He groaned and buried his face in her hair as she clung to him.
The two of them stood like that, in a lover’s embrace, and time stood still. She breathed him in, savoring the moment. Only when a gull squawked overhead did she move, the sound jarring Margaret back to sanity.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled against the material of his shirt. She had kissed him!
“I would have done it if you had not.” His chest rumbled beneath her skin when he spoke.
She pinched her eyes shut and pressed her forehead against his chest.
“You cannot marry him.” A matter-of-fact statement from him, as though the answer was obvious.
A million thoughts ran through her head. Sebastian could never understand her reasons. He’d only just begun his life. He could travel and go on his adventures, learning how to change the world for the next thirty years and when he returned, it would still be perfectly acceptable, good heavens, physically possible for him to set up his nursery.
But for her, time was running out.
Sebastian Wright, the handsome Marquess of Rockingham, was a mirage, a temptation set in her path to challenge her dream of becoming a mother.
Even if, even if he wished to marry her and then go about his travels, it would be a mistake of gargantuan proportions. He would regret it when he returned to a wife who was old and wrinkled while the world still considered him a young man.
And she could never abide by a husband who turned to other women, which he inevitably would, although she knew that was how a good number of ton marriages played out.
George was an older gentleman, prepared to settle down. He did not feel the need to sail to other lands. She was much younger than him. He would not turn to other women.
Sebastian had dreams he must pursue, and they most certainly did not include a thirty-year-old widow who wished for nothing more than motherhood.
“Let’s not talk about it,” she said. “We are friends.” She stepped back to look up at him, her hands clutching his arms now.
He blinked a few times, as though he was going to argue, but then nodded instead. “Friends.”
“Yes.” But her smile trembled. “May I see what you drew?” She attempted to sound cheerful. She did not wish for their afternoon to be ruined. She strode toward the blanket and looked over her shoulder in time to see Sebastian moving her easel out of the wind.
He saved my hat and now he’s saving my painting.
She blinked away the thought. It meant nothing. He would have done it for anyone.
“May I?” She would have his permission before opening the sketchpad.
He nodded again, apparently not yet ready to dismiss her non-answer about his uncle. But this was her life—her decision.
She dropped onto her knees, on the blanket, and turned to see what he had sketched.
He’d drawn her, at her easel, standing at the cliff’s edge. It was beautiful. But more than that, he’d drawn her in a manner that she didn’t appear the thirty-year-old widow that she was. He’d drawn her as a woman who commanded the sky and the seas. She looked proud and strong. She looked like a woman who could take on the world.
She blinked and did her best to hold back unexpected tears.
“I don’t know what to say,” she finally managed.
He dropped to the ground beside her and closed the sketchbook. “It’s how I see you.”
10
Surprise!
Margaret sat in front of her vanity as Esther brushed out her hair before restyling it that evening. The guests had returned from town a short while ago, but she had not wanted to go in search of George.
She and Sebastian had walked back to the house quietly, their lack of conversation not quite as comfortable as it had been before and then gone their separate ways with a short bow from him and an awkward curtsey from her.
Sebastian.
Her friend.
“My Lady,” Esther fussed. “You caught too much sun today. I can cover the rosiness with powders for this evening, but it might feel tender. I’ll make you up some fard to apply before you retire. My mother swears by it.”
“Fard?” Margaret scowled at herself in the mirror. Indeed, her nose glowed a little, as did her cheeks. She’d intended to don a hat but forgotten while collecting her supplies. She should have been more careful.
“Oil of almonds, ditto of spermaceti and honey. I’ll make some up in the kitchen so that it’s ready before the evening is over.”
The combination sounded… sticky. Margaret went to scrunch up her nose but relaxed it again quickly when she realized it pained her to do so. Drat! And Penelope had told her to look her finest. She grimaced, wishing that there would not be any fuss. It was a sweet sentiment and only showed that Hugh and Penelope cared for her, but…
She stared at the rosy glow on her nose. “Powder, Esther, But I’m not certain as to this fard.” She could dab some lavender water on it later this evening. She turned her face to one side and then the other. Her cheeks were quite pink as well.
She’d initially decided upon an olive-colored gown for the evening. Esther brought it out, however, and they both agreed that the color emphasized her… glow.
“You haven’t worn the ruby one yet, My Lady.” Her maid fetched a gown Margaret had purchased last spring.
A silken material, the hues of red shimmered from light to dark when it rippled or swirled. The décolletage was low, lower than any other gown Margaret owned, but she could always wear a fichu. Esther raised it to Margaret’s face and indeed, it did seem to tone down her rosy hue.
The gown was not like anything she would normally choose. She’d only purchased it at the request of Rose, who had spent last spring acting as Margaret’s companion and insisted that Margaret wore far too many subdued colors.
An hour later, when all eyes swung toward her as she entered the drawing room, she wished she had chosen differently.
“Happy Birthday!” the group shouted in unison. She had known it was planned, but she had not expected that Penelope would go to so much fuss. And it was embarrassing. Her birthday had not been celebrated since she had turned six and ten, the year before she’d made her official come out.
