"It must be dumb blind luck to be dealt such a hand," Milton beamed. He came and slapped Frederick upon his back.
"Better luck next time, Georgie," Richard added good-naturedly.
"Father is going to disown me if he finds out how much I have lost on a card game. I just gambled away a large portion of my quarterly allowance." George began tugging at his cravat with a worried frown. "How will I ever pay my tailor?"
Frederick tossed a few coins towards his friend. "I shall help you out for your tailor, George, but just this once. You should know not to gamble what you cannot afford to lose, but I would not care to see you dressed in rags. How you explain the rest to the marquess, I will leave up to you."
"That is good of you, Frederick. My thanks," George replied. He took a handkerchief from his jacket to wipe the beads of perspiration from his forehead. "You know I am good for it."
"Just refrain from gambling again until you can either repay the coin or afford to lose the next stipend your father gives you…if he gives you any at all," Frederick warned. He began collecting his winnings as he watched George leave, all the while shaking his head at the foolishness of those who would risk losing a fortune they did not have.
With drinks in hand, Frederick, Richard, and Milton made their way to several comfortable chairs to take their ease. They had not long been seated when one of Frederick's colleagues from his time at Oxford, Digby Osgood, came rushing across the room, all but ran up to a servant, picked up the crystal glass on the serving tray, and gulped down the brandy until it was gone.
Looking around, he grinned, and slumped down into a vacant seat by his friends. "By God, there you are, Frederick. I have been searching all of London for you."
"Why did you not look here first, Digby, old boy?" Richard asked. "Surely at this time of the day, we would not be anywhere else?"
Milton gave a brief bark of a laugh. "I could think of another place I would like to be, although perhaps my mistress would cost me less than I have already wagered in cards this day."
"Whatever has you in such a state, Digby?" Frederick asked offhandedly, setting down his drink.
"She is here." Digby picked up Frederick's glass and swallowed the contents.
Frederick waved at a servant. Their drinks were replenished, and another glass fetched for his friend. "Stop drinking my brandy as though it is the last bit of liquor in the place. Such a drink is to be savored, not gulped down like it was ale, you fool."
"But, Freddy, it is she and─"
"Eh gads, man, refrain from calling me by that name. Makes me sound as if I am barely out of the schoolroom," Frederick complained bitterly.
"Who is this she you are referring to, and how did a woman get into White's?" Richard muttered, obviously not pleased that a female would dare to disturb the inner sanctum of gentlemanly privacy.
Digby shook his head. "Not at White's, you imbecile, but in London."
Milton chuckled. "There are any number of ladies to be found in London, Digby, even in winter. Do put us out of our misery and just tell us who she is."
Digby leaned forward to whisper, as if he were conspiring with the gentlemen in their group. "Why, it is none other than Miss Margaret Templeton herself." He sat back in his seat with a satisfied grin.
Frederick almost spat his drink out, swallowing the fiery brandy, only for it to slide down his throat the wrong way.
Richard came to pound furiously on Frederick's back as if that would actually do some good. "Is that not the chit who refused you?" he inquired rather loudly to be heard over Frederick's sputtering, then clamped his lips shut, seeing Frederick's narrowed eyes.
Gasping for air and wiping his hand across his face to once more compose himself, he leveled glaring eyes upon Richard before turning back to Digby with a scowl. "Surely you must be mistaken. Margaret would not leave Edington this time of year. Her father will be preparing for services during the Christmas advent season."
"Nonetheless, I just saw her myself at the Bond Street Bazaar with Lady Whittles and her niece Lady Constance," Digby answered. "They were viewing the artwork in the upper galleries. Is this not the greatest of news, Freddy?"
Good news? Hardly! The last person he wanted to run into was Miss Templeton.
The other three men began talking about other London news, but Frederick was lost in thought. Margaret… just… just thinking her name after all these years brought a smile to his face despite his oath to forget her and move on. The heart knows what it wants. It did not matter that she had rejected him. Forgetting her had been impossible.
She had rushed off after telling him that what they had would never work because they came from two different worlds. If only she had given him a chance to plead his case. He did not give a damn what his parents thought. He wanted to marry her no matter where she came from or how little she came with. He had enough money of his own to see them through the rest of their lives, and he did not care what society or his parents would think of their union.
He had tried to move on. He had even attempted to find another lady to replace her in his life. No one else wanted to engage in the intellectual arguments he and Margaret enjoyed so much. They only cared for the latest fashion or the gossip that swarmed around Society. He missed Margaret's company and the unexplained burst of energy whenever he saw her walk into a room.
He downed his brandy much as Digby had just a few short minutes ago. Signaling a servant, he signed his name to the bill for the drinks and called for his coat.
"Where are you off to, Freddy?" Digby and Milton asked simultaneously.
Frederick's brow rose in a silent rejoinder, since Digby should already have known the answer. After shrugging into his coat, he fastened the buttons and put on his hat. "Where do you think?" he retorted before heading for the door.
Frederick would have been appalled to learn that Digby, followed closely by Richard and Milton, made their way to White's betting book. The latest entry to the ledger was a wager about just how long it would be before Frederick was wed, and to whom.
