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“Why?”

“I had no choice!” he finally growled, and immediately regretted his words.

Oh, God, she looked so stricken.

“Margaret,” he began, but she was already out of earshot, and he wasn’t sure if he was glad or not. He should be disinterested. Whether she slept with another man or not should be no concern of his. He’d been willing to accept her child by another man before … and yet he simply could not now.

The thought astonished him. Everything had changed, it seemed, in only a matter of days. Ever since, in fact, he’d discovered his wife in St. Giles.

Damnation. What was Margaret doing to him?

He couldn’t consider the matter now. They were on a dance floor with the better half of London’s elite surrounding them. He needed to bring his wife under his control and try to retain some normalcy.

When at last they drew together again, he was ready, speaking low and steadily. “Despite your behavior earlier tonight and right now, Margaret, I have never held you in low regard. Rather, I wish to make sure you don’t let your overpassionate nature lead you astray.”

To which reasoned words she leaned in close and said, “I may be overpassionate, but at least I do not act as if I’m already dead. And I loathe the name Margaret!”

Whirling, she glided off the dance floor in high dungeon, the scent of orange blossoms trailing in her wake.

Which Godric couldn’t help but admire, even though it left him alone in the middle of a dance like a prize ass.

A large form loomed on his right-hand side.

“Marriage certainly has effected a change in your personality,” Caire drawled. “I’ve never seen you come so close to a duel—and to top that with a sparring match with your lady wife on the dance floor. Words fail me.”

Godric closed his eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“You mistake me, man.”

Godric opened his eyes to see Caire grinning at him. Caire, grinning! “Good God, St. John. I’d nearly given you up for dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Godric muttered.

“The whole of London knows that now,” Caire said. “Come. I’ve an idea where our host keeps his brandy.”

And Godric followed his old friend gratefully, because if this was life, it was much more complicated than he remembered.

Chapter Six

The Hellequin opened his mouth and paused. How long had it been since he’d spoken? Years? Decades? Millenniums? When at last his voice emerged, it was a creaky croak.

“It matters not how good the lad was in life. He died unshriven.”

Was the Hellequin’s heart moved by Faith’s sad face? Even if it were so, he could do nothing, for the rules were clear. So he turned the horse’s head to go. And as he did, Faith jumped upon his back. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

Megs stormed from the ballroom, uncaring of the scene she was making. How dare he? How dare he think her a loose woman when all she’d been doing was laughing with Lord d’Arque? Trying to find out if the man had heard any news about Roger’s death.

She swiped at a hot tear coursing down her cheek and ran down the stairs. She hadn’t even been able to get as far as questioning the viscount about the Ghost before Godric had shown up and started insulting the man—and her.

“Megs!”

She stopped and turned on the landing.

Sarah was panting behind her and Megs realized that this wasn’t the first time the other woman had called her name.

“Are you all right?” Sarah paused, looking worriedly into her face.

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