by Regina Scott
"Nothing so horrible.” She sighed. “In fact, I believe you've seen all my foibles."
"And I have not quailed,” he replied, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze. “Besides the fact that our families will likely be at each other's throats within a few days, what else troubles you about this visit?"
She looked into his eyes and saw only concern. She ought to rejoice for an opportunity to spend time with him, to learn everything about him, even if it meant uncovering some secret. But the truth was, for once in her life, she was frightened, and she could not tell him what she feared. She who was so honest found it impossible to bare her soul and admit that the closer he got, the more she feared to lose him. It was far easier, and far safer, to love him from a distance than to risk the chance that he might turn from her altogether.
"Tell me the truth,” she demanded, yanking back her hands. “If I submit to this visit, and if by some strange improbable act of God it goes well, will you offer for me? Would you want me as your bride?"
His smile deepened and he put his hands on her shoulders. She thought again that he meant to kiss her. Almost against her conscious will, her body leaned closer as if in anticipation. His gaze lingered on her mouth, and she could see a longing matching her own. Heart pounding alarmingly, she closed her eyes.
Thomas pulled her head to rest on his upper chest. She could hear the rhythm of his heart, just as fast and fierce as her own. “Margaret, I promise you. Unless something unforeseen happens, I fully intend to make you my bride."
"Oh.” It was all she could seem to get out. Again she waited, knowing such declarations were normally followed by an impassioned kiss. His arms tightened around her; she could feel his strength. He rested his cheek against her hair. She could feel the tension in him.
She pulled away. “Thomas?"
He rose. “I hope I have allayed your concerns, my dear. I am not trifling with your affections. Do we still ride in the morning?"
"Yes,” she replied, deflated. He nodded in acknowledgment, bowed over her hand from a distance, and turned to go.
"Thomas,” she said again, and he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Do you find me attractive?"
He started, then covered it with a laugh that could only be called nervous. “My, but we are full of difficult questions today."
"I don't think of that as difficult,” Margaret replied, struggling once again with her doubts. “It seems rather straightforward to me. One either finds someone attractive or one does not."
He ran his hand back through his hair, in an uncharacteristic move that mussed his normally careful coiffure. “I'm not sure I'm up to more than one dire confession in a day."
Margaret wanted to pity him, but her heart was hurting too much. “In other words, you don't find me the least attractive. I don't think that bodes at all well for the future."
He stood for a moment more, than strode back to her, cupping her shoulders once again and glaring into her eyes. “Why can't you ever leave well enough alone?” he growled.
Margaret swallowed, heart once more pounding. “It's ... it's in my nature, I think.” In truth, she could not think at all with him standing so close. His chest was heaving as if he was making an extreme effort, his eyes tortured. As before, she thought surely he would kiss her, but again, he drew her into his embrace, letting her head rest against his shoulder.
"Can you hear that hammering?” he asked sharply. “That is my heart, demanding that I act like a savage beast and kiss you senseless. I am not going to do so. You ask whether I find you attractive? At this moment, I would cheerfully walk barefoot over burning coals to have you in my bed."
Margaret pulled away, staring up into his face for confirmation. He looked as frustrated as he sounded. She swallowed.
"I cannot grant you that, my lord,” she managed. “I too believe some things should be saved for marriage. However, I do not think a kiss or two is out of the question."
He let go of her and walked to the door so stiffly, she knew he would refuse to turn back this time. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “I hope I have answered all your questions, Margaret. And if I haven't, I hope you'll have the kindness to ask me again some other time, preferably in a crowded room."
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Chapter Fifteen
Thomas sat on Nicodemus on the road above Hillwater Park, his estate on Coniston Water, and gazed out over the lake, wondering whether he might have gone insane. All his life he had set goals for himself, worked to achieve them, and basked in the glow of accomplishment. Sometimes he had worked harder than others. Intellectual pursuits came easy to him, as did riding, boxing, and most other sports. Standing his ground with Lady Agnes, debating in Parliament, and courting had been much harder.
