“Is there something about me that you would like to say?” Margaret asked sternly.
Mr. Owens raised his eyebrows. “There is. I must say, I’m surprised you asked. So many women are less direct. I do know they are the weaker species, but I am always surprised by just how weak they are.”
“Women are not a different species,” Margaret said.
There was more she wanted to say, but she could at least say that.
Mr. Owens raised his eyebrows. “You are quite pedantic, young lady.”
“I want to be correct,” Margaret said, but her voice wobbled.
“Well, well. I suppose there is nothing wrong with the urge to flaunt one’s intelligence. It is odd we say that children should be seen but not heard. It is a rule some people should not forget.” He gave her a significant look. “Besides, there’s something more important you should focus on.”
“Indeed?” She steadied her jaw, lest her lips scowl.
“Your curves, dear woman, are excessive. I’d hoped I could merely hint, but—” He gave a helpless shrug, “I see you require more clarification.”
Margaret inhaled. And exhaled. She clenched and unclenched her fists.
She was not going to lose her temper.
Margaret had lived her entire life without losing her temper. She was hardly going to start on a beautiful day in a beautiful garden by a beautiful castle.
“Mr. Owens, may I remind you that we only met yesterday?”
“It feels like longer.”
Margaret’s lips twitched. “Ah yes, each minute feels like a year.”
Mr. Owens guided her toward a rose bush. “These are—er—pink roses.”
Margaret had rather expected his botanical tour would involve more details.
There was an awkward silence, then Mr. Owens descended to the ground. He smoothed his trousers, fluffed his cravat, and moved his right knee forward.
“Are you quite well?” she asked.
She’d thought he must have had a mishap with his boots, but he’d been striding around quite capably before, and it seemed odd he would now struggle so much with them that he would require to adjust them.
The man wasn’t looking at his boots though. He was looking at her.
Margaret shifted her legs awkwardly. The ground might be well-maintained, but it was still uneven. No doubt that was the reason her knees buckled slightly.
Mr. Owens looked at her with intensity. It was almost as if—
She shook her head.
Naturally the man was not proposing. That would be impossible. Just because the man had taken her to an elaborate garden, filled with all manner of enchanting flowers and all manner of lovely fragrances, did not mean he was proposing.
That would be absurd.
He’d only just met her. And much of the time had been him criticizing her with various degrees of forcefulness.
No, just because some men chose to kneel while proposing did not mean he was about to express a ridiculous desire for them to entwine their lives together for all eternity.
Mr. Owens cleared his throat. “It is odd, Miss Carberry, that you agreed you had felt as if you had known me for a long time. I have an ambition to know you, in actuality, for a long time.”
She’d expected some sort of statement about flower stems, but he’d launched into a speech about time. “I don’t understand.”
He flashed his patronizing smile. “My dear child, will you agree to spend the remainder of your life with me?”
Margaret stepped back, and a thorn tore against her dress. “I-I don’t understand.”
“I am asking you to marry me,” he said.
“Oh.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “Say yes.”
Margaret was silent.
“It’s one word,” he said.
“This is happening quickly,” she said.
“Cupid’s arrow is not without speed,” he said. “Whoever heard of a slow arrow? Ha!”
Margaret’s lips wobbled.
The man had proposed.
He’d actually proposed.
Margaret had never had anyone propose to her before. Even having a man offer to dance with her was a rarity, but this man wanted rather more than a quadrille.
He wanted a marriage.
To her.
Margaret Carberry, wallflower and desperate debutante.
“I need an answer,” he said, his knee wobbling.
Right.
Margaret could answer. After all, she knew the correct answer: yes. Her mother had been striving for her to marry someone all year.
Perhaps Mr. Owens was not a duke. Perhaps he was a younger son of a baronet. But he could hardly be termed a dreadful match. Technically.
Margaret stared at Mr. Owens.
The man wasn’t particularly handsome, but he was at least of an average appearance. Perhaps his features were unremarkable, but they weren’t unpleasant.
She had more issues with his character. Reading had always seemed emblematic of a thoughtful person, but Mr. Owens seemed more interested with memorizing facts, with varying degrees of success, and repeating them at moments he deemed opportune.
And yet... how could she say no?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SOMETHING DISTRACTED Jasper from his chitchat with the other dukes, and he glanced over the hedge. Later he would not be certain whether it was some sixth sense or whether some small animal had nudged him in that direction. Had a bird chirped?
Margaret stood on the other side of the hedge with Mr. Owens. Now that she was not sitting, he could appreciate the manner in which her pale blue dress hugged the curves of her body.
Not that he was looking at her, though it wasn’t for lack of beauty.
His focus was on Mr. Owens.
The man knelt.
Mr. Owens did not appear like a man who would spontaneously kneel. He’d shown no interest in the vertebrae that favored ground habitation, and though a lesser man might fall victim to loose laces, Mr. Owens seemed too fastidious to embark into the world without careful checking and double checking of the state of his footwear.
