Jasper was sorry too.
What on earth was Margaret thinking, going off with this Mr. Owens? The man was utterly unremarkable.
And yet...
Jasper remembered how Margaret had first spoken of Mr. Owens. Somehow, Margaret had managed to think him remarkable. Perhaps, despite everything, she favored Mr. Owens.
Because of Mr. Owens’ intelligence.
The thought leaped into his mind and clutched hold of it.
Jasper hadn’t thought Mr. Owens to be particularly intelligent, but perhaps that had simply been because of Jasper’s own lack of understanding of the topics that Mr. Owens enthused about.
His heart hammered. Perhaps the reason she’d run away was because she knew her mother would insist she marry Jasper. Margaret had protested against her mother’s allegations as well. He had thought Margaret was being overly polite, but perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she’d desperately wanted not to be forced into a marriage with Jasper.
All of a sudden, Jasper’s legs jolted as if they’d been replaced with some newborn calf’s.
She’d left.
She’d vanished from his life, taking off with a practical stranger who had no castle, no title and possessed no handsomeness, rather than marry him.
He stared at the others, but their expressions had turned to sympathy.
Blast it.
When had he last seen Hammett looking sympathetic? The man was happiest smashing his fist into people’s faces.
“Wait!” Mr. Carberry scrunched up his face. “Are we saying that my darling daughter, my sweet, innocent girl, who has never given me a moment of trouble in the past, has run off with Mr. Owens? When she was minutes before kissing the Duke of Jevington?”
“That sounds correct,” the Duke of Brightling said politely.
Had Jasper been in less agony, he might have shot Brightling an irritated look. Instead, he only groaned.
Because Brightling was right.
That was what had happened.
He’d declared his love for this woman before her parents, and his friends, and it hadn’t mattered. He’d always scoffed at the notion of marriage, but he hadn’t considered that it might be beyond his capabilities to achieve.
Margaret had heard her mother speak of marriage.
She would have known if she’d stayed, they would marry.
And yet, she’d chosen to flee.
Away from him.
Forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MARGARET HADN’T MADE a mistake.
That was impossible.
Margaret excelled at all her lessons and she was not one to make a miscalculation. No one would say Margaret acted impulsively this time. The impulsive act Margaret had made was to reject Mr. Owens’ proposal in the first place.
Obviously, fleeing from the charming, dashing duke who’d had such regret that when he’d first kissed her, he’d fled, was not a mistake. No doubt the duke thought her parents had been following him the entire time, waiting for a moment to force him to take her as his duchess, even though no one could be less qualified.
Other women might become duchesses, but not Margaret.
She was more suited to become a Mrs. Owens. Her betrothed enjoyed reading, and she would let him. Perhaps occasionally he would offer her condescending suggestions, and she would merely smile and listen. In some cases, a smile would not even be required, depending on the gravity of the information Mr. Owens was imparting.
No, this plan was going well, just as all of Margaret’s plans went.
Perhaps her heart ached, and perhaps she might always wonder what might have happened had she stayed, but this was for the best.
She’d been lucky Mr. Owens had expressed an interest in marrying her.
Perhaps their married life would be more pleasant if she’d accepted straight away, but one couldn’t change the past. She would simply have to make certain Mr. Owens was content.
Still, as the carriage continued away from the castle, Margaret’s confidence wavered.
“Do you prefer going to Gretna Green or Guernsey to elope?” Mr. Owens asked.
“Oh.” Margaret straightened. “Guernsey is a possibility? I’ve never sailed on the ocean.”
Mr. Owens gave an exasperated sigh. “The question was meant to be rhetorical. Obviously, Gretna Green is the only proper choice.”
“It is?” she squeaked.
Mr. Owens nodded gravely. “It’s the traditional choice. When in doubt, always choose tradition.”
“Oh. I see.”
He smiled. “You do have potential, dear lady.”
Margaret’s lips tightened. “You do not find it dispiriting to marry in a blacksmith’s shop?”
“There is nothing about this journey that is not dispiriting. But at least visiting Scotland will not put us in danger of drowning in the channel.”
Margaret nodded, but for the first time she considered that this journey was dangerous. Perhaps they might not be shipwrecked, but they still risked their carriage crashing or being accosted by highwaymen. Not to speak of the unsavory men who might be rampant in posting inns.
Mr. Owens glanced at Juliet. “I did not anticipate a woman of your importance would be on this journey.”
“Here I am,” Juliet said, flashing him a bland smile.
“And you’re certain you want to accompany us on the entire journey?” Mr. Owens asked. “Perhaps you would prefer us to drop you in London.”
“Nonsense,” Juliet said.
Mr. Owens paled. “It will be an—er—pleasure to have you here. But your father—”
“—will be upset when I return,” Lady Juliet said.
“So you must make the journey quick.” Margaret settled back into her seat, not exactly content but grateful she’d insisted on those things. She refused to remain the timid woman that she’d always been.
The coach continued on its journey, and the spaces between the houses gradually narrowed, until they were in the city, and the coach slowed, inching along.
JASPER RETREATED FROM the worried looks of his friends.
They pitied him.
