Forbidden

She turned toward the door—and found herself face-to-face with her brother Jem.

“Moll!” Jem’s voice snapped like a whip and the sweet, heady atmosphere that had held Margery in its spell died like a flame doused with water.

“Hello, Jem,” she said, disentangling herself from Henry, who seemed inordinately and provocatively slow to release her.

“Who’s the swell?” Jem said, cocking his head at Henry. There was an edge to his voice and an ugly look in his eyes.

“Henry Ward,” Henry said, stepping between them. He offered his hand. Jem studiously ignored it. Henry looked amused.

“Jem,” Margery said reproachfully.

Her brother flicked her look. “You should be careful, Moll,” he said. His gaze returned to Henry. “You can pick up all sorts of riffraff in here.”

“And you should mind your own business,” Margery said, furious now. She felt Henry shift beside her. She could sense the sudden tension in him, an antagonism that matched Jem’s except that Henry was watchful and controlled, appraising her brother with coolly assessing eyes. She remembered that Henry had been in the war and felt a shiver of alarm. Jem was hotheaded, a street fighter, but he was no match for a trained soldier.

The atmosphere was as thick as smoke now. The music had died away; everyone was watching, apart from the highwayman who was fumbling with the barmaid’s bodice, his face buried in her cleavage. Even the men from the next table had abandoned their fight in anticipation of one that promised to be more deadly.

Jem put his hand on Margery’s arm. “I’ll take you home,” he said. “Come on.” He nodded toward the door. “I’ll not have my sister treated like a fancy piece.”

“No,” Margery said stubbornly. “I’m not going with you.” She shook him off. She felt humiliated and upset; she wanted to cry because Jem had taken all the fun and excitement from her evening and torn it to shreds. Everything looked tawdry now and Jem was making her feel like naive fool and worse, like a whore whose favors were up for sale for the price of a mutton pie.

“Don’t confuse me with the sort of women you consort with, Jem Mallon,” she said sharply. “I’m no lightskirt.” She bit her lip against the sting of tears. “You’ve spoiled my evening,” she said. “I was having such a nice time.” She felt forlorn, like the little girl she had once been, stamping her foot with anger and hurt when Jem or Jed or Billy had broken one of her precious toys.

“For God’s sake, Moll,” Jem said contemptuously. “Can’t you see all he wants is a quick fumble down a dark alley and he’s just loosening you up for it?”

Henry stepped between them then with so much intent that Margery grabbed his sleeve in urgent fingers. The atmosphere had changed now. It was deadly.

“No,” Margery said. “Please.”

Her eyes met Henry’s. There was such protective fury in his that she was awed to see it. Something sweet and warm settled inside her. Here was a man who cared about her good name and would do all he could to defend it and her against the world. She had never felt so cherished before.

“Your sister does not want me to hit you,” Henry said, his voice lethally soft. “Out of respect for her, I will not. Don’t insult her again.”

There was an ugly look on Jem’s face. He would not back down. “I don’t trust you,” he said. “If you touch her I will kill you.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the inn, sending a glass tankard spinning to smash on the floor and pushing a drunk out of his way.

There was a long, heavy pause and then the music struck up again, raucous as before. The sound of voices rose above the din, and everyone moved, resumed whatever they had been doing and pretended that they had not been watching and hoping for a mill.

“I’m sorry,” Margery said. She was shaking. She felt Henry take her hands in his. His touch was very comforting.

“He only wanted to protect you,” Henry said. “I would have done the same.”

Margery gave a little hiccup halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I doubt you would have threatened to kill anyone,” she said.

“I might have expressed myself slightly differently, but the sentiment would have been the same.” His lips grazed her cheek in the lightest and most fleeting caress. “I’ll take you back,” he said. “Completely untouched, so that your brother does not come looking for me to slide a knife between my ribs.”

He took her bonnet and tied the ribbons beneath her chin with quick efficiency. His fingers brushed her throat. Margery repressed a shiver. She felt shaken and upset but beneath that was a deeper emotion, something so precious and tender she trembled to feel it.

The street was silent and dark, the leaning houses pressing together, their windows blind, their shutters closed. High above the sloping roofs, Margery could see a sky spangled with stars. She felt tired all of a sudden, as though the pleasure she had taken in the evening and in Henry’s company had drained away, leaving her empty. She sighed. “I did not want the evening to end like this.”

Henry stopped walking and turned to her. “How did you want it to end?”

The quiet words made her heart skip a beat. She glanced up at him but in the dark his expression was unreadable.

“I wanted to go to Bedford Square Gardens,” Margery said, in a rush. “I wanted to look at the stars and feel the breeze on my face and hear the sounds of the city at night….”

“We can still do that,” Henry said. “Since that is what you would like to do.”

Margery paused. They were alone and the night pressed in about them, silent and secret. Somewhere, streets away, a clock chimed the quarter hour. She could hear Henry’s quiet breathing and feel the heat of his body where it brushed against hers. He said nothing more. He was waiting for her to decide what she wanted.

