They were the hands of both a working man and a learned man—smudged with ink, yet calloused here and there with hard labour. Beneath the short, perfectly manicured nails and embedded in the raised prints of his index finger, she thought she detected faint traces of machine grease. Yet, the fingers were long and elegant, well purposed for every gentle pursuit.
Without conscious thought, she reached to trace the back of his nearest hand. His flesh was cool, and she spread her curious touch over the rest of his fingers. In dismay, she found him to be quite cold. This would never do!
As some protective impulse compelled her to warm his chilled fingers, they curled in her hand. His grip tightened reflexively, and his body jerked with a sharp intake of breath. Margaret froze, caught in her guilty indulgence with her hand now trapped in his.
He was blinking, his expression hazy. “Margaret?” He gave an instinctive tug, and before she quite knew what was happening, Margaret found herself pulled bodily into his lap. Her voluminous skirts forced his wheeled chair to swivel and roll away from his desk, and she made a wild grasp for his neck in a panicked quest for balance.
“John!” she cried—more in alarm than indignation.
She felt his shoulder, and the arm he had wrapped about her, go suddenly stiff. “F-forgive me. I was surprised, that is all, Margaret. I meant no offence.”
Margaret had, in only a few seconds, decided that this position was quite a comfortable one. She made no move to leap away from him, as his opened embrace seemed to permit. Rather, a bashful smile soon developed into a quiet chuckle, and then blossomed into hearty laughter as John’s own expression lightened in relief.
His arm tightened once more as he shifted her weight to hold her more comfortably. “May I ask to what I owe the pleasure of this interruption to my nap?” He grinned, flashing that artless, incandescent smile she remembered from their early acquaintance.
“It is late, and I thought perhaps you might like something to eat.” She flicked a meaningful gaze to the tray on the desk.
His brow furrowed in distress. “Late? How late?”
He craned his neck about to look over his shoulder at a clock, allowing her an unimpeded view of his exposed throat. Margaret’s eyes widened. Yes, this was a very comfortable seat, indeed.
“Nearly eleven!” he lamented when he found the time. “How can that be?” His free hand pressed into his eyes. “Margaret, I never meant to stay so long.”
“I noticed,” she smiled down at her lap, pardoning him. “You must be quite weary.”
He sighed, then his hand clasped hers. “I had every intention of returning to you this evening. You have been too much alone, and it was not my wish to abandon you once again. I fear that I am proving a disappointment to you.”
“Had I known,”—she felt her cheeks heating—“I would have brought you a tray earlier. Perhaps I will remember that in the future, so you might be able to finish more quickly.”
A radiance lit his eyes, and a hopeful smile hovered on his lips. “You would do that?”
“If you would like it.”
His grin widened. “I most certainly would, but I hope you may not find too many occasions to do so. I do not recall the last time I fell asleep at my desk.”
She cast a worried glance at the scattered correspondence and tally sheets arrayed over the surface. “Is there some trouble, other than Mr Williams’ illness today?”
He sighed, his far hand nestling ever more comfortably around her waist. “It would be unfair to claim there is not, for you deserve the whole of the matter. Yes, the mill’s finances have been strained since the strikes. Our orders have been delayed, which has caused our buyers hardships of their own, and their payments have been slow. I would seek out new buyers to generate more immediate capital, but I cannot in good conscience take their orders when I am still catching up from several months ago.”
She stared uncomprehendingly at the stack. “I suppose I do not understand what you can hope to do here. You are searching for some detail you might have missed?”
She looked back to him with the question and found that his face had tipped very near her neck while she was looking away. He pulled back, sucking in a deep breath. “Y-yes,” he stammered, then shook his head very slightly as if to clear it.
“Or, rather, not that so much as simply updating all my records, as I must do each day. It is a tedious business, and one in which I cannot dare to fall behind. I am afraid that several unforeseen events today have utterly derailed all my usual routines. Fortunately—” he rubbed his eyes again—“I believe I can safely retire now and make up the rest on the morrow.”
“You must be hungry. Had you any luncheon?”
“Higgins brought me a bite around midday, while we were trying to sort out a troublesome loom. Best hire I ever made, Margaret. I owe you my gratitude.”
Margaret, modest as she was, came very near to leaning a mere three inches closer to kiss those rugged cheeks in that moment. She had never imagined such a confession from him, and it came so readily! The pleasure of his easy embrace, as she perched upon his knee, and her growing admiration for the man as she now so intimately saw him, swelled painfully in her heart. If she had not already begun to love him before she had married him, he would not have left her long in peace.
It was her own reserve that sabotaged her. Each moment spent in his company made her more thoroughly his, but there remained her own lingering feelings of guilt. He had every reason to doubt her integrity! She could not absolve herself, and would not allow him to do so, in her certainty that a man such as he could never sincerely embrace a woman who had once defrauded the truth. Could he do so, his own honour would become suspect.
Margaret had smiled at his light-hearted quip about Higgins, but her turning thoughts had checked her before she acted upon her audacious impulse. John apparently sensed the shift in her manner. His expression sobered, and he altered his posture to assist her to her feet. Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be removed from his embrace.
