“Where are Beryl’s parents?” Lady Blackwood asked when they were all seated.
“My husband’s younger brother and his wife remain in their home in Bedfordshire. They have five other children, with Beryl being the eldest.”
“So blessed,” Jenny said.
Cam thought so, too. His own parents had only him to whom they could transfer all their hopes and dreams, as well as to carry on the family line. He knew his mother had lost two others, though they never spoke of them.
“Beryl is a delight to have with me,” Lady Cambrey added, “but I believe she is not e ready for the upcoming Season, or even the next.”
Everyone nodded in agreement as they had recently heard either Eleanor or Beryl shrieking with childish laughter and then running loudly across the main foyer.
“I agree,” Lady Blackwood said. “Our Eleanor is not ready to come out.”
At that very instant, Margaret’s gaze shot toward Cam. When their eyes met, he felt the attraction to her run through his entire body. Was this how one finally knew one had met the right person? For certainly, he’d never experienced such a visceral draw toward a woman.
Lust? God yes! But bone-deep wanting? Never.
Cam spent the rest of the evening wondering how he could get her alone. They hadn’t had a private moment for many weeks, not since sitting beside one another at Sadler’s Wells, watching an untalented singer. He very much wanted to change that.
After a savory meal of mutton cutlets, his mother’s favorite meat, they retired again to the drawing room. Jenny begged off entertaining, but Margaret was persuaded to play the pianoforte. In fact, she seemed to shine even more brightly when she sat upon the bench with all eyes on her.
His mother had a goodly collection of sheet music for Beryl, and Cam watched Margaret sift through the stack. Just before she played, he noted how she sent a withering glance to Eleanor to quell her giggling.
When all was silent, she began a happy sounding song—“A Life on the Ocean Wave,” he thought, though without anyone singing accompaniment, it sounded similar to many others.
He was pleased she was an accomplished player. There was nothing more embarrassing than a well-heeled young lady who made a great show of taking her place at the piano only to plunk out a tune that offended one’s ears.
“Do you not sing, Miss Blackwood?” asked his mother between songs.
Margaret cocked her head charmingly. “I’m afraid my voice is not on a par with those of many who perform in the parlors of London, Lady Cambrey. I, for one, prefer not to do something in public at which I am not proficient. It smacks of desperation and clawing for attention. If there is one here, however, who would like to accompany me, I am more than grateful.”
Cam stared, eyes wide, as no one moved. After all, who would dare to sing after such a challenge? Smacking of desperation, indeed! None of the ladies sallied forth, even though Beryl actually had a rather lilting voice, which seemed to be on key at least half the time.
Margaret waited, then turned back to the keys, ready to continue her solo performance.
“I’ll give it a go,” Cam offered, the words out of his mouth before he thought too much of them.
He heard an audible breath from Margaret. Apparently, he’d surprised her by picking up the gauntlet. Having been on a choir at school, he decided he could muddle through as long as the words were in front of him and it was a song he’d heard before.
From his lounging position on a tufted divan, he rose and approached the piano.
Margaret stared at him.
“Your choice, Lord Cambrey.” Then she nodded toward the pile of sheet music.
He pawed through it and then placed some pages in front of her. To his delight, her cheeks went pink as she scanned his selection of a tender love song, best sung by a man to the woman he admired.
When Margaret’s eyes flashed up at him, he raised an eyebrow. In return, she sent him a dazzling smile, sending him back a step with its vibrancy. Either she appreciated his choice, or she was about to give him a come down.
Did she consider it a challenge, an invitation, a declaration? He couldn’t tell. After he’d nodded his readiness, she began to play, the notes crisp if a trifle too quick for his liking, perhaps done to throw him off balance.
Coming in at what he hoped was the exact proper place, he began to sing “Annabelle Lee,” which had not too difficult a range.
Leaning over her slightly to read the words, Cam turned the page as necessary, trying not to be distracted by her nearness nor the divine floral scent of her hair. If he wasn’t careful, he’d disgrace himself in front of the ladies, and was very glad he wasn’t wearing the tight stovepipe breeches some wore, which would leave nothing to their imaginations.
As he turned the page again, he brushed her shoulder, and she faltered. Good! He hoped she had some awareness of him as he did her.
At the closing notes, she looked down at the keys, then stood up by turning away from him, making it impossible for him to see her expression. When her family and his clapped, Cam reached for her hand so they could perform a small bow together.
As his fingers closed over hers, he felt her jump, then relax. She curtsied toward the small audience as he bowed, and then, unable to help himself, he squeezed her hand gently.
Instantly, she glanced up at him. He hoped it was happiness he saw in her eyes, for that was what he felt. Simply happy to be around her, to be touching her, however briefly. By the soft bowing of her lips, he decided she was indeed pleased, at least by their duet.
His mother declared cards were next for the evening’s entertainment. With an odd number of people, they decided to play Hearts, which caused a great deal of laughter and good-spirited competition until the two younger girls became bored. When they dashed off to Beryl’s room for a private chat before the evening was over, Cam envied their freedom.
