Nothing in his previous experience had offered any true understanding of this moment. The warm sense of her, the tender, honest brush of her lips and the feel of her moving beneath him after their shared passion soothed into his being. This was the belonging and the communion for which his heart had always thirsted. Everything before this withered and could have ceased to exist, so pale was it by comparison.
He lifted from her to admire the play of emotions mirrored in her eyes. They needed no words to convey their promises and secrets. A touch, a breath, the slightest flicker—each detail of expression communicated what a thousand spoken vows would have failed to evoke. How could any man take a woman to himself without this love? The physical pleasure of holding her was beyond mortal comprehension, but this… this transcendent unity, this near perfect empathy, was the rightful province of lovers matched in spirit as well as in the flesh.
He swallowed, realising that his throat had begun to close and his eyes to moisten as his adoring gaze took in the face of his bride. She smiled up at him, her lips tightening in that queer way of one who struggles against joyous tears. He touched a chaste, pure kiss to her forehead, then, at long last, rolled his weight from her.
She turned and slid towards him, nestling on their shared pillow with her nose almost touching his. He groaned in sheer delight and tugged her body against his own. From here, many new possibilities presented themselves, and he meant at length to explore them all.
~
Margaret sighed, rolling more intimately against him, and thrilled to the tickling sensation of his chest hairs as his heart pulsed against her bare skin. She was toying with his hair again, flipping the dark ends over her fingers and teasing it into thick waves at his temple.
“What is it you find so fascinating about my hair?”
“I have never seen it so long. It curls just at the end here.”
His cheek flinched. “Would you be good enough not to tell anyone?”
“Why ever not? I rather like it. The perfectly masterful and fastidious John Thornton, needing a haircut just as any other man. I find it most comforting.”
“I am glad you do, but do not become too fond of it. I am afraid all my usual routines have been… disrupted of late.”
Margaret released a slow breath as her fingers slid down to his chin. He need not clarify that she had been the cause of that disruption, for she understood well enough. She was only relieved now, confident that he had no complaints with the sudden alterations to his life. That made one person who was glad she had come to this house.
“Margaret,” he whispered into her forehead, perhaps sensing where her thoughts had turned, “is there anything I can do to make you feel more at home here?”
She twirled her fingers into the hair curling just near the base of his throat, more discomfited by the prospect of answering his question than by her newfound access to his informally attired person. He seized her fingers, and that steady, serious expression, which was entirely his own, arrested her wandering eyes.
“I know my mother can be trying,” he confessed, with a pained twinge about his face. “I hope she does not trouble you overmuch.”
Margaret blinked away, shrugging. “When I first met her—met you—I gave her every reason to believe as she still does. I was vain and ignorant, I suppose. I do not think she has ever forgiven me for laughing, so long ago, at her suggestion that I might have some interest in you.”
“She would not have minded that so much, had other events not followed.”
Margaret pressed her lips and drew in a short, refreshing breath. She did not wish to think of her mother-in-law just now! She placed her palm flat over his heart. “I can excuse her, for I imagine that if situations were reversed, I would guard my own son with quite as much jealousy as she.”
His brows lifted in profound interest. “Son, did you say?” He fell silent, introspective for a moment as his eyes darted from side to side.
“What did I say?”
A brilliant smile blossomed. Margaret was beginning to look more often for that expression, for she had seen it more frequently in the last day than the entire year and a half previous. He shifted his posture until he leaned over her somewhat, pressing her far shoulder down against the bed to nuzzle her in her most sensitive places.
“John,” she chuckled, and pulled his face up. “What are you on about?”
“I realised what a splendid mother you will make for some lucky boy.” He descended upon her neck while his hands began a pursuit of their own. “I thought perhaps I should do my part,” he rasped into the base of her hair.
“Your part?” she asked vaguely, shivering as his breath swirled over her skin.
“Indeed, and I might have more success if you put your arms around my neck… like so… now, kiss me, Margaret.”
Her eyebrow quirked, and she hesitated for a few seconds, as though she might defy him. Relent she did, however, and no more words were spoken for some while.
~
The warmth roused him first. The compact body lying next to his own radiated it as though she were her very own source of heat. His lids drowsily slitted and lifted, taking in the ivory laced sheets—decidedly not his—and the rose-papered room—also not his! A lazy grin tugged at the side of his mouth. It was surely the greatest coup of his life to awaken in a woman’s bed.
He glanced over the shapely figure beside him to evaluate the light from the window. It was just about the time he normally awoke for his work day… but not today. No less than a force of nature could pry him from that bed so soon. Consoling himself that it was not so very selfish to take a late morning—after all, he and his bride had been denied the pleasure of a wedding trip—he settled once more into the pillow.
She was breathing gently, her face turned towards him, and little tendrils of dark hair fluttered near her mouth. Thick lashes twitched upon her cheeks in dreams, and the counterpane dipped over her bared shoulder with each breath. If she were to sigh deeply, it would shift altogether….