John’s face was bright red—for what reason, she did not know, but his knuckles pressed to his brows in some attempt to command himself. Margaret, her cheeks burning, busied herself in presenting to him the simple repast. It was little more than a meat pasty and a snifter of brandy, for she had not thought it wise to bring a hot tea kettle or a full meal so far.
John had regained some measure of his composure, accepting the silverware that she proffered and preparing to address himself to the tray. “Would you like to share it?” he asked, his tones once more hesitant.
The astonishment must have been plain on her face, for he rushed to justify himself. “I only thought perhaps you might be hungry as well. Has it not also been some while since you ate?”
“I am well enough, but I thank you.” She withdrew to his side and crossed her hands patiently over her skirts.
His eyebrows quirked. “Then, I suppose the sooner I put this away, the earlier we may go to bed.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the blood drained from his face. His fork dropped with a clatter and he raised his head, an apology already on his lips.
Margaret was turning her face, fearing it must be several shades of pink. She daintily cleared her throat and tried to act as though she had not heard his remark. How was she to respond to such a notion? He had every right, did he not, to make any requests he wished of her, but had not yet seemed inclined to do so. Whatever one might call the budding urges within her own heart, it was more than a little humiliating that he appeared to nurture no similar appetites.
Or… did he? She daringly watched him through slitted eyes as he tried to eat his meal with both haste and good manners. He was casting hopeful glances her way every few seconds. Was it possible that he did, in fact, desire her as he once claimed, but in his doubt would not permit himself to approach her? Of course. She dropped her eyes to the floor. That old shame seemed forever between them!
John finished his meal and drained the contents of the b
randy snifter. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and reclaimed his coat and hat near the door before she could tidy up the remnants of the meal. “Leave it. It is late; I will see to it tomorrow.” He offered his arm and even wrapped his free hand over hers when she took it.
Margaret glanced up at him. “Your hand is still freezing! Are you well?”
He shrugged as they walked. “My office is warm, perhaps a little too warm, during the day, but once the work is over and the boiler cools, it can be like an ice box. I am afraid I was in it for far too long this evening.”
“And your room is probably cold, too,” she lamented.
“Perhaps I might share your fire again tonight?” he suggested in the darkness. She could not read his expression, but something in his voice sent a prickle down her neck.
“If… if you are not too weary.”
“I am, and I expect you are, as well, but if you can bear a quarter hour longer, I should like to enjoy your company for a few minutes, at least.”
Margaret’s cheeks tugged into an elated, laughing smile, but she made herself answer sedately. Perhaps he might yet be willing to bridge the gulf of misunderstandings between them, and if he were, she resolved to tell him everything—so long as he cared to hear. “Of course, John.”
The elder Mrs Thornton was not below when they returned to the house—for which Margaret, at least, was grateful. They separated at their respective doors to dress for bed. John would only require a handful of minutes, and so they agreed he would wait at her hearth while she finished in her dressing room.
Margaret hurried over her typical evening regimen and emerged only a few moments after she had first heard his steps passing through her bedroom. He faced away from her, his arm resting over the back of the little settee. She trod softly, in still bare feet around the furniture to take her place but stopped when she reached the hearth.
He was asleep again. That bristled, dimpled chin nodded to his chest, and with every few breaths she heard a rasping sound in his throat. There would be no waking him easily this time.
She deliberated for a moment, but at length decided that she ought to do as she had last agreed. Gingerly, she eased herself into the seat beside him. The slight jostling to the cushions caused his arm to roll down from the frame of the settee to drop over her shoulder.
He stirred in his sleep. “Margaret?” he mumbled thickly, his eyes still closed.
“Yes, John?” she answered, knowing that exhausted and mellow from his brandy, he would never hear her.
Whether he did register her response could not be certain, but his head rolled towards her, and he nuzzled a firm, very distinct kiss to her temple.
Margaret allowed herself a moment of hope. Somewhere within the gentlemanly, reserved man she had married, still lurked the passionate man who had sworn undying love to her. Perhaps it was not impossible that they might yet discover the sort of marital harmony she craved. Perhaps, if she could bring herself to trust him enough to share her darkest doubts and griefs, as he had done with her, his faith might be restored, and her own heart might find its helpmeet.
Smiling at that last thought, she nestled her head into his shoulder to relish at least the sense of his company, if not his conversation. Neither roused from that warm little settee until dawn.
Five
“Margaret? The carriage is ready.”
John had spent a short while that morning at the mill, helping Williams settle in after his day of illness. As soon as it was possible, he had hurried back to his home to keep his promise to his wife.
Nothing, not even the still-recalcitrant loom, nor the mounting stack of paperwork on his desk, could wipe the smile from his face this morning. He had awakened with Margaret’s soft cheek on his chest, and her arm draped unconsciously round him. That, he had instantly decided, was how he wished to begin every day for the rest of his life—although he could gladly do without the lingering stiff neck.
Margaret rose from her chair to join him in the doorway. “Mother, we shall return before the evening meal,” he assured her as Margaret drew near. Hannah’s only response was a dry, silent nod.
