What did he think of her for allowing such?
Did he do the same with other debutantes? she had wondered one night, sitting in her room on Portman Square. How could she ever know? He seemed adept at finding a moment alone with her. Perhaps he had a particular talent for doing the same, and often, with other women. There was simply no way to discover if that were the case short of asking each single lady of her acquaintance if they’d been kissed by the Earl of Cambrey.
A disheartening thought. And what of Lady Jane Chatley? It was difficult to believe a man who was as good at kissing and as eager to do it as John Angsley could have spent so much time with the wealthy and attractive Jane and not kissed her.
Westing led her to their table, and Maggie could see for the first time what Jane’s skills were as a hostess. There were fresh flowers everywhere, giving the entire tent a sweet aroma. Banners hung from the tent’s scaffolds, proclaiming messages of welcome and gratitude for everyone’s generosity.
Maggie couldn’t help smirking. After all, she knew of very few of the ton who cared a fig for the many orphans they studiously tried to avoid in the streets each day. Most held a perfumed handkerchief to their noses to keep out the children’s rough odors if encountered. Moreover, if they cared to, the elite of London could donate to orphanages without the benefit of attending a high-profile banquet and cricket match, but then they wouldn’t get to gawk at Prince Albert.
Jane had done a good thing, along with John, Maggie reminded herself. And with the benefit itself, Maggie could find no fault. It was running smoothly, with servants threading the crowd, offering trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne or wine. A band was playing in the corner as if they were indoors in a ballroom.
Eleanor was already seated at a table of honor with John’s mother, Lady Cambrey, as well as Beryl Angsley, and Lady Chatley, Jane’s mother. There were two others as well as two empty seats, presumably for the host and hostess.
Where were they? And why was it so very irksome to keep thinking of the two of them, the houses of Cambrey and Chatley, linked together?
Maggie knew why. Because John’s lips had made her sizzle all over, and she definitely wanted him to kiss her again.
Then suddenly, the music stopped, and all eyes turned in the direction of the band, including Maggie’s, and there he was. In a perfect suit of dove gray with a bold cranberry-colored waistcoat, the Earl of Cambrey.
With Jane, looking exquisite in rose silk, by his side. Drat her!
“Thank you all for coming,” John said, his booming voice filling the tent and silencing any last talkers on the outskirts. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Lord Angsley, Earl of Cambrey. For those of you who do, I’m happy you came anyway.”
A few men cheered. “Go on with you, Cam!”
“We have lovely weather today for the match presently, but you know our country. It may rain at any moment. Even so, the sun will be out again in mere minutes. That’s one of the charms of England, isn’t it? The fickle weather!”
A few people chuckled.
“And the other charm is our beautiful English ladies. Though she needs no introduction, I will offer one anyway. Our delightful and lovely hostess, Lady Jane Chatley. She’s going to tell you more about the charity we’re supporting today.”
Turning to Jane, he took her hand and drew her forward, bowed as he released it, and stepped back. Front and center of attention, Jane’s cheeks pinkened until they matched her gown, and then she spoke about the plight of London’s orphans and the good all of those present could do.
Maggie’s attention drifted to where John had moved away from the band and began skirting along the side of the tent. Helping himself to a glass of champagne off of a passing tray, he then scanned the room, until, to her surprise, his gaze alighted on her.
He smiled with a slow, sexy grin that made her knees become weak and cause a strange fluttering low in her stomach.
Gracious! He could do all that to her with only a look and a smile.
Then he nodded, lifted his glass to her slightly as if toasting, and drank down a long sip.
Feeling all hot and bothered, Maggie grabbed for her own glass and took a healthy swallow, feeling it go immediately to her head. Offering John what she hoped was her best smile and not a lopsided foolish grin, she tried to turn her attention back to Jane, who seemed to be babbling on for longer than she should.
At last, to Maggie’s relief, Jane stopped talking, people clapped and cheered, and then Cam yelled out from where he stood, telling everyone to enjoy the feast and then go watch a cracking good game of cricket.
To her delight, he appeared to be making his way through the attendees, weaving his way through the tables, toward her. Patting her chignon below her smartly situated hat, Maggie involuntarily licked her lips to moisten them even though, obviously, they weren’t going to kiss right there and then. She nearly giggled at the thought of the chaos that would ensue if they were to touch lips in the middle of a civilized social gathering. No doubt the place would erupt in flames followed by a great hole appearing beneath their feet, and they would all tumble to hell for the absolute immorality of it.
It would be worth it, she decided.
He was nearly at her table, when he was waylaid by a serious-looking man wearing the royal livery, and Maggie knew the prince consort had arrived. This man with his gleaming saber strapped to his side was most likely some type of guard for Prince Albert.
As he turned, she saw he also had a pistol in a holster on his other side, confirming her suspicion. Ever since the attempted assassination of the queen eight years earlier, the royals traveled with heightened security.
Maggie shivered and sent up a prayer the only fighting this day would be between the cricket teams battling on the field. Still, she was sad to see John detour from his path and accompany the royal servant out of the tent toward the prince’s private area.
