by Regina Scott
"Allow me,” he murmured, placing his hand on either side of her slender waist. She stiffened, eyes widening once more. Her own hands clung to his as if she would push him away. He stood next to her for a moment, blue eyes locked onto blue. He could see his own reflection in the depths of hers. He could also see her throat move as she swallowed nervously. The insane notion of kissing that graceful neck begged acknowledgment. More, it demanded action. He heaved her up into the saddle. Letting go of him with hands that visibly trembled, she slung one leg over the saddle to ride astride and kept her face resolutely forward as he went to mount Nicodemus.
She followed him, rather docilely for Margaret Munroe, up the slope to the track that ran along the lake. After a few moments, she brought the black alongside the dun. The Arabian had grown used to riding with Aeolus; his step did not falter. Aeolus mouthed the bit as if to protest being held to so sedate a canter, then settled into a begrudging walk.
"They seem to have accepted each other,” Thomas remarked.
"Or at least agreed to a truce,” Margaret answered with a chuckle.
"Would that our families were so easy to sway,” Thomas replied.
"Perhaps they will be, with time,” she allowed. She glanced out over the waters of the lake, which lay sparkling in the early morning sunlight. “Catherine tells me you arranged her marriage."
Thomas frowned, wondering about the sudden change of subject. “Does that trouble you?"
"Greatly,” she admitted. “Marriage is too important to leave the choice to someone else."
"I agree that marriage is an important step,” Thomas replied, unwilling to argue with her when he was just getting back on better footing. “So important, in fact, that it should be decided by wiser minds than that of a twenty-year-old woman."
"I'm just one and twenty,” she countered. “Do you find me incapable of determining my own husband?"
Thomas smiled. “Certainly not. But you are not Catherine. Do you find her capable of determining a suitable husband?"
She was surprisingly quiet for a few moments. Then she sighed. “In truth, I don't know. Sometimes she strikes me as an excessively silly widgeon, entirely too wrapped up in herself.” Although part of him agreed with her, he could not help but defend his sister. “Catherine was gently reared, Margaret. You must not judge her against your standards."
"Gently reared? By Lady Agnes?” She was plainly skeptical, and he found himself wondering indeed how different his sister's life had been from Margaret's. Certainly, they had had the privileges of wealth, as well as the noted DeGuis composure. But did that mean that Catherine should be allowed to be any less honest or forthcoming?
"Perhaps I haven't been the most attentive of brothers,” he admitted with a sigh. “Perhaps I should have worked harder to draw her out. But she is as she is. And I still stand by the fact that she is ill-equipped to make so important a decision."
"But it is her life, Thomas,” Margaret protested. “It seems to me she is entitled to make her own mistakes."
"And being the wiser older brother, I cannot shield her from some of them?” he pressed.
Margaret eyed him, somewhat cynically he thought. “And just how wise are you about marriage, Thomas? You haven't exactly managed to get yourself a bride."
He wanted to bridle up, demand an apology, but she was looking at him so intently that he could not deny her words. He gazed out over the lake instead. “You cut right to the heart, as usual. No, I haven't been married. But I love her, and I want to make sure she is well settled. No one is forcing her to wed Darton. If she has someone else in mind, she has only to say so."
"There, I knew you'd be sensible!” she declared, and he turned back to find her beaming at him. “You should tell Catherine that. She needs to hear it."
"I have told her so. Repeatedly. Why is it no one listens to me?"
Margaret laughed.
Thomas could not help but sigh. “Oh, how I've missed that sound."
She immediately sobered, reddening. “Do not tease me, my lord. Despite your previous compliments, my stepmother insists that my laugh is my least endearing trait."
"Stepmothers,” he informed her, “are occasionally wrong.” Her blush deepened, but she did not brighten. He frowned, wondering how to bring back the smile to her face. He had had entirely enough of serious topics for the morning. He pulled the dun up short, and Margaret reined in Aeolus. Thomas pointed to an outcropping of rock about a quarter mile distant. “See that slate slab overhanging the trail? First one there gets to name the prize."
"You're on!” she cried. He did not see her signal the black, but Aeolus sprinted into a gallop even as he touched his heel to Nicodemus’ flank. They tore down the track, horses’ hooves churning the pebbles underfoot. Trees flashed past. Birds shot out of thickets in surprise. A rabbit bolted off the track to ricochet down the slope beyond. Ahead of him, Margaret flattened herself over the saddle, plainly urging the black to fly. Her braid flung out behind her like a flag. Thomas bent low as well, murmuring to Nicodemus over the sound of the hooves. The dun stretched, but he could not catch the black. Margaret shot past the outcropping a good head in front of him.
They slowed the horses, pulling them back into a canter, then a walk and finally stopping on a wide spot in the track overlooking the lake. Margaret's chest was heaving as hard as her horse's.
"You won,” he acknowledged.
She laughed, and he felt his arms pimple in goose flesh. “Yes, I won. You sound surprised. Do you still forget that I can ride? Come now, sir. It was you who called the race and set the stakes. Help me down so I can claim my prize."
