by Regina Scott
"I'd be delighted to,” she hiccoughed through her crying. She raised her head and gazed at him, eyes luminous. “If you would just kiss me."
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Chapter Twenty-Three
Margaret gazed up at him, heart racing. Surely now, having proposed, he would kiss her. She had seen the tenderness in his eyes, deep, sweet. As she watched, doubt crept in, then fear. He was afraid to kiss her. Even now the DeGuis composure was reasserting itself. There was only one thing for it. Margaret arched up on tip toe and kissed him.
He recoiled immediately, so that their lips barely brushed. Determined, she pursued him, throwing herself into his arms. The weight of her pressing against him put him off balance. He had no choice but to tighten his embrace, stumbling backward to fetch up against a maple. For a moment more his lips remained cold beneath hers, and she could feel her despair building. Then, with a groan that either signaled surrender or annoyance, he bent his head to hers.
The kiss was as wonderful as the man she loved—warm, powerful, all-consuming. It was as if, having kept his emotions in control for so long, they burst forth in a torrent that threatened to sweep them both away. He devoured her mouth, peppered kisses across her cheek, buried his lips in the hollow of her throat. She laughed aloud for the joy of it, shivering in delight. The sound had not even faded before he broke off, nearly dropping her in his haste. Even in the moonlight, she could see he had reddened.
"Forgive me,” he rasped out, running the back of his hand across his swollen lips as if to wipe away the last few minutes. “I don't know what came over me. I promise you, it won't happen again."
Margaret nearly cried out in disappointment and bewilderment. Couldn't he tell how much his kiss had meant to her? Hadn't he felt the joyful response of her body? Couldn't he see the love she could feel shining in her eyes? He flinched at her look, now reproachful, and she cringed. She had lost against the DeGuis reticence. She couldn't stand to look at him.
Turning her back, she fumbled with the diamond, yanking it off her finger. It felt like a dead weight in her hand. Gathering the shreds of her wounded pride, she turned back to him and shoved out the ring.
"Here, take it,” she ordered with a voice that barely shook. “Did you really think I would marry a man who cannot be intimate? The famed consequence of the DeGuis name means nothing. All I wanted was you."
"Margaret,” he choked, refusing to accept the rock. His eyes were tortured. A perverse part of her was glad. The kinder part of her quailed. She seized his hand and slapped the diamond into it.
"Take it, Thomas. Give it to some colorless female who doesn't care.” She turned on him again, feeling hot tears burning behind her eyes. He caught her arm, but before he could speak, another voice cut in.
"Unhand me! Help!"
There was a muffled cry of surprise and the thud of something heavy falling.
"Catherine?” Thomas called, frowning. Margaret rolled her eyes.
"It only wanted that!” She grabbed his hand and towed him in the direction of the call. “You must see this, Thomas. I'm sure you will appreciate it. Another DeGuis who cannot find an appropriate way to acknowledge feelings."
They stepped out of the roses to the center bench of the garden. Catherine bent over the prone figure of a young man. Court stood nearby, rubbing the knuckles of his hand and looking baffled. He straightened in obvious relief at the sight of Thomas.
"What is going on here?” Thomas demanded.
Catherine sat to cradle the young man's head in her lap. His blond curly hair was tousled, his full lower lip trickled blood, and he gazed reproachfully at Court like a puppy who'd been chastised by its master. Catherine pointed a trembling finger at the viscount.
"That miscreant attacked us!"
Margaret wanted to argue, remembering the plan Catherine had described, but the blood on Christien's lip was rather convincing. Court's protest only served to reinforce the picture.
"And what was I to think? The fellow had his arms about you!"
Catherine immediately began to argue. The young man voiced his reproof, and Court crossed his arms and glowered. Thomas glanced among them, frown deepening.
"Enough,” Margaret thundered. They all blinked at her, stuttering into silence. She turned to Thomas. “Your sister is in love with an itinerant French painter named Christien LaTour. That,” she pointed to the man, “if I am not mistaken, is he. Be so kind as to introduce yourself, Monsieur LaTour."