At the last moment, he stopped, and she held her breath. However, instead of looking toward her, he glanced toward the band until he saw Jane and gestured to her.
Though Maggie couldn’t hear what he said, Jane hurried to his side, and the two of them left the tent. Then her view was blocked by a veritable troop of servants carrying in platters of food for every table.
Sighing loudly, she sat down and tucked in to a most delicious meal. Though she listened to the lively conversation among those at her table, including a particularly heated debate over the merits of the two teams, Maggie kept an eye on the tent opening, but John did not reappear, nor did Jane. It seemed they’d been invited to dine with the prince.
“Don’t you think, Miss Blackwood?”
The words floated into her brain belatedly, and Maggie turned to see the entire table was looking at her. She thought it was one of the gentlemen on the other side who’d addressed her, Lord Stanley possibly.
Drat!
Ada, who was seated beside her, touched her hand. “Don’t tell us you’re rooting for Sussex over Nottinghamshire.”
Bless her friend, Maggie thought. “Of course I’m for Mr. Parr and Nottinghamshire. Not only is he a great batsman, he has the dash-fire that is rarely overcome.”
Half the table cheered, the others, those for Sussex, booed.
Christopher, on her other side, gave her an approving smile. It did not turn her knees weak or her insides to butterflies but was pleasant all the same.
“Have you picked out our seats, Lord Westing? I hope we have a good view for our victory.”
Those at the table booed and cheered again, and then they all arose and left the tent to find where Westing had secured their seats, having sent servants to claim enough for all of them. Unlike most matches, there would be chairs all around the field, with no one needing to stand unless they wanted to. Prince Albert, of course, had taken the entire second-floor balcony of the small pavilion.
As one, the entire crowd looked up at the Lord’s pavilion as a bat boy ran up the steps to present the prince con
sort with a new ball. Maggie thought Prince Albert looked a tad doubtful about the gift. She’d certainly never heard of him playing cricket, therefore it wasn’t surprising when he simply tucked it under his chair. The crowd cheered nonetheless.
What was surprising, though, was the Earl of Cambrey and Lady Chatley had ostensibly been given the royal boot, for they were not seated upstairs near the prince. Instead, they had seats on the sidelines like everyone else about a quarter of the way around the field from her own small party. Moreover, much to Maggie’s dismay, they were seated together, reminding her of when she and John had sat side-by-side many months earlier, enjoying a match. The opportunity for one’s shoulder and leg to touch were numerous, as well as intimate conversation with heads bowed together.
Jealousy sat on her lap and refused to move. Double drat!
*
When Cam was settled in his chair to watch the match with his family and Jane’s around him, he could search for his heart’s desire in the crowd. Though Jane was beside him, her friend Isabella Fortner sat on her other side, keeping her occupied.
If only Prince Albert hadn’t requested meeting the host and hostess of the banquet, Cam would have pushed his way into a seat at Margaret’s table, even if it meant dragging a chair between her and Westing.
Instead, he’d had to sit nearly in silence while the prince consort and Jane discussed social issues, particularly education of the youth of their country. Cam had spent the time stifling yawns and trying to keep his eyelids open. Not that he wasn’t interested in educating people. Actually, truth be told, he wasn’t. He’d had a good education at Eton, and since he had yet to have children of his own, how was it any business of his how others became educated?
Relief had washed over him like summer rain when the horns blew announcing the start of the match. They’d bowed and curtsied to Albert and left him to his own companions.
Margaret was fairly easy to spot, or maybe he was simply attuned to her now. Her gorgeous caramel-colored hair stood out to him, like gold amongst the dun-colored masses. Even though today, perched atop it was a striking sapphire-blue hat with feathers dancing this way and that.
There she was, between Miss Ellis and Lord always-present Westing. And then, fortuitously, her glance fell upon him. Gossips-be-damned, he lifted his hand and waved to her. Margaret didn’t respond, but she did smile broadly enough so he could see it, even at a distance.
Somehow today, he would find a way to speak alone with her. Thankfully, he would have far more time to devote to his own selfish interests now the banquet was over. All the planning had been successful, and he could go back to his life of pursuing Miss Blackwood, having done well for the orphans while keeping up the grand Cambrey tradition as benefactors to the community at large and England as a whole.
Yes, it had been a triumph all around, and his mother was beyond pleased.
Moreover, even though his own doubts over Margaret’s maturity still shadowed his frank admiration of her, he’d decided after their last exhilarating kiss to ignore any shortcomings she might have. He wanted her, plain and simple, for his own.
The game was exciting but torturously long when all Cam wanted to do was speak with her—to create an understanding between them in which she would no longer keep company with other men. He wanted her to forego the rest of the Season’s events unless he was accompanying her, which he would happily do.
Hoping to catch her eye again, he spent as much time looking over at her as he did watching cricketeer George Parr make mincemeat of the other team.
At last, it seemed Margaret saw and understood what he meant by his violent head movements that made him look as if he were having some sort of apoplectic fit, and which he kept telling Jane were merely the result of a gnat biting his neck. As soon as he saw Margaret rise from her seat, he, too, excused himself and walked back to the tent.