He jumped easily from the saddle, heart beat quickening more than when he had been racing. Dr. Cranwell would scold if he knew, but Thomas found he did not care. Striding to her side, he held out his arms, and she slid obligingly into them. As he set her onto the ground, the light of laughter in her eyes was replaced by a stronger emotion. He felt it as well, building inside him. But he could not seem to let go of her.
"I claim,” she murmured, watching him, “a kiss."
More than anything he wanted to grant her request. But it would spoil everything he had worked to achieve. He released her and stepped back. “No. Out of the question. I thought we'd settled that."
She frowned in obvious vexation. “I'm sure it's against some social code to insist, but you leave me no choice. Will you break your promise? You said the winner may set the prize."
"I assumed I would be the winner,” Thomas quipped without thinking. Her frown only deepened.
"I do not believe you are so arrogant,” she declared. “Even if you were, now that I have bested you beyond expectations, you refuse your word? What kind of gentleman is that?"
He could not look at her. The hurt in her eyes he was sure was mirrored in his own. “Ask anything else, Margaret,” he murmured, watching the lake. “Not that."
She was silent for a moment then sighed heavily. “Thomas, you exasperate me beyond measure. However, if you insist, I will pick another prize.” She waited expectantly. She was giving him another chance to kiss her, or at least to explain why he refused. He could do neither. Even caring for her as he did, his heart wasn't ready.
"I'm afraid I must insist,” he replied with forced coolness.
"Very well.” She sighed again. “I suppose you could teach me to fish after breakfast. You and my father seem to find it fascinating. Perhaps it would be diverting."
Her tone was so begrudging that he had to chuckle. “Very well, then, fishing it shall be. Just as you wish."
"Not in the least,” she replied, leading Aeolus to a boulder, where she hurried mounted before he could so much as reach out a hand to touch her. “If I had my wish, I would have no further doubts as to your feelings.” She turned the horse and rode ahead of him.
Thomas sighed, climbing back into Nicodemus’ saddle. “That's what I'm afraid of,” he muttered to himself.
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Chapter Nineteen
If Thomas had been concerned that Margaret was too quiet before their ride, he immediately realized it had been a blessing. From then on, she seemed determined to discover the reason he refused to kiss her. She tried asking him in her forthright manner, but he managed to turn the topic aside with a joke, steering her toward his Aunt Agnes and effectively stopping that line of conversation. Even Margaret knew there were some things one did not discuss in front of his termagant aunt. Undeterred, she pressed the question the next time they were alone. He ended up walking out of the conversation, only to have to apologize later for his rudeness. Since then, she had been more careful in her attempts to broach the subject. Unfortunately, he was no more comfortable answering her.
He knew he could not avoid her forever. She was full of passion, and her feelings in all aspects sought physical release. When she danced, he could see the joy in her graceful movements. When she rode, she was one with the horse. When she gave of her time, she gave of herself. When she laughed, she laughed with all her heart, and most of her body. Why should she love any differently?
Her comment after their first race troubled him the most. She had said she could not be sure of his feelings. Small wonder, for he could not be sure of them himself. He enjoyed her company, more so than anyone he had ever met. She had a refreshing way of looking at the world that invariably raised his spirits. He desired her, that was beyond question. And certainly he cared about her to the point that he wanted to see her happy.
So, how could he tell her the man who was courting her was not willing to be physical about his growing emotions? Even if he could let go of his fear of rejection, there was the matter of his kiss. How could he explain that? ‘My dear Margaret, I shall in all ways be an exemplary husband, but for one small matter. My kisses are no more than instructive, should one wish to be instructed on how not to kiss.’ Or perhaps, ‘I have been told my ability to kiss is less than most men. I hope you don't mind.’ He could of course follow her lead and simply demonstrate the matter by kissing her, but the thought of seeing her anticipation melt into dismay or worse, disdain, was too painful to bear. He would simply have to be strong and stick to his original plan, Dr. Cranwell's advice notwithstanding. Only when he and Margaret were wed, and he knew she could not reject him would he attempt physical intimacy.
Unfortunately, he found his own willpower a formidable enemy. They were thrown together constantly. This intimacy had also been part of his plan, but that fact did not comfort him. Instead of growing closer, as he had hoped, they were becoming more tense with each other. Margaret seemed to feel that the only way he could prove he cared for her was to kiss her. Yet that was the one thing he could not do.
They rode together every morning now. Most mornings they raced, although Thomas was careful not to repeat his mistake and suggest an ambiguous prize. She was a worthy opponent; in fact, he was never again sure of the outcome of their races. She won as many times as he did. Either way, she was always glowing with pleasure when they finished, and it took every ounce of his will not to pull her into his arms.
While their guests fished or read or strolled about the area, they usually spent the mornings wandering about the estate or driving to one of the nearby villages. Sometimes one or both of her parents joined them. Mr. Munroe seemed to be enjoying the visit, being one of the few who could engage Lady Agnes in conversation for any length of time. He also spent considerable time on the lake, bringing home fish that Mrs. Tate delighted in preparing for him until Mrs. Munroe declared she never wanted to see another helping of the tender white fish. She was still having a difficult time with his family, being the favorite victim of his aunt's cutting tongue. The one thing they had found that she could enjoy was the garden behind the house.