Jasper told himself Mr. Owens might have experienced some cobbler issue that required him to kneel even though a perfectly good bench was nearby. Mr. Owens appeared fastidious, but any man might experience a cobbler issue. That’s why cobblers existed after all.
Somehow, Jasper didn’t feel reassured.
Jasper strongly suspected the reason for Mr. Owens change of pose, and he didn’t require the use of Belmonte’s navigation equipment to make his conjecture.
Mr. Owens must be proposing.
Jasper’s plan had worked splendidly: Miss Carberry had received a proposal. She wouldn’t marry Jasper, and he would be able to spend the rest of his life content that he’d not been forced into marriage.
Jasper had hoped the men’s interest might be piqued during the visit, but he’d only dreamed about a proposal. The house party wasn’t even finished, and the violinists hadn’t had a chance to play their full, romantic repertoire.
Jasper considered shouting to the gardener that a celebratory champagne was essential. He could almost taste the bubbles flitting in his mouth.
And yet, he didn’t feel happy.
And Jasper mostly felt happy. Not experiencing the emotion was a novel experience. But he was certain his heart never normally ached in such a manner, just as he would have remembered if he normally had a sour taste in his throat. No doubt eating would be a much less pleasurable occupation if that were the case.
“You’ve grown quite pale,” Brightling observed.
“Have I?” Jasper asked.
“Yes.” Brightling nodded seriously.
She was happy, Jasper reminded himself.
She’d wanted to spend time with Mr. Owens, and now she was.
This was what accomplishment felt like. If Jasper’s heart didn’t precisely soar, that most likely had more to do with the fact that Jasper was accustomed to being accomplis
hed.
And yet, the man was dreadful. He was utterly odious. If he married Miss Carberry, he would no doubt take pleasure in belittling her and asserting his authority, meager as it might be. How could Miss Carberry continue her interest in ornithology and birds if her husband would not even permit her to leave the safe confines of his house? How could she do anything at all except display reverence to the man’s supposed intelligence and knowledge lest he barrage her with insults? How could she ever relax, knowing that simply reaching for the marmalade might lead to a tirade? To know that no moment was ever truly relaxing? To know she could never fully concentrate on her own interests again?
Women married people like Mr. Owens all the time. He didn’t want Miss Carberry to make their mistake. Marriage was not something that could be reversed.
But now Mr. Owens was planning to spend the rest of his life with Miss Carberry.
Jasper bit back a groan. He needed to see what was happening. He turned to Hammett. “Perhaps I’m not feeling so well. I’ll just nip back to the castle.”
“Morning nap?” Brightling asked dubiously.
“Perhaps!” Jasper said, forcing his voice to sound cheerful.
Unfortunately, Brightling’s eyes only narrowed. Perhaps cheerfulness was not something sick people strove to emanate. Perhaps some of them were simply grumpy.
Jasper felt grumpy.
He felt very, very grumpy.
Jasper gave an awkward wave to Brightling, then bounded to the flower garden.
If only his gardeners hadn’t made the place look so romantic. How could Miss Carberry do anything but accept Mr. Owens’ proposal?
Jasper hurried toward Mr. Owens and Miss Carberry. It was only when he neared them, that he halted.
This didn’t have anything to do with him. He had no claim on Miss Carberry. If she wanted to marry Mr. Owens, well, she could do that. After all, yesterday she’d enthused about what they’d had in common.
His heart squeezed for a peculiar reason, and he lingered near the garden.
Mr. Owens remained kneeling.
Shouldn’t more have happened now? Shouldn’t they be embracing? If a woman had just accepted his offer of marriage, he’d want to kiss her.
Finally, Mr. Owens rose. His facial expression remained the same, and his manner retained their customary stiffness.
There was no embrace.
Then he tramped away, his back stiff, leaving Miss Carberry by the rose bush.
MARGARET’S HEART THUMPED oddly as Mr. Owens moved efficiently through the garden, away from her forever.
The man had proposed.
And she’d rejected him.
At some point she would regret this, but that moment hadn’t arrived yet. Her mouth dried all the same. Mr. Owens met all her qualifications for being a good husband. He was intelligent. At least, he was intelligent enough. Perhaps he wasn’t particularly kind, but perhaps that was an elusive quality in people. Her mother wasn’t particularly kind either.
And yet, when he’d knelt before her, the only question that had occupied her mind was how she could decline gracefully.
Even though she despised living with her parents.
Even though she had no other prospects. The Duke of Jevington might speak optimistically of marrying her off to one of his friends, but she possessed a more realistic appraisal of her qualities. Mr. Owens had been her best hope for marriage, and she’d said no, as if she received offers every day.
Heavens.
What would her friends think? What would her parents think?
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to flee to her chamber, but she had no urge to happen upon Mr. Owens as he continued his steady strides away, and she certainly had no urge to encounter her parents. How much might they have seen from the breakfast room?
She ambled toward a stone bench. As she rounded the rose bush, she nearly barreled into the Duke of Jevington.
The man was staring at her with an odd expression on his face, and she shrank back.
“Mr. Octavius Owens proposed to you,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
Oh, no.
