by Karen Ranney
The coach slowed and turned into the lane before the cottage.
The day had grown overcast, but the clouds could not render this moment more somber. The carriage stopped in front of the cottage, rolled a few feet, and finally remained still.
They looked at each other. A last honest glance, perhaps. What did he see? A woman teetering on the edge of acquiescence? One who clutched her pride and her dignity around her as if it was a tattered cloak and prayed that she would not cry?
He preceded her, kicked down the steps himself and jumped to the gravel path. He turned and held his hand out for her, his glance as inscrutable as before. She stepped down from the carriage silently.
She had half expected him to add weight to his earlier argument. To convince her to stay with cajolery and promises. But it seemed as if she’d rendered him silent. Or his rage had burned out any further protestations he might make. Perhaps he had simply realized that there were times when words were simply not enough.
The seconds ticked by as if they were hours. There was so much she wanted to say to him and nothing that was safe. How, for example, did a woman thank a man for passion? For teaching her the meaning of desire? For treating her with delicacy and joy?
He walked her to the door in silence. She steeled herself for his departure, hoping that he did not delay the moment of their parting.
Please. Leave me now. She heard the words so loudly in her mind that it was as if she’d spoken them. She turned, placed her hand on his chest. A wordless plea for his kindness. Leave me. She did not want him to see her cry.
He placed his fingers beneath her chin and raised her face. She expected a kiss. A last, poignant embrace to be forever remembered.
Instead, he studied her face, traced the line of her bottom lip with his thumb. Drawing out the moment until time was so thin she could almost see through it.
“Marry me,” he said softly.
She stared at him, stunned. “What?” The word emerged as a croak.
“I can’t marry you,” she said.
“Why not?” His tender smile was muted somewhat by his irritated frown.
“You’re only asking because of the child,” she said breathlessly.
“If it makes you feel better to think that, then by all means, do so.”
She blinked up at him.
“Is there another reason?” Her heart stilled, waiting.
“I find myself excessively emotional around you,” he said, raising one eyebrow at her.
Margaret found it difficult to breathe. His blue eyes were direct, without a hint of humor.
“Marry me,” he said again.
She glanced over her shoulder at the carriage. The coachman looked entirely too interested in their conversation. She turned, hooked her thumb in the latch, pushed open the door.
He followed her, looked around. “It is,” he said, “exactly as I had pictured it.”
She waited for the criticisms, but instead he began to pace, a restless movement from doorway to wall, shooting her a fierce look as he passed.
She watched him. “Are you going to throw something again?”
“I might,” he said unrepentedly. “I’m in the mood for it.” He stopped, stared down at the floor once, then continued. “You are not going to make this easy, are you?”
He most definitely was not acting himself. But then he had not since he’d thrown the porcelain dog at the window. He’d looked almost pleased then. Now the light of battle was in his eyes.
He walked to the door and lifted his arm toward the coach. She followed him, watched as the driver nodded and climbed down from the seat, a valise in hand.
“What is that?”
“A few belongings,” he said calmly. “I knew this might be a long siege. After all, you’ve made your feelings about the nobility all too clear.”
“You can’t stay here, Montraine!” She stared at him, horrified.
“And you wouldn’t stay with me,” he said agreeably.
The sound of another vehicle approaching the cottage drew her attention. Wide-eyed she stared at the wagon. It was piled high with furniture, pillows, a mattress or two. If she wasn’t mistaken there were even a few pots tied to the top. But the greatest surprise was Smytheton perched stiffly on the wagon seat beside the driver, his white hair askew, his black suit dusty, and an expression of extreme annoyance on his face.
“Smytheton?” she asked weakly.
Michael nodded. “He’ll act as your duenna if you will. Hardly a proper chaperone, I agree, but it’s better than remaining in London.” He turned and fixed her with a fierce look. “Isn’t it?”
She waved both hands in the air, backed up as if to forestall everything he was saying. And doing.
“I have no intention of allowing you to remain here, Margaret,” he announced. He surveyed the cottage, the paucity of furniture, the lone west window. “It’s small, but I don’t doubt that Smytheton can make something of it. I hope the old boy doesn’t snore. Unless, of course, you have a lean-to where he can sleep?”
She found herself nodding. “For the chickens,” she said, then realized what she was saying. She shook her head, stepped back.
“Or you can simply marry me,” he said.
“You can’t be serious.” It was too preposterous. Earls did not marry poor widows.
He came closer, put his hands on her shoulders and drew her closer.
One hand tipped her chin back, the other threaded through the hair at the nape of her neck. “Oh, but I am. We can live here or we can live in London.”
“You can’t marry me,” she countered, breathless and absurdly hopeful. “You need an heiress.”
“I’ve already arranged to sell almost everything I own,” he said. “We’ll have to economize, but we should survive.”
“I’m a commoner,” she said, almost desperately.
His smile was quick, amused. “I’m not royalty, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Your mother will be displeased.”
“Now there’s a reason,” he said, wryly, pulling her slowly closer.