Both Margaret and her stepmother delighted in the riot of blooms. He had not realized the roses were declining until Mrs. Munroe cornered him one day. In one of the few times she had ever confronted him, she told him in no uncertain terms that his gardener was neglecting them.
"Really,” Thomas commented, eyeing the lush green bushes beyond the verandah. The path between them was so overgrown one could scarcely walk through. “They appear to be healthy to me."
"Healthy they may be,” she replied with a sniff, “but they have not been pruned, nor have the dead blossoms been cut off, for ages. You will not get many more flowers at this rate, my lord. Something must be done."
Knowing how busy his visitors were keeping his meager staff already, Thomas did not have the heart to add to their duties. Here again, Margaret came to his rescue. She and her stepmother had volunteered to take over the care of the gardens. Now, while he could not in truth say they looked any less wild, one could at least wander through them to appreciate the jungle.
He found himself marveling in more than one way at Margaret. People he did not know called and waved to her now when they passed. A farmer was pleased to present the last born of his black-faced sheep for her delighted cuddling. Jim, the son he never knew his caretakers had, handed her a string of trout, still dripping and wiggling, only to be met with praise and laughter, for she had yet to catch a fish, much to her chagrin. From Margaret he learned that the caretaker's cottage needed repairs (they had been too awed of him to ask) and the local church could not afford hymnals (a fact he quickly agreed to rectify). Most of all, her attentions to his aunt and sister made him realize that he had been neglecting them as much as the roses.
Before coming to the lake, he had often found the company of his aunt or sister difficult. Now it did not appear anymore easy for Margaret, yet she did not seem to try to avoid them. In fact, she encouraged them to reach beyond themselves. She convinced Lady Agnes that her strident voice was perfect for declaiming, and lately he had had the singular pleasure of listening to the woman read from the works of Shakespeare. Her sharp mind and projecting tones were indeed theatrical, and all his guests declared that she was a success. Margaret was also the one to drag Catherine into the little used game room for a round of nine pins. To his surprise, he found his sister was a whiz at swinging the little wooden ball about in just such a way as to constantly strike all nine of the pins from their polished wood base. Even Court had been unable to beat them, and Thomas had been treated to the sight of Catherine actually smiling in the man's presence.
That smile was one of the few Catherine had bestowed on anyone. She had always preferred solitary amusements, but he had hoped company, especially Court's company, would be able to draw her out. Instead, she was likely to disappear for more than an hour each day. Once he found her down by the lake and another time near the gate to the estate. Both times she had confessed the need to escape the attentions of their guests. He took that to mean Court. He had clearly picked the wrong man for her. It was another sign that he had not taken the time to know his sister well enough to understand what she might look for in her life's partner.
He admitted as much to Court one night after the ladies had retired to the garden to hear Mr. Munroe expound on the constellations that glittered over the lake.
"Don't see how you can say that, old fellow,” Court protested, stretching out long legs to prop his feet on the stone railing of the verandah. “You've been almost a father to Lady Catherine, and I daresay Lady Agnes would not have a home but for you.” He accepted the port the footman offered. Thomas waved his aside.
"My aunt has a patrimony from our grandfather,” Thomas corrected him, listening to the murmur of Mr. Munroe's voice beyond the trellis of roses. Margaret's flowers perfumed the night, and he inhaled deeply. “She has only stayed with us all these years for Catherine's sake. She told me once she longed to travel but was waiting for us to get settled. I know she is godmother to several other people with whom she corresponds, although she seldom gets to visit, thanks to our neediness. Watching her enjoy Margaret's company, I realized I have taken her very much for granted. Small wonder the woman rails to get attention."
"She rails even when you give her attention,” C
ourt commented. “It is in her nature, I think. Thank goodness, your sister did not inherit the trait. Although I would not be surprised if you are about to marry another of the same ilk."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Do you still find Miss Munroe so objectionable? I thought a few weeks in her company would change your mind."
"Sorry,” Court replied, taking a careful sip of the port. “She simply isn't to my taste. I'm somewhat surprised she is to yours. But you seem rather contented in her company."
"Contented?” Thomas barked out a laugh. “Contented is hardly the word."
The viscount frowned. “Then you are masking your true feelings? Are you having second thoughts about this courtship?"
The conversation was too close to the truth for Thomas’ liking. He turned the topic aside. “No more so than you are. I have not seen you much in my sister's company. Have you decided not to pursue her then?"
"One cannot pursue someone who does not wish to be chased,” Court replied with a sigh. “Your sister is lovely, unobtrusive, and softly spoken. I think she would make an ideal wife. Only she does not agree that I should be the husband. I hate to cry off, DeGuis, but I'm not sure this deal was well considered."
Now it was Thomas’ turn to sigh, thinking of Margaret's assessment that his sister was entirely too wrapped around herself. He still felt she needed someone like Court to draw her out. “Perhaps you are right. But I'd like you to give it one more try. Her birthday is in two weeks. With any luck, we can make it special."
Court's eyes lighted. “A birthday? That might be just the ticket to spark some interest. Although I'm not sure what would amuse your sister."