by Autumn Rose
“Why would I need to? Surely he could have no objections. He has never played tyrant with me, and he has so little time for me lately that I would think he would be happy to have me out of the way.”
Breen was not as certain as Margaret. The marquess might have been neglectful lately, but he was a father, and would want to know that his daughter was well-provided-for. How he would view an untitled Irishman with little to offer but his affection was another question. I am, after all, a gentleman, Breen reassured himself. And with her portion, which should be generous, and one of the smaller family estates, we would do very well, so I will have to convince him.
They pulled their horses together as they came in sight of Moorview for one last embrace, and Margaret felt like she was saying good-bye to her very life.
“I will be there at three o’clock sharp,” promised Breen as he finally pulled himself away and rode off. Margaret rode slowly, unwilling to lose that languorous, floating feeling. All of her had turned into a slow river that moved in the sunlight like poured honey.
* * * *
Unfortunately for the lovers, the marquess had a been a bit more attentive to Margaret’s state of mind than they thought. Admittedly, it had taken Lady Evelyn’s prompting to wake him to it, but he respected her opinion, for women knew about these things. He had made a few discreet inquiries of Whitmarke, and found nothing particular to object to in Breen. Neither did he find much that would make him desirable as a match for his daughter. Breen sounded innocuous, but not very serious. He was from a good family, but so removed by circumstances of birth from any fortune that he would have to make his way through the law or the military. The fact that he had not yet chosen any path was the only negative thing one could say about his character. But it said enough to the marquess. At three-and-twenty, the young man should have had some sense of direction. Had Breen chosen a career for himself, perhaps he might have looked more appealing. But the young man seemed to have found no direction, so when Breen arrived promptly at three, he faced the not particularly friendly marquess and had some of the most uncomfortable minutes of his life as Margaret’s father grilled him about his background and his prospects.
Breen had not assumed an easy acceptance of his suit, so he was prepared to attempt a convincing response.
“I admit that I have concentrated too much on my ‘expectations.’ When I was twenty, I had no focus nor motive save my own support. But my feelings for your daughter have made me realize it is time to settle down.”
“I am happy for you if Margaret has had that effect,” the marquess said. “But it is not clear to me where you will concentrate these efforts.”
“I had thought…perhaps…that is…” Even Breen could not easily say. “…that there must be a small estate in Margaret’s family that we could settle on. I do have some talent and experience in managing the land.” As he finally got this out, Breen had the grace to blush.
“Tell me, Mr. Breen, if you were a father, would you give your daughter to someone who might only be after her inheritance?”
Breen looked up and said, with some dignity, “No, I would not.”
“Why, then, should I?”
“Because you value your daughter’s happiness and because that happiness depends on me.”
“You rate yourself very highly, young man!”
“Forgive me, sir, but my feelings for your daughter are strong enough that I needed to say that, however immodest it may sound.”
“I have no real reason to doubt your sincerity,” the marquess answered, “but neither have I reason, as yet, to trust your commitment. I would reconsider your suit in a few years if Margaret is still unattached. But until you have made your way in the world, I cannot permit an engagement.”
Breen could feel the implacability behind this statement, and decided to waste no time pleading. He thanked the marquess for his time and bowed himself out of the room. Margaret was waiting for him by the door and he could tell from her eager expression that she had no inkling of her father’s disapproval. When she saw his set face, however, she became concerned.
“He said yes, didn’t he?”
Breen took her hands in his. “I am afraid not. In a way, I cannot blame him, for I am not what the world would consider an ideal suitor.”
“What do I care what the world thinks! Why did he refuse?”
“Because we would have nothing to live on.”
“But we could live at Grantwood.”
“Even as I mentioned that, I realized that makes me sound a fortune-hunter.”
“How could he think that, when we love each other? What difference does it make whose money we live on, if there is some money there?”
“To a concerned father, it makes a difference.”
“Concerned!’’ All of Margaret’s anger and hurt from the last year surfaced. “He hasn’t looked at me or at anyone but his new wife for almost a year. He left me to myself from the minute my mother died. And now that there is someone who does care about me, he would separate us…”
“Margaret, we cannot stand here like this. Your father may be out in a minute. I must go. Let us meet tomorrow… He did not rule out an engagement forever. He said that if, in a few years, I prove myself—”
“A few years. That is forever,” she groaned.
“It may seem that way now—”
Margaret interrupted. “Do you know where the old graveyard is?”
“Yes. By the church.”
“Well, I often go there to tend my mother’s grave. Can you meet me there tomorrow morning?”
Breen was willing to agree to anything to calm her down and give himself some time to think. He was torn between his desire for her and his own inability to think beyond the present. He had no great hopes his situation would change in the next few years. And he could not begin to imagine himself as soberly industrious as…as what? A secretary to some nobleman? No, what he was good at, what he needed, was the opportunity to work the land. He had no other way but marriage to gain the opportunity. Marriage or cards, he thought, and I promised my aunt I would give up the cards, so it must be marriage. He kissed Margaret gently on the cheek and whispered: “Until tomorrow, love.”