He’d witnessed it.
“And you said no,” the duke said.
She nodded abruptly, not wanting to gaze into his eyes. The man had arranged all of this so she might marry someone... and yet, when she’d received an offer, she’d rejected it.
She could not spend the duration of their conversation staring at a rose bush.
He didn’t appear to disapprove of her.
On the contrary.
Something like joy moved through her.
Then the duke extended his hand, and she took it, disoriented.
He leaned nearer her, and the sheer movement caused her heart to spin. The world tilted and swayed, even though Margaret hadn’t taken a single step, much less fallen.
But his face appeared larger than before, closer than before.
And in the next moment, his lips brushed against hers.
And in the moment after that, his lips did more than brush against hers. His lips teased hers open, then everything was bliss.
The space between them narrowed. His scent of cotton and lemon drifted over her. She’d never considered the combination intoxicating before, but now it seemed an oddity that none of the smugglers during the wars with France had bottled up that combination.
He placed sturdy hands on her waist, and he stroked her hair, seeming to find wonder in it. The experience should have felt awkward and uncomfortable and perhaps even frightening. Kissing was certainly something she’d never done before, and the appeal had seemed questionable.
But this felt like none of those things. Instead, her heart seemed to have taken up flight as a hobby, because it soared through her.
She glided her hands up gingerly, placing her hands onto his tailcoat. The woolen fabric felt rough, despite the barrier of her gloves, and yet not touching was impossible. He narrowed the distance between them, and a moan fell from his mouth. His chest pressed against her, crushing her bosom, and emotions fluttered through her.
This was what a kiss was like.
This was why everyone spoke of the action with reverence.
But she shouldn’t kiss him.
The thought was absurd. If she kissed him here, in the garden, someone might see. Her mother would force him to marry her.
And unlike other people who kissed, then married, he wasn’t kissing her because he’d declared he’d loved her. After all, he’d arranged this whole event due to relief at not being forced to marry.
No.
If he kissed her, it was to impart some educational knowledge. That had been clear from the outset. She shouldn’t develop fanciful notions. Fanciful notions that might arise if she continued to linger on the loveliness of his scent, the strength of his arms, and the touch of his lips.
She pulled away abruptly. “I—I...”
Her mouth felt thick and useless. She wanted to bury herself in his arms again. She wanted him to continue to kiss her, but instead his expression shifted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JASPER’S HEART QUAKED, and he stepped away. The task felt momentous, as if he were a magnet who’d managed to separate from his mates. He looked around, as if rather expecting a journalist to appear to write an article about his powers of restraint.
Even now, he longed to clasp Margaret in his arms again. He wanted to feel her warmth and her soft curves. He wanted to run his hands through her thick locks, and he wanted to kiss her lips.
Blast it, he wanted to kiss more than her lips.
He wanted to trail kisses over her throat. He wanted to press his lips against the space where her neck and shoulders met, and he wanted to nibble on the delectable lines of her collar bone.
And then he wanted to explore more.
He craved to kiss her bodice. He yearned to free her of her fichu, toss it from the balcony so it sunk to the bottom of this wretched moat. He wanted to feel more softness, more roundness,
more Margaret. He wanted to place his hands on her waist, then do indecent things. Things that involved raising her skirt, things that involved truly knowing her, things that a gentleman should not think about with a young lady of a good reputation.
“I—I should go,” he said hoarsely.
Hurt flickered across her face.
Blast it, this wasn’t the gentlemanly way to leave her.
But it would hardly be gentlemanly to stay with her. Not when he craved to pull her toward him.
He sighed.
He’d always prided himself on having more restraint. He wasn’t a schoolboy. He wasn’t a student at Cambridge, eager to explore carnal pleasures.
And yet he was certain that even then, even when kisses were new and pleasurable, his heart hadn’t soared with that vigor as when kissing her.
Kissing Margaret hadn’t been supposed to feel that good. It hadn’t been supposed to wrap him in a cozy feeling, as if he were being tucked into a friendly cloud.
Blast it.
He’d been a fool. He hurried outside, farther away from Margaret, and his feet pounded over the grass, neatly trimmed by the flock of sheep kept for that purpose. But then he stopped.
He was behaving idiotically.
He couldn’t just kiss a woman, then run away. She must think him completely mad. Or worse, she might think he abandoned her.
He halted his frantic pace.
Dukes of Jevington did not abandon a lady in a garden. No matter how much her presence might make him think of doing all sorts of unspeakable things to her. No matter how much their kiss had shattered him. He jogged back toward the garden. The other dukes saw him and waved.
“Over here, Jevington,” Ainsworth called.
“Just popping into the garden for a bit first,” Jasper called back.
“Because he destroyed all the roses,” Brightling told Ainsworth in an overly loud whisper.
Jasper ignored the curious expressions of his friends and reentered the garden. The soft floral scent and the barrage of beauty was not enough to put him at ease. He needed to get to Margaret.
At once.
All You Need is a Duke (The Duke Hunters Club, #1) Page 16