Dissatisfied, he stared at her. His mother was certainly not making things any easier for Margaret. He sighed in exasperation, but Margaret’s fingers slid around the elbow he had offered, and all other thoughts were banished. From that moment on, he could anticipate an entire day with her.
The drive was not a long one, and, indeed, both had walked the very same distance many times. He had, however, desired to preserve her strength, and expected that the completion of the day’s tasks would find her quite worn. In addition, he thought with some satisfaction, the carriage ride offered yet another opportunity to wrap his arm about her as a shelter against the cool September morning. She did not appear to object.
Dixon greeted them at the door and led the way through a maze of crates in what had once been the family’s drawing-room. “Are these the items to be sold?”
“Everything in this room,” she informed him primly. “That fellow Harper you sent is coming for them tomorrow.”
“What is left for Margaret to decide?”
Dixon crossed her arms. “The master’s room. I won’t touch that,” she declared stubbornly, with a significant glance towards Margaret’s pale face.
John narrowed his eyes. “Dixon, you look as though you could do with some fresh air.”
Dixon straightened somewhat, her self-important expression melting, and her arms dropping from their combative stance. “Sir?”
John placed a possessive hand in the small of Margaret’s back. “Mrs Thornton and I will manage Mr Hale’s personal effects. You have accomplished a deal here, and we are most grateful. Take this,” he searched in his pocket for his coin purse and dispensed the contents into her palm. “Just outside, you can catch an omnibus for a six-pence and take a very pleasant ride out to a charming country town. There are gentle fields and a quaint little marketplace where you may purchase anything you like. I think you will find it most refreshing. I wish you a peaceful day of rest, Dixon.”
Dixon accepted the coins, for he would not tolerate a refusal, and stood gaping for another half moment towards her mistress. Margaret cast him a baffled glance but made no moves to countermand his will. He almost wished she would, so he might once more behold that breath-taking, defiant beauty who had so thoroughly shattered his complacency.
Instead, Margaret took the woman’s hand lovingly in her own. “You do deserve a day to yourself, Dixon. I expect we will want you to join us at the Marlborough house by tomorrow. Mr Thornton is making the arrangements, so you will be quite comfortable.”
She tipped a sly glance to him, and he caught it with a pleased smirk. There she was. He had not married a mouse after all.
As Dixon wandered away for her hat and shawl, still stunned and confused, he offered Margaret his hand to the stairs. “Your Miss Dixon disapproves of me.”
Margaret took his hand but did not follow at once. “Dixon wished for me to make a different choice.”
He stared in puzzlement. She had some option other than marriage to him? The only other possible avenue would have been that of a governess. Fortunately for him, she would be dismally unqualified for the post, for her wilful nature would inevitably have clashed with her employer.
She gave him no opportunity to ask the question. Her eyes flashed back to his and her hand tightened around his fingers. “Please be gentle with Dixon, John. She is grieving as well, you know. Losing Papa meant losing what she had left of Mamma, and she did love my mother so!”
He gave a tug at her hand and drew her into his arms. She came easily—so willingly! He could almost believe she truly longed for him to hold her. He wrapped her into his chest, delighting in the soft clinging of her arms upon his waistcoat. “I will see she is well cared for, Margaret,” he promised into her ear. “She will always have a place in our home. You have my word.”
A warm smile pulled at the corners of her mouth—the mouth wh
ich was just inches from his own. His pulse hammered, as it always did when he touched her, but he reined himself viciously in check… until her eyes lifted to his. Heaven above, was that a fire kindled in those bright eyes? She held his gaze for a breathless second, and then he watched her eyes dip unconsciously to his own mouth.
His resolve crumbled. He edged very slightly lower, and the most miraculous thing of all happened. Her chin lifted. It was perhaps only by a hairsbreadth, but it was enough.
“Margaret,” he whispered—almost pleaded. There was the barest perceptible nod as her face tipped nearer, and her eyes fluttered closed.
Her breath played over his sensitive skin, and lightly, tenderly, he grazed her upper lip with his mouth. He moved with aching slowness as she trembled in his arms. She shivered, the rhythm of her breath hitching, but she pressed bravely into his embrace.
Her lips parted, and her chin tipped just a little higher, her body leaning into his. Cautiously, she permitted him more, and even reciprocated the gentle strokes of his lips with hesitant brushes of her own. His courage mounted rapidly with his stirring need. Against all his fears, the woman who had been forced to marry him was gradually unfurling her charms… for him. He raised his hand to cup her cheek, to draw her more firmly, but Dixon’s heavy footsteps plodded back from her room off the kitchen to interrupt him.
Margaret stiffened away, gasping in apology. He forgave her with a slight shake of his head and a weak smile, swallowing the wordless jumble of emotions that poured through his mind and paralysed his tongue.
“Well, I’ll be seeing you later, Miss,” Dixon grumbled as she secured her hat.
Margaret drew a short breath. “Ahem, yes, Dixon. We shall likely remain all afternoon. I do hope you enjoy your outing.”
Dixon scowled, but was careful not to do so while looking in John’s direction and saw herself out the door. It rattled closed, and then they two were the only remaining souls in the house.
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