Christien scrambled to his feet, tugging his worn brown coat into place and running a hand back through his hair. Catherine clung to his other arm, making his attempt at a bow impossibly awkward.
"My lords, your servant,” he said in a soft tenor. “And if I may correct Miss Munroe, I am not an itinerant. I am an artist. It is only a matter of time before I find a sponsor."
"A very short time, I'm sure,” Catherine murmured, large eyes worshipful. “He is gifted.” He reddened under her praise.
"I believe you've met Viscount Darton,” Margaret continued. “And as you've been skulking about the place for days, you must have recognized Thomas, Marquis DeGuis."
The fellow's color heightened further as Thomas scowled. He adjusted his rumpled cravat. “Mademoiselle Munroe has a unique way with words. I did not consider it ‘skulking.’”
"Of course not,” Catherine declared with a frown at Margaret. “After all, I invited him."
Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I am having difficulty following all this. Catherine, perhaps you should explain."
Catherine immediately paled, glancing between her brother and the man on her arm. “I ... well ... I don't know where to begin."
"Oh, give it up!” Margaret snapped. “You have been caught. If you could not be honest before, at least do us the honor of being so now."
Catherine's mouth puckered at the censure. Christien gave her hand a squeeze. Then he disengaged from her and stepped forward, raising his head. “Lord DeGuis, I met your sister last winter when Lady Agnes commissioned me to paint a miniature of her. We fell in love."
"Instantly,” Catherine breathed in raptured confirmation.
"I see,” Thomas intoned. Margaret watched him, but as usual, his face gave no indication of what he was thinking.
"Told you there was another fellow,” Court interjected.
"I realize I am not worthy of your sister's hand,” Christien continued. “I have urged her repeatedly to accept Lord Darton's offer of marriage. I know he will care for her."
Margaret was not surprised by Catherine's immediate protest. She was surprised to hear Court chime in just as heatedly.
"Certainly I'd care for her,” he avowed. “But just as certainly, I refuse to marry a woman who loves elsewhere. I have high standards for my bride, and love, for me, is one of them."
Margaret reached out to clap him on the shoulder, startling him. “Well said, my lord! I never thought you had scruples."
He frowned. “I gather that is supposed to be a compliment?"
"Just say thank you,” Thomas advised. “I find it safest.” He turned to the couple. “And what do you propose now?"
"I won't marry anyone else,” Catherine declared, stamping her foot and moving to recapture Christien's arm. She clung defiantly and rather possessively.
He removed her gently, but firmly. “You must marry someone else. I cannot care for you as your brother does."
She puckered again, and Margaret marveled at their idiocy.
"I can see we will not resolve this tonight,” Thomas put in before she moved to intervene and as Catherine threatened tears. “Master LaTour, would you be so good as to wait on us tomorrow, say eleven? I believe I may know of a sponsor for you that would put this entire picture in a different light, if you pardon the pun."
Now Catherine turned worshipful eyes on her brother. “Oh, Thomas. I never knew you had it in you."
Thomas kept a smile on his face, though Margaret could see by the tick in his cheek that he w
anted to laugh at her. “I take it back, Catherine. You are beginning to have some traits very like Miss Munroe."
"That,” his sister said with a toss of her head, “I take as a compliment. My love, may I see you to the gate?"
Christien bowed to Thomas, this time gracefully, and accepted her arm. Court watched them go with a shake of his head.
"A French artist,” he muttered. “Who would have thought?"
"Be a good fellow, Court,” Thomas put in, “and leave us alone for a few minutes? I have something of importance to discuss with Miss Munroe."
Court coughed, hastily bowing out of the clearing. Margaret swallowed, facing him at last.
"I'm not certain I have the strength to hear what you have to say, Thomas,” she told him. “I know all the reasons we do not suit. You do not like the fact that I race, you hate the waltz, you think Comfort House a shocking way to fulfill the Christian commission. Is there anything left to say?"