They weren’t supposed to pity him.
The worst thing was that he didn’t care. Though he’d always considered himself to possess abundant resources of pride, he wasn’t thinking of it now. He wasn’t going to continue this house party as normal. He wouldn’t feign indifference toward Margaret.
He turned to the musicians. “Play sad music.”
“Not quadrilles?”
He shook his head furiously. “Something distressing. Something Germanic.”
The musicians conferred shortly, then played something with an appropriate amount of melodrama. Jasper listened satisfactorily as the music leaped from high to low notes, making full use of the violinists’ capabilities.
“Good,” Jasper said. This might be his moment of utmost sadness, but he was not going to refrain from encouraging his staff, even if they were the temporary sort.
He looked around the corridor at the shocked faces of his friends. He cleared his throat. “The castle and grounds are at your disposal. Perhaps you would care to hunt or—er—play pall mall.”
“We’re not going to play pall mall,” Ainsworth said.
Jasper shrugged. “Naturally. Choose something less childlike. Perhaps you’d prefer to fence. My ancestors’ swords are hanging in the dining room.”
Ainsworth and the others exchanged glances, and Jasper withheld a groan.
He turned to the musicians. “Come.”
The musicians followed him as he marched from the corridor into the library. He didn’t want to imagine Mr. Owens and Margaret meeting here, but this whole castle would now be filled with memories of Margaret. Perhaps in a few months he’d meet her at a ball.
If she decided to attend balls.
No doubt Mr. Owens would ensconce her in the country somewhere. He settled himself into the darkest corner of the already dim library.
Yes. This felt appro
priately dispiriting.
“Jevington,” Ainsworth said gently.
He turned toward his friend’s voice and glared when he saw everyone standing there.
“You followed me?” Jasper employed his most outraged tone and raised his eyebrow.
His friends didn’t flinch.
Blast them.
“Jevington,” Ainsworth said again. “I didn’t know that you—er—cared for this woman.”
“It is a novel experience for me as well,” Jasper admitted.
“Yes, I did think even you would know that the best way to court a woman is not to throw her at other men,” Ainsworth said.
“I was not throwing her at anyone,” Jasper said, retaining his outraged tone easily.
“Perhaps not literally,” Brightling said.
“But you did scatter rose petals about when she entered with me,” Ainsworth said.
“And I believe you just had one dance with her last night,” Hammett said. “All of us had more.”
“Do you have a point? Are you calling in question my courtship abilities?”
“On the contrary,” Ainsworth said.
“Well, she didn’t have to run away,” Jasper said. “And she didn’t have to run away with that man.” He grimaced.
“Mr. Owens is hardly the ideal man,” Hammett admitted.
“Well, I tried telling that to her. I thought she’d listened. She’d just rejected his proposal.”
“So, you were celebrating in the maze?” Brightling asked.
Jasper frowned. “Something like that.”
“What was the true reason that you invited her here?” Ainsworth asked.
Jasper sighed. “It’s not important.”
“Are you certain?”
Jasper shook his head. Everything about Margaret was important. If he didn’t speak about her now, perhaps he’d never speak about her.
“Her mother attempted to stage a compromising,” Jasper said.
“I’m not familiar with that phrase,” Ainsworth said, obviously perturbed. Ainsworth was familiar with most phrases, even those in foreign languages.
“Mrs. Carberry tied her daughter to my bed during my most recent ball. Fortunately, she escaped. And because I was grateful, I thought I might make certain to find her another husband.”
Hammett blinked. “Mr. Owens?”
Jasper sighed. “I was hoping for one of you. She is wonderful. She’d make someone a wonderful wife.”
She was supposed to make him a wonderful wife.
“So, Miss Carberry knew you were so desperate not to marry her that you arranged a whole house party to find her a husband?” Ainsworth asked.
“Er—yes.”
“Is it possible she does not know you might not be entirely horrified at the thought of marrying her?”
Jasper shifted his legs, and Ainsworth got that triumphal look that had been so irritating at Eton.
“Perhaps,” Jasper said softly.
“Then you must go after her,” Ainsworth said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE TRIP HAD BEEN EXCITING at parts, when the coach had climbed through scenic countryside, but mostly it had been tiring.
It was tiring to be cramped in a small space, wedged beside Juliet and the carriage door, and it was tiring as the coach swerved from bend to bend. The unpredictable rhythm made sleep difficult, even though each morning she was exhausted, after a night of sleeping above a busy posting inn. Most of all it was tiring to sit opposite Mr. Owens.
Finally, they arrived in Gretna Green. Margaret exited the carriage.
Happy couples wandered around the village, either blissfully celebrating their first days of marriage or anticipating them. Some of the brides already had rounded bellies, making it clear why they’d needed to elope instead of waiting for the banns to be read.
Margaret stepped forward. Her feet sagged into the muddy ground, and she stared at all the people. She smoothed her dress, and a wave of nervousness came through her.
She was here.
It was truly happening.
She was going to marry Mr. Owens.
She glanced at him. He patted his forehead. No doubt he was still queasy from the journey. Reading wasn’t an activity that was well suited to travel, and he’d attempted to read the entire time.