Truth be told, he wished he could spirit Margaret away to his bedroom for some private time, though chatting was not uppermost on his mind.
Still, the opportunity arose to speak alone with her as she wandered the edge of the parlor, examining his mother’s baubles and curios on the cabinets before standing in front of the bookshelves.
“You are a good musician,” he offered as she drew out a book from the shelf.
Without looking at him, she remarked, “I note you didn’t say ‘a great one.’”
“I have never lied to you,” he told her, and she laughed.
Thank goodness she was not one of those easily offended.
“Fair enough. I don’t like empty flattery anyway. I am a good musician though I could get better if I practiced more.”
“I have no doubt,” Cam agreed. “I suppose you don’t receive much empty flattery in any case, not when there are so many qualities about you which engender true admiration.”
Her cheeks went a pleasing pink again.
“And you have a good voice,” she offered, returning the book to its place and taking another one.
“I note you didn’t say ‘a great one,’” he teased.
“I have never lied to you,” she repeated.
“No, yet you have stood me up quite magnificently.”
Frowning, she looked up at him. “I …? Oh, our dance.”
Was that chagrin on her face? Was he a rude host to make her uncomfortable?
“It was nothing, really,” he added. “I’m sure you simply muddled the names on your card, so very full to overflowing as it was.”
“I don’t muddle things,” Margaret stated simply.
He waited. When it was clear an apology was not forthcoming, he shrugged. “As I said, it was nothing.”
Her glance darted past him toward her sister, and he knew, with a sick feeling, Jenny had had words with her about it. What’s more, now he’d brought it up, giving it even more importance.
What an idiot! If Margaret had said she was sorry for the mix-up, it would be finished. Instead, she was behaving mulishly by not acknowle
dging her error, and he was left hanging out to dry.
“John, come tell the ladies what Palmerston and Russell told you about the French. Their government is collapsing, is it not?”
And with that, his tête-à-tête with Margaret was at an uncomfortable end.
He needed to stop obsessing with this one young woman for she was too flawed to become his wife. She would drive him mad with her fickleness and her inability to take responsibility for even the smallest of affronts.
However, it was the holidays and his best friend was away for an indeterminate amount of time, and thus, he would continue to invite the Blackwoods to his home, at least until the main Season started after the year’s end. There would be a couple large events his mother customarily held, and undoubtedly, Jenny and her family would enjoy being part of them.
When a week later, Cam spied Margaret riding in Hyde Park with Westing, her maid along as a chaperone, he tamped down his irritation and rode past them with a nod of his head. Westing acknowledged him coolly in return, but Margaret’s eyes opened wide, her expression unfathomable.
He hadn’t gone but a few yards farther down the path when she called his name.
“Lord Cambrey, please wait.”
Halting, surprised at her forwardness, he turned in his saddle to see her riding toward him. Beyond her, Westing and the chaperone waited.
“Miss Blackwood, is something the matter?”
She appeared flustered, very unlike herself.
“I wanted to tell you something. It has troubled me since the lovely evening at your house.”
“Oh?” Suddenly he thought he knew what was coming, and he wasn’t going to make it easy on her. He could, though, take the opportunity to enjoy her sparkling eyes and pink cheeks, and watch her lovely mouth as she apologized. For he was convinced an apology over leaving him unpartnered was about to be tendered.
“I am sorry if Eleanor was too boisterous. I hope it didn’t annoy your mother. My sister can be high-spirited and needs little encouragement to become giggly and loud.”
He remained silent a moment as her words settled into his brain. An apology of sorts but entirely for the wrong Blackwood daughter. How strange! Perhaps Margaret was utterly oblivious to societal rules at a ball.
“I do not recall my mother saying anything regarding Miss Eleanor.”
“Good,” Margaret said. “Then I shall tell my mother all is well.”
“Of course. Let your mother not be worried for an instant. In fact, I believe my mother is issuing invitations for a large party at our home next week. Though there will not be any others so young, I am certain Eleanor will be invited to keep company with Beryl.”
“Good,” Margaret said again.
It seemed they had exhausted this topic and could not conceivably carry on a discourse any longer regarding her sister or Cam’s mother, yet Margaret still held her horse at rest next to his.
“Your companions are waiting,” he reminded her, glancing past to see Westing’s horse prancing, possibly picking up on the irritation of its rider. An irritated marquess. How perfectly delightful!
“Well, I should be off then,” Margaret said, starting to turn her horse away. When she was facing in the other direction, she added, “I didn’t realize it was your name on my card for the next dance at the Marechals’ ball. Good day, Lord Cambrey.”
With a swift motion of her heels to her horse’s flanks, she trotted off before he could respond. He kept watching until the three rode away.
So that was how Miss Margaret apologized for herself. A tad off-handed to be sure, but she left him with the impression if she’d looked at her card and realized the next dance was his, then she would not have missed it.
Uplifted by her words, he rode off feeling better than he had in days.
“You poor besotted dunce,” he muttered to himself.