Had her mother still been alive, Margaret would have gone to her to plead with the marquess, or even confronted her father herself. But she had felt so abandoned by him that even her anger would not carry her in. When he came down from the library and asked her if she had seen Breen on the way out, she answered quite coolly:
“Yes, Father, and he tells me that you have denied his suit.’’
“I had to, my dear. He seems a pleasant enough young man, but with little substance. He has nothing to offer you right now?”
Nothing? thought Margaret. Only the fact that he loves me.
“I hope,” continued the marquess a little stiffly, for he was uncomfortable dealing with emotion and had left that work to his wife, “your affections were not deeply involved. I have not forbidden him your company, and, indeed, I told him he could return if his situation changed. Though I must say, Margaret, I do not think he is the sort of man who has much depth. I would not count on him to work that faithfully toward a goal, even if the goal be you.”
“Do not worry about me, Father. I will not go into a decline over this,” replied Margaret. Because I will elope with him before I will let him go, she thought wildly.
The marquess was relieved that she shed no heartbroken tears and made no pleas. He would have hated to make her suffer, and was inarticulate and helpless in such situations. He had no inkling as to the true state of her heart, for having no gift for intimacy with anyone other than his wife, he had let his daughter slip further away from him, and though he loved her, he did not know her.
“I am glad to find you so sensible,” said the marquess, and watched Margaret as she smiled and walked upstairs to her own room. Breen had exaggerated her feeling for him, of course, he thought, and dismissed all his uncomfortable musings. He went up to meet his
wife for tea, a ritual she had initiated so that he had a break from estate business.
* * * *
Breen found Margaret in the little churchyard the next morning. She was kneeling in front of her mother’s grave. At first he thought she was praying, and then he saw that she was clearing weeds from around the stone. He came up behind her and read “Lady Honora Margaret Ashton, beloved wife and mother…” That is a lovely name.”
“She was a lovely woman. It is my name too.” Margaret smiled. “Neither of us used Honora.”
“Sure, and it is a formidable name,” crooned Breen in his assumed brogue. “But in Ireland it is shortened to Nora.”
Margaret got up off her knees and brushed her dress off. There was a small bench in the graveyard under an ancient oak which spread to shelter almost the whole yard. Breen led her over to it and they sat down, silent for a moment. Margaret’s hands were in her lap, and Breen took one and examined it as though he found the combination of dirt and slender fingers fascinating.
“Margaret…” he began. She turned to him, and her trusting look, her vulnerability, affected him more than any woman’s coquetry had ever done. He bent down to kiss her, and once again Margaret was carried away from all of her former life.
There was no Lady Honora Margaret Ashton, virtuous and careful of her reputation. There was only herself, a self she had not known existed before this man had awakened it.
“We cannot do this,” Breen groaned, as he pulled back. “Someone might see us.”
“No one ever comes here,” Margaret whispered, reluctant to talk, wanting only to feel his lips against hers.
“But there is also the fact we are not engaged. Your father would have every right to call me out, did he hear about this.”
“But we are engaged,” replied Margaret. “Oh, not in his eyes, but I love you and consider myself promised to you.”
“As I to you. But it can never come to anything.”
“Why not?” she protested. “Why should we let him keep us apart? What if we went away and came back married? What could he do but give in then?”
Breen had, in fact, already thought of an elopement. He was sure the marquess would not be vindictive, and if presented with a fait accompli, would not deprive them of Margaret’s portion. But he had been hesitant to approach the subject. He was not sure he wanted to take even that small a risk. He loved her, but not enough to take her with nothing. After all, love didn’t last long in poverty. He knew that well enough. But if she herself thought it would work…? She knew her father better than he did. He looked down at her. “You would risk that?”
“I would risk anything to be with you.”
“Well, it might do. We could drive north, marry at Gretna, and continue east to Edinburgh. We could stay with my uncle and his wife until the scandal died down and then come back, the settled married couple.”
“We must do it immediately,” responded Margaret, her determination and recklessness burning in her eyes. “Tonight!”
Breen smiled at her. “Your eagerness gives me courage, sweetheart. But we need at least a day’s preparation. I must hire a chaise, you must pack…but I agree, the sooner the better. Tomorrow night the moon will be almost full, so we could start at night and avoid notice. Could you get out after ten?”
“Yes. My father and Lady Evelyn have usually retired by then, and the servants will also be in bed. I can slip out the kitchen door.”
“All right. I will come for you tomorrow night. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Surer than I’ve ever been of anything in my life.”
* * * *
The marquess and his new wife retired early every night they were not socializing. “Besotted” was how Margaret had characterized this behavior of her father, but she was grateful for it after all, for she had no trouble slipping out. She had packed only the necessary things: toiletries, a walking dress, nightgown and slippers, and her blue silk. She would change into that for the wedding, she thought, picturing Breen and herself clasping hands over an anvil. She shivered as she walked down the drive, and looked back at her home. She would not see it for a while, and when she returned, she would be a married woman.