A strange feeling swept through Margery, part excited, part fearful. Jem had been right; she had taken a risk tonight, but she trusted Henry. She knew that in all the drab repetition of her daily life this one evening would always sparkle as bright and exciting as a jewel. She did not expect it to happen again, but she wanted it to end well, not on the sourness of Jem’s intervention, spoiling the magic.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was husky. “Yes, please.”

Henry smiled but said nothing and took her hand in his. They walked back through the quiet streets, the brim of her bonnet brushing his shoulder. Neither of them spoke. It did not feel necessary. When they reached the gate at the corner of the gardens, Margery opened her reticule. Her fingers shook a little as she took out the key and turned it in the lock. The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges and they stepped inside.

“Lady Grant gave me a key when she realized that I like to take the air here of an evening,” Margery said. “The gardens are private to the residents.”

On this evening it was like a secret garden, belonging to them alone. The gravel of the paths crunched softly under their feet as they made their way beneath the spreading boughs of poplar and oak. Margery ran down the path to the place where a pool was sheltered by the overhanging branches of a willow. She trailed her fingers in the cool water and watched the ripples shatter the reflection of the stars. Somewhere, distantly, in one of the grand town houses that bordered the square, an orchestra was playing a slow, dreamy waltz. It reminded Margery of the previous night, when she had danced with Henry on the terrace.

With a sigh, she straightened and turned back to look for Henry. He was standing still and straight in the shadows of a plane tree. His silhouette was dark, his shoulders broad and strong. The moonlight glinted on his glossy black hair. Margery went up to him and put her hands against his chest.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

He smiled. “My pleasure, Miss Mallon.”

Spontaneously, Margery stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, as she would have kissed one of her brothers if they had given her a present. Henry’s cheek was smooth beneath her lips—evidently he had shaved before coming to meet her—and warm. Margery was suddenly vividly aware of the scent of his cologne mingled with the smell of crisp linen and sweet scented grass. The combination went straight to her head and she felt a soaring dizziness that was far more dangerous than the light-headedness induced by the ale.

She drew back, made clumsy by shock and awareness, and in the same moment Henry turned his head and her lips brushed the corner of his mouth. Margery felt him go very still. The moment turned from something sweet to something profoundly awkward. Heat suffused her. She felt inept and mortified. She was ready to curl up with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean… It was a mistake—”

“Does this feel like a mistake?” Henry said. His arms went around her, pulling her against him, and then he was kissing her properly. Margery’s head spun, and the ground shifted beneath her sensible half boots and she realized that the kiss in the brothel had been nothing at all compared to this.

Henry’s lips moved over hers, his tongue touching hers, tasting her, searching, exploring. It was astonishing. It was bewitching. Little ripples of pleasure shimmered through her, down to her toes. She was shocked and intrigued all at once. It lit her blood with fire, making her shiver with heat and cold simultaneously as though she suffered a fever.

She had wanted this. She realized now how very much she had wanted Henry to kiss her. She had wanted it all evening and now it was happening. Her whole body tingled with surprised delight and a sudden fierce triumph.

With one hand Henry pulled the ribbons on her bonnet and cast it aside on the grass, and then his arm was across her back and his fingers were tangled in her hair, sending the neat pins flying, tilting her face up so that he could kiss her more deeply and more urgently still. Margery felt sweet lassitude seep through her body, weakening her knees, filling her with the most agreeable sensation of pleasure that she had ever known. She wanted more of it; suddenly she felt starved and greedy for it, her senses waking into life.

She drew closer to Henry, sliding her arms about his neck and opening her lips beneath his, kissing him back. He tasted of brandy and fresh air and something she had never known before, something that was elemental and special only to him. Her breasts were pressed against his chest as he held her close. There was a lovely, painful ache in the pit of her stomach. She had never known anything to compare with this combination of driving need and wanton weakness.

Henry’s mouth left hers, but only to press kisses against the tender line of her neck and to linger in the hollow at the base of her throat. She trembled now, alive to his touch, as he slid the striped spencer from her shoulders and dropped it to join the discarded bonnet on the grass. His hand cupped the curve of her breast through her gown, his thumb insistent as it rubbed over her nipple. The friction of rough cotton against her skin was exquisite and Margery stopped thinking abruptly, her mind swamped instead by pure, hot desire. She gave a keening little cry and Henry’s lips returned to hers in a ruthless kiss that swallowed her cry and drew her tighter still into a spiral of need.

If she had thought his touch through the material of her gown incendiary, it was nothing to the experience when he slid his hand inside her bodice and she felt his palm, warm and firm, against the side of her breast. The heat and the longing exploded inside her.

It felt as though the very stars were spinning in their courses. She had long ago forgotten to think. She was consumed by sensation only, her whole body clenched in such desperate wanting that she thought she would scream with it.

Her back was against one of the trees now. She could feel the bark snagging against the thin cotton of her gown. She tilted her head back to allow Henry greater access to the bare skin of her throat and shoulders, delighting in the nip of his teeth and the caress of his tongue. There was no shame or hesitation in her. This was a part of her nature that she had not suspected for a moment, but now it drove her.