by Regina Scott
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Chapter Eleven
Thomas sat with back straight in his carriage. His rap on the ceiling to signal his driver to start was sharp enough to remind him of his bruised knuckles inside the gray kidskin gloves.
"Would you care to explain what that was all about?” he demanded of the woman sitting opposite him.
Margaret shrunk in on herself, wrapping her green wool cloak about her even though the day was warm enough that she should not need it. It only reminded him that beneath the cloak her lilac-sprigged muslin gown was ripped across the shoulder, her bosom speckled with the blood from the miscreant's nose. The thought of that brute laying his hands on her filled him with fury again, and he closed his eyes against the murderous anger.
"It was my stepmother who claimed it was a home for widows and orphans, wasn't it?” she asked with a sigh.
Thomas took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “Yes, although it required considerable prying to get that out of her. She seemed rather ashamed of the fact."
She sighed again. “My stepmother is entirely ashamed of my work at Comfort House. It is not a home for widows and orphans, although many of the woman are both. Comfort House, my lord, is for prostitutes who have given up their profession."
He had hoped the brute was demented, even when he'd seen what appeared to be an entire host of fallen women staring through the open door. Now the man's ranting made sense.
"I see,” he managed, although in truth he did not see at all. Calling this dangerous activity charity was going too far. Perhaps Court had been right that something must be done to make the streets safer. What kind of mother, or father for that matter, let a daughter consort with such people? Not only was the place unwholesome, but, if today was any indication, it was hazardous as well. If he had not been there, she might have been killed or forced against her will. The very idea made him ill. His frustration must have shown on his face, for she stiffened.
"You can let me off at the next corner, if you'd like,” she said. “I'm quite used to finding my own way home, as my stepmother refuses to allow the carriage in this neighborhood."
Looking at the clapboard hovels they were passing, trash crowding the narrow streets, sewage running in rivets along the gutters, he could well imagine Mrs. Munroe's reluctance. He also could not imagine abandoning Margaret there. “Certainly not. I'm taking you home."
"Well, you needn't be so angry about it,” she complained. “I do not agree with you or my stepmother that my work here is so reprehensible. There is a need here. These women must have a champion. They cannot return to society without one; they don't understand the rules."
"And you have proven you have little regard for the rules,” he told her, unable to still his anger as she insisted on defending the very people who had put her in danger in the first place.
"I may have little regard for Society's dictates,” she countered, “but that doesn't mean I don't know what the dictates are. These women need to learn a trade, an acceptable trade, or marry, or they will have no choice but to return to the streets. That choice is no different than what a respectable young lady faces."
"The two situations cannot be compared,” he insisted.
She scowled at him. “Why are you so angry? Our Lord Jesus ate with prostitutes!"
"And he had twelve able-bodied men to protect him,” Thomas snapped.
"Well, if I could find twelve helpers, I assure you I'd make use of them!"
They glared at each other for a moment, and he felt compelled to turn his gaze to the window. Could she not see she might have been hurt? If anything had happened to her, he wasn't sure what he'd have done. This need to protect her surely came from his sense of chivalry, but this panic at the thought of losing her was something else. The depth of it amazed him and seemed only to fuel the anger.
She could not seem to accept his belligerence. “Oh, come now, my lord,” she put in. “I cannot believe you are one of those who pretends there is no dark side to London. These women have been used and abandoned by men of our own class. While you may not be one of them, I'll wager you've had your share of mistresses."
This time she did shock him. He whipped to face her. “Then you would lose,” he told her sternly. “I am one of those who believes that some things should be saved for marriage."
She stared at him. “You mean you're a virgin?"
Try as he might, he could not stop his face from flaming. “That, Miss Munroe, is none of your affair until the day we marry, a day that is looking far more unlikely every minute."
She raised her head defiantly, although he would have to be blind to miss the hurt in her eyes. “Is that supposed to be a threat? You cannot intimidate me, my lord. Others may see you as some sort of prize that must be won at all costs, but to me you are simply a man. I never actually thought you would marry me. I do not see why you mention it now."
"Frankly, neither do I,” he replied with the honesty he had come to expect of her. “I have been teased, tread upon, and tortured with encroaching questions. Why I persist is beyond me."
"There,” she proclaimed, “we are in agreement at last. We will not possibly suit. You cannot court someone like me."
"Is that a challenge?"
She shrugged. “You may consider it so if you like. It is also a fact that cannot be changed. I will not be something other than what you see, my lord. You cannot be something that you disdain. It is surely better that we part, before someone gets hurt."
He curled and uncurled his fist, knuckles protesting. He had already been hurt, but he was beginning to think the pain went deeper than his sore hand. She was impossible—headstrong, impulsive, emotional—the opposite of everything he had wanted in his marchioness. Surely she was right that they break off this entanglement before it went any further. Yet the idea was repulsive to him. She had awoken something inside of him that refused to sleep again. As carefully as he had built the shell around his heart, she had cracked it.