Chapter Three
Margaret walked along the gallery on Captain Morledge's arm, appreciating the many paintings hanging upon the wall: portraits of ladies and gentlemen and families, landscapes, even the Christ child. She took in everything, marveling at the talent that allowed the artists to create something so beautiful from nothing but paint and a blank canvas. If only she could be half as gifted.
Lady Whittles, or Aunt Penelope, as she had asked Margaret to call her, walked just ahead with her niece, Lady Constance.
"Would you excuse me, Miss Templeton," the captain said. "I see some of my men, and I need to have a word. Catch up with Lady Whittles, and I will rejoin you shortly."
Margaret hung back to enjoy a moment to herself. She was grateful to her mother's friend for welcoming her so warmly. If only the woman were not driven to show her the many sights of London, as though Margaret had never been here before.
She returned her attention to a portrait of a seventeenth-century woman. The artist had captured her to perfection, painting the gown in exquisite detail, so that Margaret felt she could almost reach out to feel the actual pale blue fabric of material.
"What a beauty," a male voice whispered behind her.
Margaret's face flushed. She knew that voice, and that tone. That familiar low timbre had teased her many times in their youth. "Yes, she is indeed. See how the painter caught her expression in her eyes," she replied, trying to sound calm as her heart raced with his nearness. "I wonder what she was staring at that caused her smile."
The man chuckled softly and leaned closer. She could have sworn she felt the heat of his body through the fabric of her redingote. "I was not talking about the painting, Margaret."
Catching her breath hearing her given name pass his lips, she, at last, turned to face the man whose offer of marriage she had rejected.
"Good day, Lord Beacham. How good to see you again after all these many years." Was that breathy voice really he
r own? She curtseyed and held out her gloved hand. He took it, bowing low, and she tried to remain calm even though her heart was beating wildly in her chest.
Frederick rose, his roughish grin melting her heart. "After all the years we have known one another, I would think you would know there is no need to address me so formally, or for me to be formal with you, I would hope."
"I am sure first names are hardly appropriate, my lord, given the circumstances of our last parting," Margaret whispered with a shaky voice and trembling chin. She had hurt him with her refusal, she knew. How could they return to the old friendship?
"That is the past, and surely time has healed old wounds. We have known one another for so many years. I do not think it improper to call one another by our given names…at least when we are alone together," Frederick urged.
Margaret's brow rose at his assumption. "Did I say I was alone?" she asked, pulling her hand from his.
He let go reluctantly, a frown briefly creasing his own brow.
"It would not be the first time you wandered off without a chaperone to visit a bookstore or museum in order to satisfy your curiosity," he replied with a quick smile, then frowned again. "Unless, of course, you are running away again from your troubles."
She ignored his insinuation that she had fled his offer of marriage. She would as soon forget her younger, more frivolous behavior. "I am not that same younger girl who behaved so recklessly. Times have changed," she answered shortly.
"What a shame. I did so admire her vitality," Frederick replied with a slight grin.
"Are you suggesting I have no care for my character or what others may think of me?" she fumed. "I assure you, sir, that I do not deserve your insult."
Nearby, a group of women stared at her, whispering among themselves. Perhaps failing to rejoin Aunt Penelope's side had not been such a good idea. She did not wish to be the topic of gossip.
"My apologies, Margaret. I meant no disrespect, and I certainly had no cause to insult you." His apparent regret at his hastily spoken words brought her attention back to him. If she were the subject of gossip due to her current predicament of being without a chaperone, then this very man would be the cause.
She nodded and deliberately moved on to the next painting. The artwork might as well have been a blank wall. Margaret now had no interest in viewing anything but…him.
He was just as handsome as he always had been, from his charcoal gray eyes to his chiseled jaw with the slightest cleft in the center of his chin. Even his sandy brown hair, sticking up in a few places on his head from when he had removed his hat, called to her. She stilled the urge to brush it back into place with her fingers, not that she would be able to reach it since he was so tall. She had forgotten how small she felt whenever they stood side by side.
Standing next to him, she practically forgot how to breathe. My word! How had she ever thought she would ever be able to forget Frederick Maddock?
"I did not expect you to be in London this time of year," Frederick commented.
"It was my father's idea. I did not have much say in the matter," Margaret said grimly.
"He always listened to your opinions on matters of import before. Has this changed?" he inquired.
Margaret turned to face him directly. There was no point putting off the inevitable. "Father wishes me to marry and has taken the matter into his own hands without consulting me. I am here in London getting to know the gentleman he has chosen for my husband. I am staying with my mother's friend, Lady Whittles, whom you may recall. We will retire to his manor house this coming weekend so I may act the part of hostess for the festivities he has planned."
Frederick frowned, obviously displeased with this bit of news. "I remember Lady Whittles most fondly, but why the sudden rush for you to wed?"
"Father is getting on in years. He fears he will not live to see his grandchildren if I do not get my head out of my books and marry." A heavy sigh escaped her lips, and she hastily covered her mouth with her glove.
"And what of your little sister, Sophie?"
"Father hopes that I will be able to take her with me when I wed. You know that I have been more of a mother to her than a sibling," she answered politely. "My husband will need to exercise a fair amount of patience with her, I am afraid. She is very much like I, myself, was at such an age."