A more cynical observer might have claimed it was all the novelty of the thing, and a generous quantity of pent-up masculine need which held him spellbound, but he would have argued differently. He would never cease in his fascination with her delicate form. He could gaze on endlessly, admiring each new facet of the miracle that was woman—and not just any woman, but his Margaret. Even those small deviations in symmetry, to which a sculptor might object, only made her more perfect and more real in his eyes. His agonised imagination, tortured with longing for so many months, never could have dreamt those details!
Within a scant few moments, the ache to hold her overcame his reverent adoration. Perhaps he need not wake her fully, only take her in his arms…. As soon as he had touched her, however, her body filled with a fresh breath and her eyes startled open. She blinked a few times as if trying to determine whether she was still dreaming. “John?” she asked blearily.
Abandoning all efforts at not rousing her, he wrapped his arms about her waist to draw her close. “Good morning, Love,” he murmured into her forehead.
He felt her sigh in contentment as she burrowed her face into the cavity of his chest. Her greeting was not distinct, but warm, nonetheless. He stroked up her bare back, quite enthralled to be so privileged. “Did you sleep well?”
“Once I was permitted to do so,” she retorted, and he could feel her smiling against his skin.
“One can survive on very little sleep. I shall only need about two hours from now on.”
“And what will you do with all that extra time, John?”
“I thought I would take up needlework. Perhaps I can fashion you a more attractive nightgown. What prig decreed that women's nightwear must be as shapeless as a cotton bale?”
“What need have I for a nightgown?” She arched back from him just enough to display a most appetising prospect.
His eyes dipped appreciatively. “Well, when you put it quite like that, I suppose my time might be better employed in keepi
ng you warm. As a matter of fact, I believe this bit just here is a little chilled….”
It was well after seven, and the mill had already been operating for a full hour and a half, when the master at last descended the stairs, dressed and ready for his work. Never had he felt more refreshed and able to address himself to the tasks of his day, and yet never had his bed called to him more insistently! How grateful he was that the morrow would bring his weekly day of rest, and that he would have no cause to rouse his sleeping wife early for any reasons but those purely his own.
Seven
It was a somewhat less frigid atmosphere in the sitting room shared by the two Thornton ladies on this morning. Margaret brought with her a bit of point lace that she had begun months ago, and in a gallant gesture of goodwill, chose a seat opposite her mother-in-law to join in a kindred pursuit with her. Hannah lifted a brow and largely ignored her companion, but at least she offered no criticisms.
Margaret might have been more at ease if she had known Hannah was silent less out of disapproval than from complete loss for words. What was there to be said? John’s glowing countenance and unusually late arrival to breakfast had spoken everything, and Hannah had been a young married woman herself once, after all.
She tried not to think… but she was trapped in the same house with them! With her! She shook herself, trying to block the indecent thoughts from her mind. She had expected that one morning she would see him thus but had not anticipated that it would come so soon.
She ripped out an unfortunate stitch, reflecting that there was a very good reason for young couples to take some manner of wedding tour… away from their homes. There was no more frightfully awkward company than that of besotted newlyweds. It was all dreadfully uncomfortable!
As a consequence of the rumpled sentiments of both females, total quiet suffocated that little room for over an hour before some disturbance occurred. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” Jane entered and bobbed a curtsey. She addressed Margaret, as the proper mistress of the home, but it was Hannah who responded.
“Yes, Jane?” she answered, casting a quick, guilty glance to Margaret.
“There’s a gen’l’man, says ‘e wants Miss Hale.”
Margaret set her needlework to the side, her eyes narrowed curiously. How could anyone know to look for her here and still ask for her as Miss Hale? “Did he say what he wants, Nancy?”
“No, Mum. Henry Lennox, ‘e said ‘is name was.”
Margaret froze, her eyes flown wide. Her gaze shifted to her mother-in-law, and found that familiar, stern expression hardening. She swallowed. In a trembling voice, she made answer, and prayed she sounded more assured than she felt. “Show him in, Nancy…” she glanced again at the older woman, “… and will you please send for Mr Thornton?”
Margaret hoped that the twitch upon the matron’s cheek meant that her last request for John’s presence during this interview had somewhat mollified the other’s concerns. She rose to greet her caller, draping her hands nervously across her black skirts. She had not seen Henry since that day in Helstone… oh, what a distressing memory!
A moment later, a moderately tall and respectably dressed gentleman was shown into the room. Hannah kept a suspicious eye on her daughter-in-law, and it was not unfelt, causing Margaret’s greeting to seem even more subdued than it might normally have. Henry came forward to offer eager felicitations, but she sombrely stood her ground.
“Good morning, Mr Lennox—” she dipped her head, speaking softly.
His brows, brown and somewhat coarse, jumped in disappointment at her cool detachment. “Margaret! Good heavens, I’ve been all over this god-forsaken city! I’ve only just heard the news about your father. I am so sorry! Are you well?”
“I am bearing up, thank you. Mr Henry Lennox, may I present Mrs Hannah Thornton.”
Henry Lennox turned to extend a cursory greeting. “My pleasure, Mrs Thornton. It was good of you to take in Miss Hale at such a time.”
