hard. It was extraordinary. She felt hot and bewildered, but excitement tingled in the pit of her stomach as she thought of his fingers slipping through the strands.
She was glad when the ale came. It broke the rather odd silence between them. Henry poured for them both from the pitcher. Margery took a mouthful, looked up and saw Henry’s eyes on her, a gleam of humor in them.
“It tastes rougher than a badger’s pelt,” he murmured.
“I prefer it to wine,” Margery said. She could feel the ale loosening her tongue already. It was indeed rough, with a kick like a mule. “Mrs. Biddle tells me I should cultivate a taste for sherry if I am to be a housekeeper in my turn,” she said, “but I find it too genteel a drink.”
“Do you want to be a housekeeper?” Henry enquired. “Is that not the pinnacle of achievement for an upper servant?” He topped up her glass.
“Mrs. Biddle says that I could do it if I wished, for I am already the youngest lady’s maid she has ever known.” She sighed. “Truth is, I do not want to be a servant.”
Henry’s lips twitched into that irresistible smile that always led her into indiscretion. “What do you want to be, Miss Mallon?”
“I want to be a confectioner,” Margery said in a rush. “I want to have a shop and make comfits and marzipan cakes and sweetmeats. I want to own my own business and sell my cakes to all the lords and ladies of the ton.”
Once again Henry’s eyes gleamed with that secret amusement. “It is good to have ambition,” he murmured.
“But I need money to set myself up in business.” Margery drooped. “I save all that I can from my wages—and the money that Billy pays me for collecting old clothes for him—but it will never be enough to buy a shop.”
Henry’s eyes met hers over the rim of his glass. “You had not thought to… ah… raise funds another way?”
The spark in his eyes captured and held her. She saw speculation there and desire that burned her and set her heart racing. She also saw exactly, explicitly, what he was suggesting.
She took another gulp of the ale. “Certainly not. I told you I was not a lightskirt! Besides—” even in her indignation she could not quite escape the force of logic “—I am not certain that I would be in any way successful enough to make the necessary capital.”
A corner of Henry’s mouth twitched upward into that dangerous smile. “I am sure you could learn.”
Their gazes tangled, his dark, direct with an undercurrent that made Margery’s toes curl. Then his smile broadened.
“Actually,” he said lightly, “I only wondered whether there was someone who might give you a loan.”
Margery almost choked on her ale. “You were teasing me,” she accused.
“Yes. Although…” Henry paused. “If the other idea appeals to you—”
“It does not. I told you I was not looking for carte blanche!”
She had spoken too quickly, intent only on denying the quiver of desire in the pit of her stomach. It was illuminating to discover that her morals were nowhere near as stalwart as she had believed them to be. She thought of Henry’s hands on her body, his lips against her skin, and she felt the tide of warmth rush into her face. Oh, how she wanted him. How seductive it was and how much trouble she could get herself into with the slightest of missteps. She was completely out of her depth.
Henry was watching her. He knew.
Margery sought to hide her mortification in her glass of ale and took several long swallows, which only served to make her head spin all the more.
The pies arrived, fragrant with mutton and dark gravy. Henry refilled her glass. They talked as they ate, which Margery knew was not refined, but suddenly there seemed so much to say. Henry asked her about her childhood in Wantage, and her work there and her family. She told him about Granny Mallon and her dire warnings about London gentlemen and Henry laughed and told her that her grandmother had been in the right of it.
Margery laughed, too, and drank until her head was fuzzy and the candlelight blurred to a golden haze and her elbow slid off the table, which made Henry laugh some more. A fiddler struck up in the other room, and the scrape of tables being pushed back was followed by a wild jig, the notes rising to the rafters.
But in their corner of the parlor, it was warm and intimate and felt as though it was theirs alone.
“Tell me,” Henry said, leaning forward, the candlelight reflected in his dark eyes. “What is the earliest thing that you remember?”
Margery wrinkled up her nose. It seemed an odd, fanciful question, but then she supposed they had been discussing their childhoods. Or rather they had been discussing her childhood. She could not recall a single thing that Henry had told her in answer to her questions. She knew she was a little cast away, so perhaps she was not remembering. Henry was drinking brandy now and she had a glass of cherry brandy, sweet and strong.
“I recollect a huge room,” she said slowly, “with a checkered floor of black and white and a dome high above my head that scattered colored light all around me.” She looked up to meet an odd expression in Henry’s eyes. It was gone before she could place it.
“I have no idea where it was. I have been in many great houses since, but have never seen anything like it. Perhaps I imagined it.”
There had been other memories, too; people whose faces she could see only in shadow, scents, voices. She thought she remembered a carriage, a flight through the night, raised voices, cold and tears, but the memories were overlaid with others of her childhood in the tenement house in Wantage and the rough-and-tumble of life with her brothers.
Henry was watching her and the expression in his eyes was intent and secret.
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, knowing that the drink was prompting her to be indiscreet, “I do think my imagination plays tricks on me. It disturbs me because I remember things that seem quite fanciful—silks and perfumes and such soft beds, yet I am not a fanciful person.”
“And yet you do have a romantic streak, do you not, Miss Mallon?” Henry said. “I know, for example, that you read Gothic romances.”
Margery jumped. “How could you possibly know that?” It was unnerving the way in which he appeared to know so much about her. No one, not even those people who had known her for twenty years or more, realized that she loved those stories of beautiful heroines and handsome heroes and haunted castles.
Henry raised his brows. “I saw that you had a copy of Mrs. Radcliffe’s book The Romance of the Forest in your reticule. I assumed that it was yours, unless you are taking it home for the admirable Mrs. Biddle.”
Margery was betrayed into a giggle. “Mrs. Biddle reads nothing other than books on household management,” she said. “She thinks fiction is frivolous.”
“We won’t tell her your secret, then,” Henry said with his slow smile. “For fear of damaging your future prospects.”
The music was becoming wilder still, the customers more raucous and amorous. One of the tavern wenches was enthusiastically kissing a tall fair