Birthday celebrations were for heirs, and kings and the birth of a son. Not for thirty-year-old widows. Penelope had tied ribbons to some of the chairs and additional flowers were set around the room.
A handful of wrapped gifts set upon the table.
Margaret gritted her teeth and smiled. She must be grateful. Oh, Penelope!
George rose and crossed the room to greet her and Margaret was happy not to have to enter alone.
“I missed you today—“
“What on earth did you do to your face?” he hissed beneath his breath, ducking just enough so that she was the only person to hear. He sounded angry, and yet, when she drew back to look at him, his expression was all affability.
“Too much sun.” She smiled back at him. “I forgot my hat.”
“You must be more careful, my dear. It was very foolish of you.”
His criticism fanned the flame of unease already flickering inside of her. She must withdraw her consent. At the very least, tell him that she needed more time. She had rushed, and she didn’t know him well enough.
She must put off her dream.
It ought not to have been the startling revelation that it was. And yet, he’d caused her to feel vulnerable—exposed—as she stood in her scarlet gown with a roomful of eyes staring at her expectantly.
“Thank you. Oh, but everyone. This is too much.”
“We have a great deal to celebrate,” George announced in a booming voice beside her. And then he looked down at her with a loving expression in his gaze, confusing her again. “I know that you thought we ought to wait, but with the permission of your brother, I am too impatient to share the wonderful news of our betrothal. I am the luckiest of men and can’t bear to keep it to myself.” He reached into his jacket and removed something.
A ring.
“My nephew was considerate enough to travel all this way with this very valuable family heirloom, at my express request. He has encouraged me heartily for years now, insisting I am too old to remain a bachelor.” George winked at a person across the room.
Sebastian.
“I could not wait to share our joy and, as it is your birthday, I deemed it the perfect occasion to present you, my future bride, with this valuable token of our betrothal.”
Oohs and ahs rolled through the room.
Stunned, Margaret stared down at the ring as George slipped it onto her finger. It stuck on her knuckle, but George was not to be dissuaded and persisted until it circled her finger tightly at the base.
It doesn’t fit.
“But, George—“
“Congratulations, Kirkley.” Lord Riverton stepped forward with an outreached hand. “Felicitations to you both.”
“Oh, Lady Asherton! You didn’t give away a thing! We were all in the dark!” This from Mrs. Spencer, and then Mrs. Drake and her daughter. Abigail met her eyes from across the room and just before a smile stretched her lips, concern seemed to flicker for an instant.
“What wonderful news, my dear!” Lady Riverton’s voice demanded her attention. Suddenly swarmed with congratulations, Margaret put forth her best effort to smile and thank everyone.
Inside, she burned with silent rage. At George. At Hugh. And at Lord Rockingham, who she’d thought was her friend. He had brought the ring to George? He’d had a hand in all of this? Had he known that his uncle was going to ambush her tonight? You cannot marry him, he’d said! Had it all been a joke?
She twisted the cool metal band on her finger and experienced more than a twinge of discomfort. It didn’t fit.
The stone was red, garish. After tonight, she would hate the color red forever.
Margaret touched her cheeks. They were hot. but her anger was even hotter. And yet she could not keep herself from murmuring, “Thank you. It is beautiful, yes.” She held out her hand. She hated how it looked. The skin on her finger swelled on both sides of the band. Her finger looked trapped.
Much as she was feeling in that moment.
“But now we must go to dinner! And later we will play parlor games!” Penelope announced from across the room. Margaret met her gaze for a moment but there was no time for the two of them to speak. Penelope would not have been a part of this. Likely she believed that Margaret had resolved her questions and given George permission to make the announcement.
George tucked her hand in his arm. “You have made me the happiest of men,” he murmured down to her, just loud enough so that others might hear.
She would speak to him later.
Her heart skipped a beat. He’d made the announcement in front of nearly forty members of the ton. And although they were miles and miles away from London, the mail traveled quickly, and it traveled regularly. Many ladies present would want nothing more than to deliver the news to their dearest friends, who could not help but share it with their dearest friends and so forth.
Without realizing that they had managed to arrive at the table, Margaret took her seat beside George.
Naturally, Penelope had arranged the dinner to be an extravagant one.
Margaret watched the others as they took their seats around the long table. She was no longer the center of attention, and George was making conversation with the person seated on his other side.
Then a cool gray gaze met hers from the far end, seated just a few settings down from her brother. Was that disappointment in his eyes?
How dare he!
Margaret swallowed hard and glared back at him. If only she could read his mind in that moment. If only he could read hers!
But first, she must endure polite conversation punctuated with several courses of heavy foods. Margaret pasted a smile on her face. She would conduct herself with all decorum this evening. She might not, in truth, be the dignified widow she pretended to be, but she would damn well play the part. And afterward, she would appear to all the world as though she enjoyed every minute of the parlor games.
She would speak with George tomorrow.