She had grown silent, watching him with her clear blue eyes, moist now as if she were fighting tears. Had she come to care for him in so short a time? He could not imagine she even found him companionable. In her presence, his propriety felt like stuffiness, his honor merely the following of unarticulated social dictates. Surely she could not even like him. Something in him burned to know the answer.
"Tell me, Miss Munroe, would you want me to court you?"
She turned her gaze to the window. “That is the third time someone has asked me something like that, my lord. One was a close friend, the other was your aunt. If I did not see fit to answer them, I do not see why I should answer you."
He sighed. “Must you always be so prickly? Is there nothing of import we can discuss without disagreeing?"
"It would appear not. But let's by all means be fair about this. Tell me, my lord the marquis, would you want to court me, knowing me as you do now?"
The challenge was there, clearly set before him, just as on the day she had challenged him to race. Then as now, he argued with himself, brought all his logic to bear, debated as sincerely as if he were on the floor of Parliament, battling for a favorite bill. She was nothing like the woman he thought he wanted. But perhaps what he wanted and what he needed were two different things. In the end, he lost, and he won.
"Yes, Miss Munroe,” he replied sincerely. “I would like to court you."
She did not turn her gaze from the window, but he thought she shivered. “Very well, my lord. But do not expect miracles. I am what I am."
"Agreed. I will try to stop being judgmental. But as you said, we should be fair. Am I not allowed to be what I am?"
She started, turning to him at last, eyes wide. “Good heavens, I have been judging you, haven't I? I sincerely apologize, my lord. Of course, you must be yourself. As that is practically perfect, I don't know why I would want to change you."
Her praise should have warmed him, but it only served to remind him of his gaping failure in his last two c
ourtships. He had sincerely cared for Allison. He had admired Lady Janice. He was beginning to think that Margaret Munroe would settle for nothing short of an impassioned love. That was the one thing he could not give her. This time he was the one to turn away.
"I am not perfect, Miss Munroe. Seeing me that way is in itself a form of judgment. I find I prefer your statement that I am merely a man."
"But such a man,” she teased. “Haven't I heard the phrase, catch of the Season? My stepmother utters it often enough."
He wanted to smile, but somehow he could not manage it. “I think we may also agree that your stepmother is perhaps blinded by the title and the estates that go with it."
"As is every other matchmaking mama of the ton,” Margaret insisted. She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her tone was much gentler. “Is something troubling you, my lord? You will remember I told you I preferred we be honest in all things. If something about courting me concerns you, please let us discuss it."
He quirked a wry smile. “Why, what could possibly concern me about a courtship we both agree is madness?"
She smiled in return. “Everything. And nothing. If we are mad, perhaps we will cease to notice the difficulties."
"Perhaps,” he allowed.
Her smile faded, and she bit her lip. He felt himself stiffen. “Am I being unfair again? Is there something about this courtship that troubles you, Miss Munroe, aside from the fact that we are both mad?"
It was the only time he had seen her hesitate, and somehow it chilled him. “A person I would normally consider well-meaning tells me that I should refuse to be seen with you. She says she and my cousin Allison know something about you that would make me afraid to be your wife."
It was another challenge, but one he could not meet, not with the honesty she wanted. The person who had spoken to her could only be Lady Janice. He had not thought her so vindictive as to spread malicious gossip. But perhaps, as Margaret had noted, she thought to spare her friend heartache. This was his opportunity to confess his shortcomings to Margaret, but, as much as he wanted to continue this association, he was not ready to bare his soul to her. She may have opened his heart, but the wounds left by his last two courtships were still too raw to probe deeply. He was simply not willing to open that part of himself to pain again.
"Perhaps she was referring to my temper,” he hedged. “You just received a rather marked demonstration, I'm afraid. It has a long fuse, but once it reaches the powder, the results tend to be explosive. I promise to apologize profusely afterward."
She looked doubtful, and he waited for more questions. But she did not press him. Instead, she settled back against the squabs with a pensive look. He could not be so sanguine. Knowing her as he was beginning to, he was sure the matter would resurface, probably when he least wanted it to.
Besides, he had some thinking of his own to do. It was unlike him to do something so illogical as to agree to a courtship he will ill-prepared to finish. Obviously, whatever part of him that had urged him to do so had nothing to do with logic. He felt as if he were out to sea without a compass. It would be a struggle to find familiar land again, and the same illogical part of him wasn't sure he wanted to. He had thought all he wanted was a simple marriage to continue the line. Instead, he had just agreed to a courtship that could well cost him his sanity, his character, and his heart.He only know one thing: It would be a hell of a ride.
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Chapter Twelve
Margaret would have liked nothing better than to feel in complete charity with Thomas. After all, he had overcome his righteous indignation concerning the incident at Comfort House and declared he wished to court her. She should be in alt. Instead, she found herself quite annoyed.
It did not help that he insisted on accompanying her into the house. For once, she knew, his presence would not be enough to ward off a scold from her stepmother. Indeed, she had the impression from the tight smile on Thomas’ face that he took perverse delight in hearing the woman babble on about the damage to her clothes, her reputation, and her virtue, in that order. After several minutes of the diatribe, Margaret was ready to stamp from the room, leaving the marquis to the questionable graces of her stepmother. Unfortunately, Thomas must have noted the rebellion in her eyes, for he interrupted Mrs. Munroe in mid-sentence.
