Lord Langley Is Back in Town by Elizabeth Boyle Page B

her father had hauled her down the aisle to marry Philip Sterling.
    And instead of finding comfort in hearing someone use that old, long lost name, it sent a shock of terror through her.
    “Don’t call me that,” she said, drawing herself up. You are the Marchioness of Standon. You are. He can’t do anything to that.
    Oh, but he could.
    “What, Maggie me girl, are you too lofty now for old friends? Not so lofty that you didn’t come running when I came to call. Just like old times, eh?”
    “What choice do I have?” She crossed her arms over her chest and took another furtive glance up and down the empty alleyway. “Now state your business and be gone before someone sees me with you.”
    Sees me and questions what I was doing out here . . .
    “Gotten all hoity-toity, haven’t we? But I know different, don’t I? I knew you when you weren’t so fine and you were still my Maggie.” Much to her chagrin, he crossed the alley with the same determined stride that had once caught her eye. And unfortunately he was still darkly handsome.
    But not as handsome as Langley , she found herself thinking. For where the baron was charming and lighthearted, this man brooded a dark mystery.
    He stopped before her and smiled down at her. One that would have sent her heart pattering a dozen or so years before. But that was the advantage of time and reaching an age where youthful eyes gave way to sight that let one see past the veneer of dark countenances and heavy-lidded glances.
    For there was no longer any mystery to Gerald Adlington. Not to her. Everything that seemed so exciting and enigmatic about him had been easy to discover: He possessed no heart, no loyalty.
    And he had never loved her.
    Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t toy with her. Couldn’t play cat to her mouse. Something he knew only too well.
    “So, Margaret Owens, you can dress yourself up and call yourself by whatever fancy title you like, but deep down we both know you will always be naught but old Gilston’s by-blow. My hot-blooded Maggie. My dearest wife.”
    L angley watched from the morning room window as Lady Standon stole across the garden like a thief. Whatever was she doing meeting her “painter” in the mews? Too many years spent unraveling the secrets of others made it impossible for him not to start wondering what she was hiding.
    “So you have your secrets, do you, Lady Standon?” he mused quietly to himself.
    From behind him, he heard the telltale creak of the floor in the hallway, and then it was the lady’s voice that stopped his speculations.
    “ Schatzi , how could anything hold your attention in this dreary place?”
    Helga . He should have known her protestations against going out so early were for naught. He had to imagine that if there ever was an early bird, it was this woman. Sharp-eyed and ready to snatch up whatever came into her sights.
    She entered the room without an invitation. “All alone? Goodness, your dear betrothed is a trusting soul. But she doesn’t know you like I do.”
    Langley turned around, for it never was good to keep one’s back to Wilhelmenia, the Margravine of Ansbach, for too long. He nodded politely to her. No, she wasn’t a woman to be trifled with.
    Nor given the least bit of encouragement.
    “Where is she?” Helga asked, glancing about the empty place at the table, a slow smile on her lips.
    “If you mean my betrothed, she is meeting with a tradesman.”
    Helga glanced up, her head tipped as if she hadn’t heard him quite right. “Meeting with a tradesman? How very common.” She paused and ran her finger over the back of the chair. “And how convenient.” Then she moved like an eel around the table toward him.
    “Margravine,” he said as formally as he could.
    “Helga,” she corrected. “Remember when you called me that?”
    “Yes, I do,” he told her, stepping away from her and nudging a chair into her path. “I believe your husband found it rather offensive.” He paused and