Breen was waiting at the gate with the hired chaise. He kissed Margaret quickly and lifted her in. His horse was tied behind, for he had not wanted to risk a hired groom who might spread gossip afterward. The border was not much more than fifty miles as the crow flies, but it would take all night and part of the next day for them to reach Scotland, since they had first to go south to Hayden Bridge in order to continue northeast to Gretna.
“You will find a rug in there, Margaret. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
Margaret protested she couldn’t possibly sleep, but once they were out of Bellingham, she found herself nodding, and settled into a corner with the rug pulled over her shoulders. She awoke a few hours later, thinking they must have arrived, only to hear Breen cursing softly under his breath. The moon was still high and the countryside looked unfamiliar, so she guessed that they must have passed Hayden Bridge and were on their way west. She peered out and saw Breen kneeling in a pool of light from the carriage lamp, examining the front-left hoof of the horse.
“What is it?”
“The damned horse has thrown a shoe, Margaret. I beg your pardon for my language, but I should have known that he was too cheap to be sound. I don’t know how we will make the border by morning. We will have to stop.”
“Here?” Margaret asked, groggily.
“No, I think we are not far from a town, if I remember the map correctly. We will have to find an inn for what is left of the evening.”
“All right.”
Both were too tired to consider the implications, much less discuss them. When they finally pulled into the inn at Halfwhistle and awakened the innkeeper, Margaret hardly heard Breen’s request for a room for himself and his wife.
“I will sleep on the floor,” Breen said, after they had stumbled to the small chamber.
“No, no,” Margaret said. “I will lie under the covers and you on top with the rug over you, and we will be fine.” She smiled. “You must be exhausted.”
“I confess I would not mind a mattress,” he replied, and, arranged as she suggested, they were both asleep within minutes.
Margaret awoke once, to the sound of a rooster. The early-morning sun was pouring in, and Breen’s head lay on the pillow, golden in a pool of light. She smiled, ran her hand gently over his hair, and went back to sleep. When she next awoke a few hours later, it was to see him looking down at her with a hungry look in his eyes.
“Good morning,” she said softly, and stretched reflexively, like a cat. He captured one of her hands as it returned to her side and stroked it.
“How did you sleep, Margaret?”
“Wonderfully well. I awoke for a short while to the rooster. What time is it now?”
Breen reached for his pocket watch. “After ten o’clock.” He turned back to her, and Margaret, as though pulled by a magnet, turned to meet him. Their kiss was long and deep.
“We should get up immediately. Were anyone to find out we’d spent the night together, you would be ruined.”
“I am ruined already, is that not so?” Margaret smiled. “Just by going away with you, even if we had not been delayed.”
“I suppose that is true,” Breen agreed.
“I love you, Dillon,” Margaret whispered as she slipped out of the covers. Her hands seemed to have a life of their own, for she could not resist feeling his mouth with her thumb or stroking the hair on his arms.
“Margaret, you will be my undoing,” he murmured as he kissed her behind her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “I want you too much.”
“I want you too,” she replied, her head bent, for she could not look at him and reveal the extent of her desire to save her life. She nuzzled against his shirt, reveling in the smell of clean linen combined with his own scent. She wanted to get more of him, and she started
unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off of him. His chest was smooth and white, his arms well-muscled and the hair under them red and cumin-scented. Margaret was aware of only one thought: I love him and we are to be married today, so why must we wait? He gently lifted her nightgown over her head, and she lay there, blushing, as he unbuttoned his breeches. Breen had no thoughts of love or marriage. He was only alive to the moment, and he wanted to awaken her to her own womanhood as he delighted himself in it. The women he had had before had taught him well; unlike many men, he was accomplished in pleasuring a woman, and so he moved slowly, only moving on top of her after his fingers had made her wet, warm, and ready for him. He entered her as gently as he could, but it was painful, and she lay underneath him, brought back to normal awareness by the strangeness of it all. After all that pleasure, is this all it is? Well, it is enough, she thought as he collapsed beside her and held her close. They both slept again, curled up against one another, only to awaken in about an hour, aroused again. “This time it will not hurt,” Breen said, “and this time I will pleasure you.” And Margaret realized that before had not been enough, that nothing would ever be enough, for how would it be possible to have him any deeper inside her, while she came shuddering down from those heights to which he had brought her.
* * * *
They spent the day in bed, and only in the late afternoon did Breen get up and go down to the stables to inquire about the horse. It seemed ironic to him that on a trip to Gretna they should require the more usual services of a blacksmith. He found the horse had been shod and they could make a new start in the morning. As he stood outside the stall, absentmindedly cupping the horse’s muzzle, Breen thought more about their situation. There was no need now to rush to Gretna. Instead of going west and then back to Bellingham, perhaps it would be wiser to continue on to Edinburgh. We could marry there and send the marquess a letter. Wait a few weeks for his anger to dissipate. And I could pick up a little money on the tables. What difference does it make now if we marry tomorrow or next week, after all?
Margaret was so dazed that she agreed immediately. She had been in another world all day, a world of undreamed-of pleasure, and did not want to think of anything practical. And to her, they were as good as married already. Her feelings for her father had undergone such changes over the last few months that she no longer cared what his response to her was. She now had someone in her life who saw her, who loved her, and who wanted to take care of her.