Hannah twitched her mouth, neither a smile nor a frown upon her face. The next few moments would demonstrate the former Miss Hale’s loyalties once and for all. Either she would find all her suspicions validated, or she would enjoy watching this brash young man and his assumptions all set on his ear. Margaret had proved rather adept at first luring then disappointing men, and it might be entertaining to watch the enchantress at work. She lifted her chin, waiting.
Mr Lennox spared her a brief look of confusion at her silent greeting, then turned back to Margaret. “Forgive my abruptness, Miss Hale.” He cast another glance to the black cloud in the corner. Between Margaret’s diminished attitude and her scowling chaperon, apparently, he could not bring himself to use her Christian name again.
“I heard about your father yesterday—ran into one of his old Oxford fellows at the club. I thought to look in on you, but the last address Maxwell and Edith left had you at another end of town. By heaven, what a mercy you were not there! Such a dreary, squalid place. A porter there told me I might find you here, and… well, I am glad to see you have some friends here in this frightful city!”
Margaret was gazing at the floor with glassy, unseeing eyes and hot cheeks, in the attitude of one trying to block out an unwelcome lecture. “I am sorry you were given such trouble,” she murmured distantly. It was like hearing her own first impressions of Milton come back to taunt her, and the cavalier air in which the slights were given jarred in her ears and made her cringe in compassion for the loyal Milton woman beside her.
“Oh, think nothing of the trouble, Miss Hale. I am only glad to find you well. I’ve written to Maxwell—but surely you have written to your cousin? I expected you would wish to leave this place at once and go to them. It seemed better than going to Cadiz, I thought. I could escort you and your woman… Dickens, was that her name? There is a steamer leaving for Greece in two days—”
“Mr Lennox!” Margaret at last interrupted, her cheeks on fire. “I thank you for your consideration, but I am recently married.”
He jerked forward in a faint stumble as if trying to retract his earlier assumptions. His eyes darted, bulged, and he gaped in absolute consternation. “E-excuse me? Married?” He whirled to verify her statement but found only a smug glitter in Hannah Thornton’s dark eyes.
“I beg your pardon, but did I hear correctly? Just recently? Whom could you have married?” He turned back and started afresh when he finally noted the fine gold ring adorning her hand.
No classical playwright could have timed John’s arrival more precisely, for he had been just on his way back to the house to enjoy an early luncheon with Margaret when Jane alerted him to the presence of a guest. He strode confidently into the room, looking every inch the master of the house and holding a clear distinction in height over the other man. He came forward, his hand extended.
“John Thornton, sir. It is a pleasure to meet any friend of my wife’s.”
“Henry Lennox,” that fellow gulped, his eyes shifting to Margaret once more as he tentatively shook John’s hand.
John released the man, then searched Margaret’s expression. Her receptiveness to her caller would determine how he was to manage. Outright displeasure would eject Mr Lennox from the house immediately, and overt warmth would set him on his guard—not that he had any cause to be jealous, of course! Not after… well, not after the sort of morning he had enjoyed so far. She appeared unsettled, and perhaps even glad for his intervention, which meant that he was free to be as friendly as he wished with this brazen chap.
“You come from London, Mr Lennox?” Margaret drew a few steps closer to John and he placed a hand on the small of her back.
“I… yes, as a matter of fact, I am a barrister.” Lennox straightened in an attempt to preserve his dignity.
Margaret touched her husband’s arm. “John, Henry is Edith’s brother-in-law. It was he who helped investigate the charges against Frederick last year.” This simple clarification, emphasising to both men the depth of her confidences in them, caused John to sti
ffen and Henry to relax—but only a little.
“I see,” John replied, his voice dropping to a deeper timbre. “I understand, Mr Lennox, that we owe you a debt of gratitude, though I was sorry to learn that you were unable to assist my brother-in-law.”
“Yes… yes, that was unfortunate.” Henry’s fingers began to twitch at his sides. The trusting, quiet looks Margaret was exchanging with… with that man… he could not quit the house readily enough! It was demoralising already to have made such a grievous blunder, assuming she was waiting helplessly here for him. It was utterly mortifying that this tradesman had succeeded where he, a friend of her family, had failed!
He wondered briefly if it had been the work of a moment, a marriage born out of despondency and need. If only he had heard of Mr Hale’s death right away! Perhaps it might have been he who now rested his hand possessively over hers, and he whose protection she sought. His gaze fell.
“Well, I… I only came to see that Miss… that everything was well,” he stammered. “If you will excuse me, I believe the next train departs in half an hour.”
“Lennox,” John stopped him as he began to retreat, casting a glance down to his wife. “It was good of you to come. I am grateful to you, for your concern for Margaret. I am glad she has such friends.”
Lennox did not quite know how to take this little speech. The tone was open enough, but there was the very faintest tightening around Thornton’s eyes when he spoke. Was the man insinuating that Margaret’s family—and by extension he himself—had abandoned her for all this time? He swallowed.
Well, had they not done just that? Had Mrs Shaw even sent more than a letter from her travels in Italy when her own sister had passed away? It all seemed unfair that he, who had no right to maintain contact with an unmarried girl—and one who had refused him, at that—should be lumped in with that lot. He sighed, his shoulders drooping in defeat.
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