"I quite agree with you that Miss Munroe should be more careful in her choice of charities,” he told her stepmother, who swallowed whatever else she was going to say to listen to him. “I'm certain today's events have taught us all a lesson, one Mr. Munroe would appreciate as well. Has he returned from his club, do you know? I would like a moment of his time."
This statement sent her stepmother into fresh agitation, but Margaret was not fooled. He had no intention of offering for her hand; he had only just agreed to court her. He was clearly set on convincing her father to keep her away from Comfort House.
"I appreciate your concern for my safety, my lord,” she told him. “But I still maintain that I am in no danger. Scolding my father will not keep me from my duty."
Thomas shook his head, but the presence of Mrs. Munroe obviously had him hobbled. Margaret felt a grin forming. As a gentleman of noted composure, he could scarcely argue with her in public. As an Original, she felt no such qualms. The power was heady.
"Margaret.” The word rumbled out of her stepmother in warning before the little woman turned a beaming smile on the marquis. “My lord, I regret that my husband has yet to return. Perhaps we might speak instead."
Thomas bowed. “Your servant, madam. However, I'm afraid this is a matter for the head of the house."
Margaret bit her lips to keep from laughing at the annoyance that flickered across her stepmother's round face. It was no secret who ran the Munroe household. Mrs. Munroe pasted on a smile as Thomas straightened.
"Then perhaps we should set a time of convenience for you,” she tried.
Thomas smiled. “No hurry. I'll try to meet with him the next time I visit."
"And that will be?” she asked brightly.
Thomas affixed Margaret with a stern look. “Tomorrow at three."
"We will be home,” Mrs. Munroe replied, her tone daring Margaret to disagree.
With a far-too satisfied smile, Thomas bowed again and left.
"Now see what you've done!” her stepmother declared as soon as the door had closed behind him. “He was ready to ask for your hand, and you spoiled it with your silly charity!"
Margaret turned to the stairs in disgust. “As he asked for Father after the incident, I do not think my ‘silly charity’ had any effect."
"But surely you could see how upset he was,” Mrs. Munroe pressed, following her up the stairs. “Do not go back there, Margaret."
"I must,” Margaret replied with determination. “I have a responsibility to those women. Until there are others to take my place, I will not leave Annie alone."
"Your only responsibility is to this family,” her stepmother argued. “You cannot expect your father to support you for the rest of your life. Do you wish to remain a spinster?"
"Do you never tire of this argument?” Margaret countered, reaching the door of her room. “The marquis agreed to court me. Be happy with that."
"But Margaret,” her stepmother began.
"No ‘buts,’ madam,” Margaret interrupted. “Nothing will deter me. Now, excuse me while I change."
"You'll need to change,” her stepmother muttered, but she did not follow her through the door. “If there is any hope for this courtship, you'll need to change a great deal."
* * * *
Of course, she went the next morning to check on Annie, finding the woman in the cavernous kitchen of the house, which they had turned into a laundry.
"Safe and secure, we are,” the ex-prostitute replied to her concern, though she was quick to lead Margaret back to the little parlor as the girls turned eagerly to question her. “I expect I'll see Jacob Breely again, stubborn as he is,” she admitted
as they were seated on the worn settee. “But he'll think twice after that crack your Nob gave him."
"Then there are no bad repercussions from Lord DeGuis’ visit?” Margaret probed, concerned that she had been hurried away from the very women she was here to help.
"Bad things, you ask?” Annie's face fell easily into her regular scowl. “Well, I can't call it a blessing. Seems the girls have discussed little else since then."
"But surely they discuss any visit by someone of Jacob Breely's stripe,” Margaret protested, compelled to defend Thomas, and herself for causing him to come to the house.
Annie snorted, sounding very like Aeolus when he was miffed. “Tweren't Mr. Breely they were discussing. Seems your Nob came off quite the hero. I heard bets being laid this morning as to which of them had a better chance of catching him."
"Lord DeGuis is very handsome,” Margaret agreed. “It's little wonder they want to catch his eye."
"Tweren't his eye they wanted to catch,” Annie muttered darkly.
Margaret felt herself blushing. “Well, he claims to have little use for your girls, Annie."
"That I well believe,” Annie replied heatedly. “Why touch coppers when gold lays itself at your feet? He could have his pick of ladies, high born and low."
"Yes,” Margaret said quietly. “I know."
Annie sighed heavily. “There! I swear I gave up my winning ways when I gave up the profession. Can you believe butter wouldn't have melted in my mouth once? I was that eager to please my gents. Now I've hurt your feelings, and you one of the few to help us."
"I'm fine,” Margaret replied with a rueful smile. “I try to speak only the truth. Why should I mind when others do so? Lord DeGuis and I had quite a discussion yesterday about Comfort House. Much as I disagree with his points, I cannot argue that he is a paragon, Annie. I have yet to hear anyone seriously contest that, with any evidence that is."