Courting Margaret Munroe was proving impossible.
He knew it had been propriety that had made him call on her the first time, pride that had started the friendship, and curiosity that had encouraged it. After his last meeting with her before coming north to prepare for the visit, however, he could no longer describe his interest with such mild language. The truth was that she stirred him as no woman had ever done. He did not understand it, but he could not deny it. Surely that alone was reason enough to suspect his sanity.
"I wouldn't mind having a try at that black,” Court suggested as he rode up beside him on one of Thomas’ other horses. “There was even a man's saddle in the tack that came with him, so surely she let's others ride him."
"Not necessarily,” Thomas replied, thinking of what a bruising rider she was. It would not surprise him that she occasionally rode astride.
Court was not to be dissuaded. “Come on, DeGuis. What's the use of coming on ahead with such a beast if all he must do is fret in the stable?"
Thomas smiled, patting Nicodemus. “And he will fret. I've seldom met such a devoted horse. I swear he misses her.” As much as I do, he amended silently.
"All the more reason for you to let me take him out for a run,” Court insisted. “She need never know."
Thomas shook his head. “I have a feeling he'd tell her. Besides, I promised the lady I'd take good care of him. We went slowly getting here so as not to strain him. We should not press our luck now."
"Four days ride from London didn't strain him,” his friend replied with a snort. “I doubt two days in a full-scale gallop could strain him. But I surrender to your wisdom. I admit I would not want to be the one to tell Miss Munroe I had somehow damaged her prize cattle.” He cocked his head, eyeing Thomas thoughtfully. “You've settled on her, haven't you? This visit isn't just an excuse to get Catherine and me together. You're intending to offer for her."
Thomas sighed. “In truth, Court, I was beginning to think seriously on it. Now, I wonder at my own mind. We are so very different. Can two people find happiness from such different points of view?"
"Happiness?” Court replied with a chuckle. “And what novels have we been reading, old man? Some people have the luxury of marrying for love. You are marrying to continue the line. She's strong stock, I'll give her that. She ought to bear you strapping sons. What more do you ask for?"
Thomas frowned. “Is that all you want from Catherine? Somehow, I don't see my sister birthing strapping anythings. Is she less of a woman in your eyes because of that?"
Court had the good sense to look uncomfortable. “Certainly not. But Catherine is a DeGuis. She has years of breeding and connections to offer, which Miss Munroe does not. I was merely trying to point out her better qualities."
Thomas’ frown deepened. “And her ability to bear children was all that came to mind? I would have added intelligence, a delightful sense of humor, and a heart worthy of her magnificent breast."
"I begin to think you are besotted,” Court joked. “Marry her then, if you will. But do not let her Whiggish tendencies sway you. We need your votes solidly on the conservative side, DeGuis."
"If I didn't know better, I'd think that was a threat,” Thomas growle
d. “I have never changed my vote to suit a friend, female or male.” He looked at his ambitious friend pointedly.
"My word, you are touchy,” Court muttered, urging his horse past Thomas to head down toward the little stone stables beside the house. “Perhaps you ought to have eaten more of Mrs. Tate's fish chowder we had for luncheon. The way you act, you'd think you were in love with the chit."
Thomas watched silently as the viscount rode away in high dudgeon, scattering the black-faced lambs that cropped the emerald lawn. In truth, he was not sure what to think. Love, the impassioned love the poets wrote of, had never seemed real to him. Certainly it must be more than a desire to hold a woman in one's arms. But was what he felt for Margaret love?
And, as Court had so ineloquently put it, did it matter? He hadn't loved Margaret when he had started this association; he hadn't even considered he might fall in love. In actuality, love was only a messy side effect, one that threatened his well-made plans. If he loved Margaret, surely he'd be tempted to kiss her. And that, he could not do, or he would lose her forever.
He gazed out over the azure waters of the lake. The deep color mirrored the cloudless sky above and framed the high fells beyond. Ravens darted among the beech and maple trees at the water's edge. A breeze stirred his hair and set Nicodemus to whickering over the unaccustomed scent of hay freshening. It was calm here, peaceful. Surely this was the place, as it had always been from his childhood, where he could focus on what was important.