Glad to see there was still champagne, he snagged two glasses and waited by the tent flap. Should he practice a speech or simply shove the glass in her hand and say what was in his heart?
“Margaret Blackwood, you are the jammiest bit of jam and I adore you above any other lady I have ever met or kept company with.”
No, he shouldn’t mention anyone else at all. It might get her mind thinking of other women with whom he’d been associated. Think again, he told himself.
The flap opened behind him, and he spun around, thrusting the glass toward … Jane.
“There you are,” she said, taking the glass from him and sipping. “Is your neck all right?”
“My neck? Oh, yes. Fine.” What could he say?
She sighed. “I see we had the same idea, to celebrate a bit in private.”
Odsbodikins! Did she have aspirations regarding him? He had never had the least intimation she cared a fig for him.
“This has all been rather exhausting, hasn’t it?” Drinking the champagne rather quickly, she gave an unladylike burp and then lurched against him. He was forced to drop his own glass to the grassy ground and grab hold of her before she toppled over.
Looking down, he saw a look in her eyes which hadn’t been there previously, not desire but more like desperation. He also suspected she’d had far more glasses of champagne than he had. But when?
“My mother was very impressed,” she mumbled. “We’ve spent a lot of time together, you and I, yet from now on, we won’t have reason to do so. Unless …”
She let her words trail off.
Unless he offered for her hand. Was that what she meant? He must break it to her he had absolutely no intention of asking her to be his wife. At this juncture, he felt more brotherly toward her than anything else.
“My mother wanted me to tell you how impressed we are with you,” she continued.
Pressing her face against his chest, he heard her start to sob. Dear God! What was wrong with this woman who had, until that moment, seemed the picture of placid, unruffled reasonableness?
Hell!
“Dearest Jane,” he started. Yes, dearest! Because she was crying, after all, and he had to be tender. “What can I do to help?”
Patting her back, feeling a tad awkward as he’d never touched a woman this way. If his hands were around a lady, it was always in preparation for kissing her or even tupping her soundly. Comforting a woman who was not a member of his family felt entirely too intimate.
“She thinks I’ve been standoffish and off-putting, and other dreadful ‘off’ words.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
Ah. He was beginning to see the picture.
“You haven’t been,” he assured her. “We’ve worked well together, and I’ve had a marvelous time. You’re very skilled at organization and planning.”
She pulled back to look up at his face.
“I’m sorry, John. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I truly value your friendship. I don’t want to ruin it.”
He stopped rubbing her back and took her face in his hands. “How much champagne have you had?”
All of a sudden, she grinned broadly at him. “I found two glasses on my way in here. I simply wanted a moment alone with you because I feared either you or my mother was going to try to make a monumental decision today, one with which I am presently unable to accept.”
“I understand entirely. Not to worry. I have no intention of making any monumental decisions today, and I can handle your mother. Truth be told, I have some experience with eligible young ladies’ mamas. You won’t be forced to do anything.”
With that, he dropped a kiss on her forehead, as he would to Beryl, and released her.
Unsteadily, she stumbled, and he grabbed for her again, both of them laughing.
“One of us had best get out of here, though, before we are discovered alone, or it will be out of my hands. And in your state, I think you should be the one to remain. Please sit. I’ll send one of your friends in.”
He pressed her down onto the nearest chair.
“Not my mother!”
<
br /> “No, not your mother.”
Patting her shoulder, he left the tent in search of someone Jane could trust. Lady Isabella Fortner, he decided. She and Jane had got on very well the other night, enough so Jane had invited her to sit with them for the match.
As he strolled behind the chairs, approaching the area at which his little party had been seated, he glanced toward Margaret’s group. Some were still there, but Margaret had disappeared. As had Westing.
An unpleasant knot tied up his insides. Still, he had to locate Lady Fortner first. Luckily, he found Beryl who knew Isabella had headed into the pavilion where a ladies’ withdrawing area had been set up.
Spinning about, Cam headed directly under the Prince’s balcony and inside the cool wooden structure. It looked to him as if it could do with a slight renovation, at least to keep it up to snuff.
He certainly couldn’t follow Lady Fortner into the ladies’ room. Blast it! He should have brought Beryl with him. He would have to loiter outside awaiting the young woman’s exit.
As he paced the pavilion floor, he glanced behind him to the farthest reaches where refreshments would have been set up if this were a normal match day. Instead, he could hardly give credence to what he saw.
Margaret, his Margaret, was standing alone with Lord Westing, whose hands were on her upper arms. In turn, her arms seemed to be resting on his chest. She looked emotional, if Cam was reading her expression correctly, as she stared up at the marquess. In the next moment, Westing hunched closer to her and turned slightly, hiding her from Cam’s view.
Hell’s bells!
Now, he knew what someone meant by their blood boiling, for he felt as if he could see a red haze like a curtain over his eyes. Taking a step in their direction, Cam was unsure what he would do or say, but he couldn’t stand idly by while the woman he … while Margaret played him for a fool.
Beastly Lords Collection Page 44