"Yes,” he maintained, moving to capture her hands again. “Can't you see how much I've changed, Margaret? How much you've changed me? I love having you beside me when we race. I love not knowing whether I can beat you on any given day. I even like feeling free to maul your cousin when he annoys me. I fully intended to waltz with you tonight, and, if you'll just agree to marry me, I will prove it to you in front of my family and our guests. As to Comfort House, while it does concern me that you volunteer there, it has nothing to do with whether it is the right thing to do, just as I agree with you that workhouses are not the answer. I simply worry for your safety. As I suspect I would not be welcome there to protect you, we will merely have to hire you a strapping footman to escort you."
Margaret smiled wryly. “It does my heart good to hear you say this, Thomas, but when all is said and done, you don't really want to marry me. That is clear. Can we not leave it at that?"
"No,” he said, “we cannot. You value the truth, Margaret Munroe. It's time you heard it."
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Chapter Twenty-Four
Margaret steeled herself for the worst. He would finally tell her what kept him from opening his heart to her, that horrid secret that kept them apart.
"It can only be our different approaches to life,” she said, sounding defensive even to her own ears. “I warned you from the beginning that we were too different."
"Differences can attract as well as repel,” he countered. “In truth, I am not certain I will ever truly appreciate the nuances of living in the moment. I was hoping to rely on you for my guide."
"I want to be more than a guide, Thomas,” she chided. “I want to be your wife, your lover. I'd be a fool to discount your intelligence, your breeding, and your wealth, especially as my stepmother continually throws them in my face, but I'd cheerfully marry you without all those things if I had your love."
"You have it,” he insisted, tightening his grip on her hands as if he could make her believe it. “I did not expect to fall in love, but I did. My life will be hollow if you refuse me, Margaret."
She wrenched her hands away. “Then why? Why do you persist in keeping your heart hidden?"
He wanted to tell her. He knew he had to do so. Only then could their love truly blossom. He straightened, resolving to lay it all out for her, once and for all.
Pain shot up from his gut to his chest, and he gasped aloud, forced to bend against it.
Margaret was instantly beside him. “Thomas, what is it?"
He shook his head, clutching his chest in an irrational hope he could somehow stop the agony. Searing heat spurted upward through his throat, and he swallowed bile.
She put her arm about his shoulder. “Take a deep breath,” she advised, trying to still her own panic. “And another. Can you tell me what's wrong?"
He obeyed her, and the pain abated, leaving him as usual feeling frustrated and not a little afraid. “Sorry,” he muttered as he straightened through the lingering burning. “Do not look so worried. I'm fine."
"You are most assuredly not fine,” Margaret scolded him. “Did you notice the utter misery your sister went through hiding her feelings this past week? Tell me what's wrong. Is it your heart?"
He wanted to shield her, but her eyes were implacable. “I fear so,” he admitted.
"How many of these attacks have you had?” She was afraid to hear the answer, but she had to know.
"Three, with the first last winter."
She frowned. “Have you seen a physician? Is there nothing that can be done?"
"I saw a physician after the first and second attacks. He thought the first an aberration. At the time, I must admit it was comforting. When it occurred again, he thought my heart was failing from too much exertion. He advised me to settle my courtship quickly, not,” he added hurriedly before she could get the wrong impression, “that that had any bearing on my decision to propose."
She cocked her head in thought. Since she had known him, she had heard his heart speed on several occasions, yet he had never had an attack. It made no sense that his heart was failing. “Show me where the pain is the greatest,” she insisted.
That wrung a chuckled from him. “Are you a talented physician as well?” When she put her hands on her hips, he shook his head and complied, pointing to his lower left rib. Margaret's frown deepened.
"That doesn't look like your heart to me. It looks like your stomach."
He shook his head. “I'm had an upset stomach once or twice in my life. This is nothing like that, I assure you."