“We’re here,” he said.
“Splendid!” she said faintly, even though this didn’t seem splendid. It seemed the end of her previous life.
Still, she had to marry him.
Mr. Owens produced a faint smile. She hoped he was thinking of possibly happy decades ahead with her, and not simply of the money that her father would give him.
Perhaps it didn’t matter.
She raised her chin. “Shall we find a posting inn?”
“We can marry directly.” Mr. Owens glanced in the direction of one of the blacksmiths shops.
Of course.
This was what they’d planned to do. A strange quiver moved through Margaret’s spine. This was not simply another day. This would be the first day of their marriage, the first day of the rest of her life. This evening would be her wedding night.
A sour taste invaded her throat.
She wasn’t ready for this.
“I will need to prepare for the wedding,” Margaret said. “I cannot appear like this.”
“Hmph.” Mr. Owens gazed at her. “You require miracle workers.” He shrugged. “I suppose we could wait one more night.”
“G-Good,” she said.
Mr. Owens offered her his arm, and they proceeded to the nearest inn.
JASPER PACED GRETNA Green. He’d become incredibly familiar with the town in the past few days. The only thing worse than spending the week in a town devoted to weddings was to spend it without the woman he wanted to marry. Every new exclamation of jubilation after a short arrival was not only a sign of the blacksmiths’ remarkable efficiency, but at the absolute necessity of spotting Margaret arrive in time.
At least, he hoped he hadn’t missed her.
Perhaps her absence signified that she’d changed her mind about the wedding, but maybe it had simply meant something dreadful had happened to delay them.
Jasper, after all, knew all about carriage accidents.
He peered at the incessant stream of carriages. Even regular tourists, with no plans to marry, seemed to pass through here, gawking at the various blacksmith shops.
A woman appeared on the other side of the street accompanied by two maids. Her nose swooped up in the same manner as Margaret’s. Was it her? He rushed toward her but was stopped by the traffic.
When he crossed the street, she had gone, presumably into the nearby posting inn.
Well, he was going to speak with her.
He gritted his teeth and stepped into the inn. He marched inside, wishing that not quite so many patrons had decided to crowd into the public house portion. Someone was playing the piano, and other patrons were singing. The innkeepers gave him a wary glance. He’d already inquired whether Margaret and Mr. Owens were here multiple times before.
He ignored the innkeepers and scoured the rooms. Unfortunately, he didn’t see them. He ordered a drink and sat at the table. When they came down, he would be here.
The bar maid brought him some ale, though neither the bubbles nor the familiar sour taste distracted him from his view of the door.
Finally, Mr. Owens appeared.
Jasper grinned and rose.
Mr. Owens headed toward the bar, no doubt to order a drink, but when he saw Jasper, his eyes rounded, and he halted abruptly.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Owens,” Jasper said.
Mr. Owens gave him a sullen glance.
“Is Miss Carberry traveling with you by any chance?”
“I think you know the answer.”
At least this was good. She was here.
His heart soared.
“May I speak with her?”
“No,” Mr. Owens said.
“No?” Jasper wid
ened his eyes. “But you don’t love her.”
Mr. Owens shrugged. “What is love?”
“What is love? Love is the most wonderful thing imaginable. And the most thrilling. And the most dangerous.”
“She wanted to marry me.”
“But she wants to marry me more,” Jasper said. “She loves me.”
“Did she tell you that?” Mr. Owens asked.
Jasper blinked. “Not in those precise words.”
“It’s three words,” Mr. Owens said pedantically. “It doesn’t take long to say.”
“Did she tell you she loved you?” Jasper asked.
Mr. Owens hesitated, but then he moved his chin outward, as if it were a cannon he was directing at an enemy ship. “Yes.”
Oh.
This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.
Jasper was supposed to arrive in Gretna Green, tell Margaret he loved her, then marry her at the blacksmith’s shop himself.
He’d worried about not getting to Gretna Green in time, but after the first shock of her disappearance, he’d not worried that Margaret might not accept him. He certainly hadn’t thought he might not even see Margaret.
And yet, Margaret was plainly missing.
“Tell her that I’m here,” Jasper said.
Mr. Owens gritted his teeth. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Of course it’s bloody wise.” Giving a woman a choice before she married the wrong man was a good thing. Anyone could see that. This didn’t require any particular skills of perception, derived from ancestors who were witches or anything similarly ridiculous.
Jasper put his hands on his waist, but Mr. Owens only quirked an eyebrow. Most people found Jasper somewhat intimidating. No doubt Mr. Owens had heard too many stories to give him the requisite appreciation.
Mr. Owens glowered and rested his hands on his hips. “I want you far away from here.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Mr. Owens glowered. “You should.”
“Not before I speak with Margaret.”
Mr. Owens hurried quickly to the door, and Jasper followed him. Mr. Owens would show him where Margaret was. This was working. He would see her soon.
Mr. Owens nodded to the proprietor and jerked his thumb in Jasper’s direction. “This man is following me.”
All You Need is a Duke (The Duke Hunters Club, #1) Page 19