"Is she still kissing frogs hoping one of them will turn into a handsome prince?" he asked, his teasing smile inviting her to remember.
A giggle unexpectedly escaped her. "I am afraid so. All she has won for her efforts are slimy lips."
Frederick's laugher called up many pleasant memories of days gone by. He had been such a good friend, and she had loved him dearly. But how could she have wed a man who would be ridiculed by the ton for taking a wife with no title?
Her sudden somber mood must have shown for his smile faded. "Just whom are you to wed, Margaret?"
Her gaze met his, and she took a deep breath. "Captain Morledge of his Majesty's—"
"Sander Morledge?" Frederick's eyes widened.
"Yes. Do you know of him?"
"Margaret…you cannot wed Morledge. Have you not heard of—"
"There you are, Miss Templeton! I have been looking all over for you, my dear." Captain Morledge hurried up and tucked Margaret's hand possessively into the crook of his elbow. "I would not want to lose you now, would I?"
"I was hardly misplaced, Captain."
Captain Morledge shrugged. "Nevertheless, I deem it my duty to ensure your wellbeing. Good day to you, Lord Beacham."
"Morledge," Frederick muttered but clearly was not happy at the captain's interruption.
Margaret looked between the two men. "You know each other?"
"We are acquainted," Frederick said with a grim look. Was the glare a legacy of past encounters, or did it arise from the way Captain Morledge began rubbing the back of her hand with his own? Margaret wished he would not. She was not comfortable with this sign of affection from a man she barely knew.
"We are, indeed," the captain said jovially. "You should join the festivities at my home this weekend, Beacham. Miss Templeton has agreed to be my hostess for the Christmas celebration."
"The lady was just informing me." Frederick gave a curt nod before turning another radiant smile at her, setting Margaret's heartbeat galloping. "Miss Templeton will indeed make a most gracious hostess, I am sure. Thank you for the invitation."
"Feel free to bring a guest with you, Viscount Beacham, if you so choose," Captain Morledge added nonchalantly.
Frederick nodded. "You are too kind, sir."
"Shall we be on our way, Miss Templeton?" the captain asked.
"Yes, of course. Good day to you, Lord Beacham." Margaret watched Frederick give her a brief bow of acknowledgement.
As Captain Morledge led her away, she stole a quick glance over her shoulder to stare at Frederick, who remained standing where they had left him. She wished she had had the chance to ask him exactly why he thought she should not marry the man to whom her future was now tied.
Chapter Four
Sander was displeased.
"Where the devil has she gone?" he snarled at his valet, Miles, who brought his jacket.
"Her maid informed me that Miss Templeton has taken the coach in order to run an errand for Lady Whittles." Miles's voice remained in a monotone that irritated and annoyed Sander. "I was told the lady had forgotten to visit her milliner before their arrival here and insisted Miss Templeton run to the shop to pick up her hat."
"A hat?" Sander grumbled. "She went into town alone for a hat?"
"Yes, Captain."
Sander held out his crystal glass, and Miles efficiently refilled it with brandy. "What else are you not telling me?"
Miles cleared his throat. "Mr. Templeton has also arrived along with his youngest daughter. I have had one of the maids bring the young girl up to Miss Templeton's room as she put up quite a fuss over not immediately seeing her sister."
"Very well," Sander said wi
th a grimace. More children running amuck in his household would make for a very loud weekend. At least his own were, for the moment, well confined.
He took a sip from the cup, and the liquid burned its way down his throat. He did not like a woman he would take to wife going out without a proper escort, and, in particular, without him. The former Lady Morledge had learned early in their marriage that she must not leave the house without him, even if he were away on a campaign. Her doom came upon her the one time she disobeyed his orders. He would ensure that never happened again.
Miss Templeton's behavior was already leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He had assumed that the woman would be grateful to have the label of spinster removed. When the eager vicar first approached him, Sander thought wedding the woman would be all benefits. Of course, he would need to remove the impediment. Once he was sure of Miss Templeton, he would do so.
She would be easily manipulated, he thought. She would take over the nasty business of overseeing the welfare of his offspring, and keep herself busy managing the household as a proper wife should. He needed someone who was utterly his creature, for he was often away, and servants could not be trusted without a firm hand over them.
It infuriated him that Miss Templeton already defied him by taking off alone.
"Instruct the servants to keep an eye on her when she is about the manor. I would not want her investigating the upper floors," Sander commanded firmly as if he were addressing his troops.
"Of course, sir."
"And have my horse saddled," he ordered. "I will fetch her back myself."
"As you wish, sir." Miles held the door open for Sander so he could be on his way.
The ride to the milliner's address where Margaret had gone to retrieve Lady Whittles' purchase did not take long, but when he arrived, his carriage was not in sight. Where would he find the woman? He was not familiar with her day-to-day habits…yet. And those habits would need to change. He would need to keep a firm hold upon this one. Quite apart from this independent way of walking off without an escort, she seemed to think there was nothing wrong with an educated woman. By damn! Sander hoped she was not one of those blasted bluestocking women!
Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection Page 16