Margaret continued to eye his gut. “Let us try an experiment.” Before Thomas knew what she was about, she took both hands and pressed against his stomach. The pain shot up again, but this time, what erupted was a loud belch.
Thomas colored. “I beg your pardon."
Margaret laughed, throwing her arms about him in relief. “Oh, Thomas, don't apologize! You are not dying! I daresay you've never done anything in excess your entire life, so you would not know the symptoms of dyspepsia. I would also hazard a guess that each time these attacks occurred, you had treated yourself to an overdose of Mrs. Tate's fish chowder."
Thomas accepted her hug, stunned. Could it be so easy? “Dyspepsia? Is that all?"
She released him, grinning. “Do not sound so disappointed. I'm thoroughly glad you are not ready to stick your spoon in the wall just yet. Perhaps we might still have time to work out our differences."
Seeing the expectation in her eyes, he almost wished he could use the excuse of his near demise. He had to confess his fears, even though he knew she already had proof. He had put his heart into his kiss, as he had never done before. Feeling her willing response, as free and giving as the lady herself, had set his blood on fire. For a moment, he had dreamed of a true union, mind, heart, and soul.
Then Margaret had laughed.
He had always admired her laugh. But the sound if it then had scored him to the bone. It could only mean that he had failed yet again. Only this time, there would be no recovery. This time, he had lost not only his dignity and pride but his heart.
She stood waiting, her look a challenge. For the first time in his life, he considered running. But too much hung in the balance.
"You deserve better,” he said.
Margaret's brows shot up so high they were nearly lost in her silver-veined hair. “Better?” She started to laugh, and he flinched. “Better? Thomas DeGuis, who could possibly be better than you?"
He bowed his head. “I am not perfect, Margaret. I cannot resist a challenge, no matter what it cost me. And, as you noticed tonight, I have a nasty temper. It takes a lot to goad me, but once goaded, I behave no better than a maddened bull. I do and say things I find abhorrent afterward."
"I cannot believe you would beat me,” Margaret protested.
"No, never!” The very idea repelled him. “I promise you, Margaret, I will never raise a hand to you. My voice, however, is another matter."
She shrugged. “In truth, it is an annoyance. But I am fully capable of giv
ing as good as I get, or of deflecting the criticism if it is unwarranted. As long as you show me you love me in other ways."
There lay the rub and the challenge. He straightened. “If you insist, I will kiss you whenever you like."
"If I insist?” She frowned. “You make it sound like an onerous chore."
"It is,” he replied, watching her, “for you."
"What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded. “Thomas, I've been brazenly begging for your kiss for weeks. What makes you think I don't like it?"
"I have had ... reports ... that my kiss is less than delightful.” There, he had said it. He waited for her agreement.
"What idiot told you that?” she cried. “Oh, let me guess. Lady Janice Willstencraft. Was that her test? A kiss?"
"Test?” Now it was Thomas’ turn to frown.
"She has a test she administers to each suitor,” Margaret explained. “She would not tell me what it was, for fear of her reputation. She must have exhaustingly high standards, for she refused a dozen men before you."
Thomas shook his head, afraid to hope. “But your cousin Allison felt the same way."
"Really?” She looked surprised. “Well, I suppose that is to be expected. She was in love with someone else."
"Would that make a difference?” he asked with equal surprise.
"Oh, Thomas,” she replied, sighing wistfully, “of course it makes a difference!” When he still looked perplexed, she turned thoughtful. “Though I daresay it does not make a difference for some. Certainly the ladies at Comfort House would vouch for the fact that a good kiss does not require love. Yet I think any act is more enjoyable if you put your heart into it."
"I would like to put my heart into it,” Thomas murmured, “if you would let me."
She swallowed, nodding, and held out her arms. He walked stiffly into them as if going to his execution. But the smile and the light in her eyes was so tender, he knew he had come home at last. He pulled her close and kissed her.
It was some time before either could speak again.