Could she break off the betrothal without disgrace raining down around her? Because, as uneventful of a life as Margaret had led since Lawrence’s death, she had gotten caught up in a bit of scandal last spring. She’d presented Rose, who had once worked as Penelope’s lady’s maid, to the ton. In all fairness, Rose was a gently born lady but when the omission was exposed, an uproar had resulted.
All had ended well enough, but Margaret’s part had left a stain on her reputation.
But would she meet with difficulties when she returned to London if she broke off an engagement that barely took place? People’s opinions mattered a good deal in Mayfair.
She glanced down at her hand. She would worry about London later. First, she must make it through tonight.
And so, she smiled whenever it seemed appropriate and took one or two bites of each course until she felt as though her face was going to crack into a thousand pieces.
“Ladies.” Penelope had risen. “While the gentlemen share their port, shall we excuse ourselves to the drawing room?” But Margaret did not miss the look that her sister-in-law sent to Hugh, imploring him not to take overly long with the gentlemen guests.
Once in the foyer, Penelope sidled up beside her. “Please tell me you expected this. Do assure me that he had your consent to make the announcement. Otherwise, I’m afraid Hugh is going to have to thrash him!”
Margaret did not want to make trouble for her brother. Nor her… fiancé! Because, yes, until Margaret took action, George was presently her fiancé. If she decided to go through with the marriage, it would be most uncomfortable for her husband and her brother to be at odds with one another.
“He, er, did make the announcement prematurely.”
“You did not know. I knew it! I saw it on your face the moment he jammed that tasteless piece of jewelry on your finger.”
“It is a family heirloom,” Margaret defended it.
Penelope must never know that Margaret had decided beforehand to withdraw her consent. Margaret couldn’t trust her sister-in-law not to have Hugh meeting George on the field of honor.
This was Margaret’s fault for acting complacently. If she had made her decision earlier than thirty seconds before George announced their engagement, then she would not be in this predicament.
“The ring is too small.” Margaret held out her hand. “It will have to be sized.”
“So, you are approving then?” More than a trace of doubt laced Penelope’s voice. “Did you speak with him about the other matter? About his ability—”
“Not here, Pen.” Margaret shushed her as a few of the younger ladies caught up with them.
“Lady Danbury.” It was Miss Drake. “What parlor games do you have planned?
“I absolutely love parlor games. Charades is my favorite,” said another of the debutantes who’d only just come out the year before. With light brown hair and smiling brown eyes, Miss Crouch seemed to be liked by almost all the other young people.
“It is to be a surprise!” Penelope responded in a manner in which Margaret knew meant she was somewhat irritated.
Margaret forced her smile again. “We must wait for the gentlemen anyway,” she reminded the girls, who then giggled and proceeded along the corridor.
“We will talk later,” Penelope promised.
“A toast to the future bridegroom.” Riverton lifted his glass toward George. Sebastian did so half-heartedly. She’d not known the announcement was coming. He’d seen it immediately and was surprised that her reticence seemed to have gone unnoticed by every other person who had been present. Even her brother looked pleased with the match.
And yet, going off of what she’d told him earlier that day, she intended to marry him despite… Oh, hell.
Despite that kiss.
She did not need to marry. Not if she owned a townhouse and had a weal
thy brother who was a viscount. So why?
Because she wanted intimacy? Because she was fearful of being alone? And yet she was a woman who stood with her toes curling over the edge of a cliff and admitted to wanting to fly.
He hadn’t intended on spending the day with her. In fact, he’d quite decided to keep his distance and only flirt with her when the opportunity arose. He enjoyed getting a rise out of her.
When he’d seen her hat floating in the cove, he’d not even considered allowing it to drift out to sea. He’d been standing on a crag of rock that perched over the water and from his observations had been ninety percent certain it was deep enough.
He’d removed his jacket and boots and then dived off the cliff. It had been exhilarating, the sensation of falling, and then the smooth entrance into the swirling waters.
Climbing out—soaking wet and carrying the drenched hat no less—had been far more arduous. But he’d enjoyed the challenge, nonetheless.
And when he’d returned to the house, he’d merely intended to request that the hat be delivered to her chamber. Because she’d told him it was her favorite.
She’d stolen his breath when he entered the house, standing there in her pink gown, cheeks flushed, and her eyes filled with anticipation.
He had spent the day alone with her. Of course, George would know, they had not done anything wrong, nor had they made an attempt to keep it secret from the household or other guests.
This evening, her cheeks were as pink as her gown had been. She’d taken too much sun while standing on the edge of a cliff pouring her emotions onto that canvas.
It had been one of the most pleasant days Sebastian had experienced in as long as he could remember.
He should not have kissed her. He’d wanted to kiss her several times before; when they’d first stood at the cliff’s edge together when she’d been drinking wine and listening to him go on and on about his plans to sail to America.
But she had reached for him and he’d been unexpectedly delighted.
He could imagine her on The Diana, standing at the helm, her hair flying in the wind behind her.
Lady and the Rake (Lord Love a Lady Book 6) Page 10