“I’m a tradesman’s widow. I don’t know anything about being a countess.” She felt a frisson of horror at the thought. “I only know about books and sales and inventory. Or teaching. I know that,” she said, fumbling with her thoughts and her words.
One eyebrow arched. “Which only proves you’re intelligent,” he said. “You know how to read and reason. A decided advantage to most females of my acquaintance.”
“Montraine…”
He gave her shoulders a quick, impatient squeeze. “I’m declaring my love,” he said, “and you’re arguing with me. Why did I know this would happen?”
“You are?” she said, blinking up at him.
“I am,” he said somberly.
“Oh.” She was left completely without a response. Even if she had thought of something to say, she doubted she would have been able to utter it. The air had been pulled from her lungs and her heart had stopped beating.
“Be quiet, Margaret,” he whispered against her lips, and kissed her.
Long, exquisite, delighted moments later, a gasp made her pull back. Margaret blinked, dazed not only by Michael’s words, but by the passion of their kiss.
She turned her head, saw Smytheton in the doorway. In front of him stood a few of her students. Dorothy had a bouquet of wildflowers clutched tightly in her hand. Little Mary stood with her hands behind her back. Both of them looked surprised. No, shocked. Abigail, however, wore an expression of unholy glee. Before Margaret could speak, all of them melted away.
“Who was that?” Michael asked. “Your students?”
Both her hands were still clutching Michael’s coat. With great precision, she released them, smoothed the wrinkles on the fabric. She found herself patting him, as if she wished to reassure herself that he was real.
“Margaret?”
She looked up at him. “Yes,” she said, sighing. “Abigail is the daughter of the village gossip and w
ill fill her mother’s shoes quite adequately one day.”
He arched one brow and smiled down at her. “Your reputation is sealed, then.”
“You needn’t look so pleased,” she said.
“You are plunged into ruination,” he announced. “Even if you move, the gossip is sure to follow you. You’re a fallen woman. Irretrievably compromised.”
She closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against his chest, feeling his arms surround her. It was such a pleasant place to be, here in his arms.
“Will you marry me, Margaret?” he softly asked.
Their worlds occasionally collided but rarely merged. The truth was, however, that she loved him. Simply. Completely. Absolutely. Totally.
“Yes,” she murmured, capitulating.
“To protect your reputation?” he asked softly. She pulled back, studied his sudden frown. Clearly the idea did not please him.
“No,” she admitted.
He stood there silent. Waiting, no doubt, for an answering declaration from her. How strange that she felt almost shy with him at the moment. “The idea of your marrying another woman is most definitely not appealing,” she said, her palms pressed against the fabric of his coat. She smoothed them across his chest to his arms and back again.
How did she tell him that he was like the air she breathed and the sun on her face? Necessary delights of living.
“Jealousy?”
She shook her head.
“I have been given to understand that a woman in these circumstances is not so reticent about her feelings,” he said tautly.
“Are you going to throw something again?”
“Why do you look so delighted at the prospect? Does my momentary insanity please you?”
She stroked his arm. “I should not confess to such a thing, should I? But you’re very attractive when you’re enraged.”
His brow rose even further, his grin thoroughly wicked. “Then is it my manly form, Margaret?”
Until she’d known him she’d never experienced sorcery. Never known what it was like to feel passion. For the sheer blinding alchemy of that she would be forever grateful. But being with him was oddly more. It was the taste of an orange, the smell of a rose, the touch of the first spring raindrop expanded and multiplied and folded over itself. The meaning, perhaps, of joy.
She stood on tiptoe and breathed against his ear. “No, Michael. Love.” The most fervent of avowals gently whispered.
The reward for her honesty was a soft laugh and a long kiss.
Chapter 26
A courtesan speaks softly and with wit,
smiles with genuine mirth and promises
pleasure with her glance.
The Journals of Augustin X
Michael Hartley Hawthorne, Earl of Montraine, and Margaret Lindlay Esterly, widow, stood before the vicar the next morning in the small stone church in Silbury Village.
The faint sunlight barely lit the one stained glass window over the altar. The air smelled damp, an odor common to the old stone structure. The day itself was one of mist and melancholy, contrasting sharply to Margaret’s dazed delight.
No special arrangements or permissions were required since she had lived in Silbury Village for more than six months. All that was necessary was for Michael to pay for the required license and also the stipend to the clergyman. She did not doubt that Michael had promised an additional generous sum to the vicar if the ceremony was kept private and short. Consequently, Penelope and Tom were the only guests.
Smytheton had been sent back to London in the wagon, a journey that displeased him almost as much as the abortive one to Silbury Village, if his glower was any indication.
The vicar’s voice droned on, but she paid only half an ear to his opening sermon. From time to time Penelope would glance at her, then at Michael. As if she were as stunned as Margaret at the very fact of this wedding.
“Is he the one?” Penelope had asked this morning, when they were packing her meager possessions into Michael’s valise. “The babe’s father?”
Margaret nodded.
“You’ll be a countess now, Miss Margaret.”
“I know nothing at all about being a countess, Penelope,” she said, not quite able to hide her fear at the thought. “I doubt I’ll do well at it.”