As if in answer to his thoughts, his chest spasmed. Thomas caught his breath, jerking at the reins, and Nicodemus started. Fire raced from his gut to his throat, and a giant hand lay hold of his upper chest, squeezing the air from his body, making it impossible to replace it. He struggled against the pain, even as he fought against the panic rising with it. Not again. The doctor had assured him the attack in December would not return. He was healthy, strong. There was no reason he should die as young as his father had. His heart could not simply give out.
As quickly as it had come, the attack dissipated. Thomas sucked in the summer air gratefully, collapsing over Nicodemus’ mane to grip it with both hands. The Arabian shied nervously, turning in confused circles as Thomas took a deep shuddering breath. Forcing himself to straighten, he tightened the reins and brought the dun back under control. His chest ached, his throat as raw as if it had been burned by some acid. He swallowed and felt as if he had eaten a brick. Had he wanted to focus on what was important? Here was his answer, just as Court had predicted. What he felt about Margaret was immaterial. What was important was to set up his nursery as quickly as possible, to ensure the continuity of the marquisette his family had managed for generations. That was his responsibility. And the most expedient way to do that was to offer for Margaret Munroe, as quickly as possible.
* * * *
He had arranged for Court and him to reach the estate a good few days ahead of the Munroes and his own family. Consequently, they were due at any time. Mr. and Mrs. Tate, the elderly couple who served as caretakers when he was not in residence, had already aired the small house, changed the bed linens on all the four-poster beds, and been to Hilton two miles away for supplies. Of his many estates, Hillwater Park was by far the smallest. Its forced intimacy had been one of the reasons he had selected it for his time with Margaret. No country great house this—it was two stories with servants quarters under the blue-gray slate roof, a square block center with a single wing extending off the southeast end nearest the lake. The walls were white-washed, the narrow windows darkly framed and shuttered. The Tates had planted red geraniums along the flagstone walk from the road to the stout oak door and the path from the verandah overlooking the lake down to the shore. Behind the center block, the slope from the house to the shore was filled with roses, gladiolas, and daisies in wild abandon as if scattered by the hand of the master planter. Looking at it now as he rode carefully for the stables, he could think of no more fitting setting for his wild Margaret.
Unfortunately, it was his own carriage that arrived first later that day, after he'd had a only a little chance to rest from his attack. He handed his Aunt Agnes down, pausing to kiss her soft-skinned cheek as she leaned toward him.
"We passed the Munroe carriage outside Windermere,” she told him. “They should not be far behind us. By the by,” she continued as she moved toward the house, “Catherine moped all the way up here. If I didn't know better, I'd think she actually misses that Darton fellow."
Thomas’ hopes rose. He had not had the courage to tell his sister that Court was coming along and had expected to have to endure her tears upon arrival. Now she glanced about as soon as she had alighted, and he did not think it was the view of the lake she sought.
"Might I hope you've noticed the gentleman awaiting you?” he said with a smile, nodding toward the lake where Court was tying a fly to his willow fishing rod.
Instead of brightening, she paled and stared at him, and his heart sank.
"Gentleman?” she gasped. “Thomas, who do you mean?"
Thomas sighed. “Viscount Darton, of course.” He pointed to the tall silhouette against the bright waters of the lake.
Catherine shuddered. “Oh, Thomas! How could you invite him without consulting me?"
"I thought you needed time to know your mind,” Thomas replied gently. “It is only two months. I promise you, if you are certain you will not suit by the end of that time, I will cry off for you."
She glanced toward the waters, but her stare was unseeing.
"Catherine?” Thomas frowned.
She blinked, recollecting herself as if with difficulty. “I do not think you need to wait so long,” she murmured. “I can tell you now that two months, two years, will not change my mind. I will not marry Viscount Darton."
She stiffened and walked with head high toward the house.
