharp. She had come down to earth since her encounter with him and had been berating herself for being a silly little fool whose head was stuffed with romantic nonsense. She was a lady’s maid, not Cinderella.

Even so, her heart tripped a beat, because his smile—the wicked smile that curled his firm mouth and slipped into his dark eyes—was so much more potent in real life than it had been in her dreams and memories.

“Good evening to you, too,” he said. “Are you pleased to see me?”

“Of course not,” Margery said. She put as much disdain into her tone as she could muster, knowing even as she did so that she was betrayed by the shaking of her fingers on the ribbons of her bonnet and the hot color that burned in her cheeks.

Damnation. Surely she had learned enough over the years to know how to deal with a rake. She had acted as maid to any number of scandalous women who had perfected the art of flirtation. She should meet this insolent gentleman’s arrogance with a pert confidence of her own. Yet she could not. She was tongue-tied.

She started to walk. “Why would I be pleased to see you?” she asked over her shoulder. “I barely know you.”

“Henry Ward, at your service.” He sketched a bow. It had an edge of mockery. “Now you know me.”

“I know your name,” Margery corrected. “I have no ambition to learn more.”

He laughed. It was a laugh that said he knew she was lying. He was right, of course, though she was damned if she was going to admit it. She quickened her pace. He matched it with minimum effort.

“Wait,” he said. “I’d like to speak with you.” He hesitated. “Please.”

It was the please that stopped her. She was not accustomed to courtesy from the aristocracy but by the time she had realized her mistake she was standing still and he was holding her hand. She had no idea how either of these things had occurred, only that his charm was clearly very dangerous to her.

“Miss Mallon—”

Margery snatched her hand back. “That reminds me. When we met in the brothel you addressed me as Miss Mallon. How did you know my name?”

She saw a flash of expression in his eyes that she could not read. Then it was gone; he shrugged lightly.

“I forget,” he said. “Perhaps Mrs. Tong mentioned your name.”

Margery shook her head. She knew that was not true. “No,” she said, refusing to be deflected. “She did not.”

Henry looked at her. His gaze was clear and open, yet she sensed something hidden. Instinct warned her that there was something he was not telling her.

“Then I do not know,” he said. “Someone must have told me your name. The brothel servants, perhaps, or one of the girls…”

Margery turned a shoulder and started walking again. A sharp pain had lodged itself in her chest, like a combination of indigestion and disappointment. She did not want to think about Henry spending time with Mrs. Tong’s girls, taking his pleasure with them, lying with one of them or perhaps more than one.

The images jostled in her head, bright, vivid, intolerably lustful and licentious. Jealousy, sudden and vicious, scored her with deep claws. It disturbed her because she had no right to feel it. She did not want to feel it. She had no claim on him. She might as well be jealous of the horribly disdainful lady in the striped gown, the one who had been clinging to Henry’s arm at the ball.

She paused. Now she thought about it, she was jealous of the snobbish aristocrat in the striped gown.

“I didn’t stay at the brothel.” He put one hand on her sleeve. She stopped again. “There is no need to be jealous,” he said softly.

Margery shook him off. “Why would I be jealous?” She did not want him reading her mind. It was too disconcerting.

“You are jealous because you like me.” He smiled at her. It was arrogant. It was irresistible. Something heated and unfurled within her like a flower opening in the sun.

“I like you, too,” he said gently. “I like you very much.”

He touched her cheek and Margery could not help herself; she felt her whole body sweeten and sing at his words. It was impossible for her to withstand his charm. Her defenses felt like straw in the wind.

“Why did you come to find me?” She could hear that her tone had lost its sharpness.

“I wanted to thank you for returning the cravat pin,” Henry said. “I hope it did not cause any difficulties for you with Lady Grant. I would not have wanted you to get into trouble.”

Margery smiled. His concern for her made her feel warm and cherished. It was a new sensation. Jem was a protective brother but he did not make her feel as special as she did now.

“Thank you,” she said. “That is kind of you.” She smiled. “There was no difficulty. Lady Grant was only grateful that your lost property had been found. She is the best of employers. All the ladies I have worked for have been so kind—”

She stopped, aware of the smile in Henry’s eyes, wondering why she was telling him so much. She was not usually so open. Disquiet stirred in her as she realized the extent of her danger. Henry was too charming and too easy to talk to, and she was too inexperienced to deal with him. She should run now, while she still had the chance.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” she said quickly, “and for not giving me away to Lady Grant.”

Henry shook his head. “I’d never do that.” There was warmth and sincerity in his tone. Margery’s pulse fluttered.

“You could have sent a note,” she said. “There was no need—” She stopped abruptly as Henry took her hand again. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart seemed to skip a beat.

“No need to see you again?” His thumb brushed her gloved palm and she shivered. She felt hot and melting, trembling on the edge of something sweet and dangerous. “But perhaps,” he said, “I am here by choice. Perhaps I am here because I wanted to see you.”

Margery closed her eyes against the seduction of his words. She wondered if she had run mad. Maybe there would be a full moon tonight to account for her foolishness. For she knew she was being very, very foolish. There was nothing more imprudent than a maidservant who succumbed to wicked temptation and a rake’s charm.

Her sensible soul told her to dismiss him and go straight home again.

Her wicked side, the part of her she had not even known existed until Henry had kissed her, told her that this was just a small adventure and it could do no harm.

She took the arm that he offered and they started to walk again, more slowly this time, her hand tucked confidingly into the crook of his elbow. She had thought it would feel like walking with Jem or another of her brothers. She could not have been more wrong. Even through the barrier of her glove, she could feel the hardness of muscle beneath his sleeve. The sensation distracted her; she realized that Henry had asked her a question and she had failed to answer.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked where we were going.” Henry sounded amused, as though he had guessed the cause of her disturbance. She blushed to imagine that he knew the effect he had on her.

“ I am going for a walk,” Margery said. “I like to get some fresh air and see the people passing by.” She hesitated and cast a shy glance at him from beneath her lashes. “I suppose you may accompany me if you wish.”