“You’ll do better than well,” her friend said loyally. “So will the babe. Ever since you found those accursed Journals, we’ve been plagued with bad luck. Maybe this marriage is a change from that.”
Those accursed Journals.
Margaret looked up at the rafters where the strongbox was hidden.
A few moments later, Penelope stood on the table while Margaret held it steady. She reached up to grab the dusty box from the rafter with one hand while she pressed the other against the wall for balance. She handed the box to Margaret, who set it to one side while she helped Penelope scramble down from the table.
“I hope you’ll be taking those books with you,” Penelope said. “I wouldn’t want my Tom to get any ideas.” She leaned close to Margaret, as if they weren’t the only people in the cottage. “There are things in those books, Miss Margaret, that are surely wicked.”
Deliciously so. Margaret quickly stifled that thought. Instead, she reached inside, retrieved the two remaining Journals, and placed them in the valise. She left the money inside. Closing the strongbox, she handed it to Penelope.
“I want you to have it,” she said. “The money will give you and Tom a good start on your marriage.”
Penelope looked stunned. “I could not, Miss Margaret.”
“I insist,” she said adamantly. The proceeds from the sale of the first Journal would be enough to rent a small cottage of their own. Or perhaps even purchase this one from Squire Tippett.
Penelope had been flabbergasted ever since Margaret’s announcement.
As for herself, she appeared appropriately solemn. She hoped the calm expression on her face was an adequate disguise for her sudden terror.
What was she doing? A thought that repeated itself over and over, an accompaniment to the vicar’s voice. She couldn’t marry this man. He was an earl. What did she know of earls?
You’re just as good as anyone, Margaret. Her Gran’s voice echoed in her mind. Her Gran would have been pleased by this marriage. But her grandmother had been a governess, a woman familiar with the dealings of the rich. She knew how to comport herself in the homes of nobles. Her only experience had been a week of passion. She knew nothing of dances, and dinners, and morning calls.
Michael turned his head and studied her, his gaze uncomfortably direct. Then he smiled as if he’d heard her fears and wished to ease her mind.
In that moment she knew. It came not in a rush of awareness, but in a whisper. The true meaning of love was not simply gentleness and sharing, but also the violence of surrender, the relinquishing of pride and fear. And the faith of stepping into a blackened abyss lit only by one faint star.
He reached out and took her hand and she held it tight, reassured.
A very large orange colored cat sauntered into the church and sat on the stone floor beside the vicar. His tail whipped around, his eyes fixed on Margaret as if to question her presence in a house set aside for worship. She had no doubt it was the clergyman’s cat, what with that look of condemnation in his feline eyes.
The vows performed, the prayer lingered on. The diatribe on sin and redemption was halted by Michael’s frown, a particularly quelling look that had the cleric stammering to a halt.
She stepped away from the altar, turned to Penelope, bewildered at the speed with which her life had changed.
“Well, if you had to do something so foolish, Miss Margaret,” Penelope whispered, looking at Michael, “at least you chose a handsome nob.”
“He is quite agreeable, isn’t he?” she said, smiling.
“Does he always frown so?” Penelope asked.
“Always.” Margaret’s smile broadened as Michael’s scowl deepened.
“That mig
ht take some getting used to,” Penelope said. “Do you think the babe will look like him?”
“I sincerely hope he does not frown as much,” Margaret said.
“Are you quite finished discussing me?” Michael asked sardonically.
He looked so aristocratic standing there, so desperately out of place in this tiny church. Utterly handsome. Hers.
She reached up and brushed a kiss on his cheek. He looked startled for a moment, then his arm reached out and encompassed her waist. He escorted her to the front of the church where they signed the parish register, signaling an official end to the wedding ceremony. She was now Margaret Hawthorne, wife of Michael, Earl of Montraine. Or as Penelope might say in one of her more vulgar moments, cor, she was a bleedin’ countess.
Michael had dreaded his wedding day for years. In all his thoughts of it, he’d never believed that he might be experiencing what he was at this moment. Happiness, a tinge of fear, and an almost visceral possessiveness coupled with another, less discernable feeling. Triumph. She was his.
An entirely confusing range of emotions.
Then again, he’d never thought that he would have to convince a woman to wed him with the assiduousness he had Margaret Esterly. Correction. Margaret Esterly Hawthorne, Countess of Montraine. A role that seemed, oddly enough, to suit her, if that regal little tilt to her chin was any indication. Nor had he thought that he might have to beggar himself to gain a bride. He should perhaps have felt something about that development, but the fact was that he was too happy to care.
He placed his hand on the small of Margaret’s back and escorted her from the church. He had paid the vicar well, not only to execute the marriage ceremony without delay, but to ensure some measure of privacy and to protect Margaret from gossip.
As they left the church, he realized that while the marriage might have been intimate, the speculation had already begun. Standing on the street before them were a group of women, each holding tight to the hand of a girl. At their appearance in the doorway, the assembled mothers began to mutter. Not unlike, he thought, a gaggle of disapproving geese.