Chapter Three
Breathlessly happy with the coincidence of the morning, Maggie entered their townhouse with her maid, glad to be rid of Lord Westing. There was nothing wrong with him at all. Not a blessed thing. But the only bright spot in the ride had been meeting up with John and finally unburdening herself to him.
In truth, she hadn’t cared a fig about Eleanor’s behavior at the Cambrey home. No one else had either. It had simply seemed like a good way to start an apology, especially when her own actions, though entirely unintentional, had apparently hurt his feelings.
Yes, she felt quite pleased with herself for finally righting that wrong and letting the man know she had not meant to cut him. She’d simply been careless.
And for her virtuous behavior this morning, she’d found out about another party they would be attending with his mother as hostess. How wonderful! She liked the smaller events at people’s homes even more than the crowded, ticketed balls. True, there was less vigor and birr, less choice of dancers, and a little less excitement. At the same time, there would be more opportunity for talking, and certainly the food was better.
What’s more, she very much liked Lady Cambrey, whose husband had sadly passed away about four years earlier, or so Margaret’s mother recalled. Nothing tragic, simply an older man falling ill from influenza. The title passed to John, and everything continued as it should. They had not suffered any of the indignities that had befallen the Blackwood family.
“Are you home, dear?”
“Yes, it’s me, Mummy. Am I too late for eggs and toast?”
*
“I’m thrilled to see your lovely family again,” Lady Cambrey graciously received them.
The Cambreys’ receiving line, including Beryl, in the front hall of their townhouse, befitted the formal nature of the event. All the Blackwood ladies had dressed more elegantly than for the previous small dinner they’d attended there.
Seeing the furniture had been cleared out in the spacious front parlor whose double doors stood wide open, Maggie almost clapped her hands with delight and had to ball them into fists to stop herself. The dancing here would be intimate. And no dance cards had been handed out, thus offering far more opportunity to partner with the same person than could ever happen at the large balls with hundreds of eligibles vying for each dance.
She couldn’t deny she wanted to dance with John Angsley as many times as possible.
When he bent over her gloved hand and brought it to his lips, she hoped her expression told him she would not have missed their dance on purpose. His smiling eyes indicated they were once again on a good footing.
She moved along the line to allow the press of people behind her to enter. Stepping into the parlor, Maggie found a small group of musicians already warming up in one corner. As happened at most of these events, there would be dancing first, then everyone would move into the dining room for food they could easily eat while standing, since there were far too many to sit at the table. Then they would resume dancing for many hours into the night.
Looking forward to a splendid evening, Maggie took up her place by her family to watch as others entered.
*
Cam decided to forego nonchalant aloofness. In fact, as soon as he saw Margaret enter, he thought, To hell with seeming uninterested. This was his home, his party, and his bloody parlor. Or at least, it was his and his mother’s. And Lady Cambrey wouldn’t mind a bit if he played favorites and asked Margaret for the first dance and even the second. They would lead the Grand March, even it if it was actually a miniature march.
When Margaret had approached him in the receiving line, he’d felt himself beaming at her, like a schoolboy looking at sweets. Was it possible her eyes were the sparkliest, her skin, especially at her décolletage, the creamiest, and even her ringlets the ringliest of any he’d ever seen? She seemed to have a shimmer about her causing every other woman to appear muted and dull.
He wished his lips could have touched more than merely her gloved hand. And then she’d disappeared among the revelers.
After the last guests arrived, Cam could finally head into the parlor. Seemingly, ever
yone invited had turned up, for there was quite a crush around the edges of the great room. Preferring the previous intimate get-together they’d had with the Blackwoods, the only thing that would have made the previous gathering better was if his friend Simon had returned from the Continent to claim his wife. That, and if Cam had been able to touch Margaret with more than a shoulder brushing as he’d turned her music sheets.
Tonight, at least, he would hold her in his arms.
As he’d hoped, she agreed to be his partner for the Grand March, and they led the couples in an intricate dance of circles and turns and even through an arch created by the other dancers’ arms.
Frustrating as hell, Cam thought. What he wanted was a waltz in order to hold her closely. To his delight, the very next dance was, indeed, a waltz, and since she was still by his side, it was the most natural thing in the world to partner up.
In the space of a few weeks, from the last time he’d danced with her, something had changed. Not with her, for she was still as lovely, as spirited, and as light on her feet—and his—as she had been before. Perhaps it was simply getting to speak with her more at the various social events. Maybe it was even the duet they’d performed.
What had changed? he wondered, looking down at her. What did he feel?
Proprietary. It felt as if Miss Margaret Blackwood belonged to him. They fit so well. When she looked up at him with her gold-flecked, tawny eyes and stole his breath away, Cam couldn’t imagine feeling the same about anyone else. Indeed, he never had before. He’d been to bed with a beautiful courtesan once whom another friend had insisted would absolutely overturn his apple cart. Truly, she had been magnificent in many ways, mostly with her lips and tongue, but she hadn’t left him breathless. And she definitely hadn’t made him want her only for himself.
Moreover, this unfamiliar possessiveness for Margaret caused an unwelcome emotion, jealousy! He didn’t want her to ride with Westing, or dance with him, or anyone else for that matter.
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