Thomas shook his head. His sister's determination did not bode well for the young viscount. But Court was nothing if not determined himself. If he decided Catherine was the woman for him, Thomas had no doubt Court would win her over.
A few minutes later, the Munroe coach pulled into the yard. He half expected to find Margaret driving, but she was the first to alight, blue eyes merry. She favored him with a smile, then her gaze swept past him to the now-empty lake shore and across it to the quarry village at the foot of Coniston Old Man, the fell behind. Her eyes widened, and she gazed back at him. “Oh, Thomas, it's beautiful!"
He smiled as well. “Yes, it is now."
She blushed, the color flushing up from the collar of her navy travel cloak to the roots of her marbled hair. Thomas had to fight the urge not to reach out and tuck some of the fly-away strands back into her topknot.
"Thank goodness, we're here at last,” puffed Mrs. Munroe, clambering down from the carriage. “This is a lovely place, to be sure. Could someone please direct me to the main house?"
Thomas bowed to her, then waved toward the white-washed walls. “Hillwater is as you see it, Mrs. Munroe. I promise you the interior is grander than the exterior."
"I certainly hope not,” Margaret remarked. “I find the exterior charming and much more comfortable than some grand house with more rooms than character."
Her stepmother looked doubtful, but her father, who had just alighted, was gazing thoughtfully at the lake.
"Trout?” he barked at Thomas.
"As big as your arm,” Thomas promised with a grin.
Her father quirked a smile, rubbing his hands together gleefully. Thomas thought he might insist on trying immediately, but Mrs. Munroe cleared her throat, and he hurried to follow her to the house.
"This is absolutely perfect,” Margaret exclaimed beside him. “I cannot imagine a more lovely setting. Where have you put Aeolus?"
"In the stables, of course,” Thomas replied, nodding to the stone building beyond the carriage. “And he is as eager to see you as I was."
Before he could think to stop her, Margaret darted around the back of the carriage, startling the
grooms and the villagers hired to play footmen for the visit. Leaving them to deal with the baggage, he could only follow in her wake. He found her, one foot raised on the wood railing, nose to nose with the thoroughbred. Aeolus blew softly, nodding against her face, and if Thomas had not known better, he would have sworn the two were deep in conversation.
"And does he report satisfaction with his accommodations?” Thomas teased. “Or does he request the master bedchamber?” He reached out a hand and was pleased when the brute suffered his touch with only a roll of his eye.
"He is well satisfied,” Margaret proclaimed, stepping down. “I knew you would take care of him, Thomas. But I had to say hello as soon as I arrived."
"I quite understand,” he replied, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow. “However, I'm not so sure what my aunt will think about being upstaged by a horse."
"One creature is as good another,” Margaret quipped. His frown must have reminded her that he did not know the reference for she hurried to explain. “Your aunt once asked me whether I was the creature who had attracted your attentions."
Thomas sighed. “I'm sorry, Margaret. She had no right to be unkind. However, you have completely won her over. She and Catherine are eager to renew the acquaintance."
"Not nearly as eager as Aeolus, I'd wager,” she remarked, but she did not pull away and Thomas succeeded at last in following her parents to the entryway. His chest still hurt from the morning's attack, and he felt as if he'd been holding his breath since the Munroes’ arrival. He took a deep lungful of the clean lake air and felt himself relax. Everyone had arrived safely and appeared to be on relatively good behavior. Perhaps things would go smoothly for a change.
They entered the house, and Margaret froze.
His aunt and sister had not gotten upstairs before the Munroes had entered. He had no idea what his aunt had said, but it had reduced Mrs. Munroe to a quivering pile of indignation and even Mr. Munroe appeared to have been struck dumb. Catherine was wringing her hands in dismay and appeared about to break into tears. But Margaret seemed oblivious to them. She was gazing across the entryway to where Court had just returned from the lake with his catch. He stood stiffly, eyes clouded and lips compressed as he met her stare. Her jaw was set, and her blue eyes snapped fire. He had apparently not told her that Court would be joining them either.