“ ’Twas no trouble, sir,” she murmured, looking surprised at the compliment. Belatedly she remembered to drop a small curtsy, then turned and hurried back to the house.
Williams was still studying Tom with curiosity. To prevent any more questions about himself, Tom began to ask Williams questions about Moreton Hall.
“It’s a fine old place, as you can see,” Williams said with undisguised pride as they made their way to the front drive for a better view. “The original part of the house was built nearly two hundred years ago.” He pointed to what was now one wing of the mansion. “The section that now forms the main part of the house is Georgian.”
“It’s a charming place,” Tom said, although he thought the roof looked like it could use repair in a few spots, and one wing of the house was nearly swallowed by ivy. “And how many acres of land?”
Williams immediately launched into details about the amount of arable land, the number of tenants, and the projected crop sizes.
“Those are impressive figures,” Tom said.
“I like to think the estate has benefited in some small measure from my oversight.” Williams’s self-satisfied smile belied the modest words. “Of course, Miss Vaughn would be the best judge of that.”
“Undoubtedly,” Tom said.
Williams caught the reproof behind Tom’s answer. “Will you be staying here long, Mr. Poole?” he asked, his frosty tone suggesting he hoped the answer was no.
Tom simply shrugged. “Perhaps.”
The two men eyed each other, and Tom was satisfied when Williams looked away first. With a nod toward the house Williams said, “I see Mitchell is waiting to show you inside. I must be going, as there are matters that require my immediate attention. I trust you’ll have a pleasant visit, Mr. Poole.”
Tom watched as Williams strode away. He had no doubt Williams would be pressing Margaret for information about Tom as soon as he could. Tom saw trouble ahead; he distrusted this man’s headstrong attitude. But he’d faced worse problems, and he could deal with Williams when the time came.
He went up the steps and allowed the butler to usher him inside. As Tom surveyed the front hall, he saw easily that, like the outside of the house, the stately interior was showing signs of neglect. Tom paused to inspect a thin crack in the wall and found it was a symptom of a larger problem. “The plaster is damp,” he said, placing a hand on it. “There is a leak there that will need to be fixed. It’s probably where the portico meets the wall over the door.”
The butler looked at him quizzically. It would seem odd, Tom realized, for a stranger to come in and begin making orders about household repairs. He shrugged it off. Mitchell would find out the reason soon enough.
Mitchell led him down the hall to the library, an enormous room lined with shelves and containing more books than Tom had ever seen. Arrangements of chairs, sofas, and tables created comfortable seating areas designed for reading and reflection. Immediately Tom drifted toward a large leather chair near the fireplace. He could imagine spending many comfortable hours there. But this room, too, had a faded air, as though it had seen better days. Tom wondered how long it had been since someone had polished the wood or beaten out the rug. Margaret must have let most of her staff go in order to save money. Tom would see to it that they hired more.
Seeing a set of French doors, Tom stepped outside to orient himself. A long terrace ran along the back of the house, dropping down in tiers lined with huge flowerpots. An immense lawn sloped gently down to a quaint stone bridge over a stream. From the bridge, a path wound its way into a peaceful wood. Tom shook his head, amazed to think all this would belong to him. No, it would not be his, but theirs. He would share this house with Margaret. He smiled at the thought, once more allowing his mind to fill with pictures of the two of them together.
He was aware, however, that he was probably painting too idyllic a vision. Margaret could still change her mind. Tom was not naïve enough to think he had won her over completely. Perhaps even now she was thinking it would be better to lose her estate than be forever linked to a shopkeeper–farmer–gold miner who was trying—and not always successfully—to live as a gentleman. She would have good cause to think so, he thought, remembering how close he had come to fisticuffs with Carter in the midst of an elegant party. Tom scrubbed a hand through his hair and focused once more on the peaceful landscape. He was fully aware of one other trait he had in abundance, and that was stubbornness. Margaret was meant to be his. His elation when she was in his arms, her lips pressed against his, had told him so in no uncertain terms. If Margaret refused to marry him, he would just keep on pursuing her until she said yes.
*
Margaret paused at the door of the library, taking a moment to look at Tom before making her presence known. He stood with one arm against the door frame, his broad shoulders outlined in sharp silhouette by the late-day sun. He looked at ease standing there. Too much at ease, she thought as a prickly sense of worry walked down her spine.
She’d been turning over the day’s events in her mind, her indecision growing. Could she really marry someone she hardly knew, someone so different from the kind of man she had always envisioned for a husband? She had tried to tell herself the other alternatives were far worse. Yet now, as she watched Tom surveying the grounds as though he already owned the place, all her fears rose up again tenfold. Perhaps he was already planning what he would do once he was in control of Moreton Hall.
Well, he won’t be, she thought, stepping determinedly into the room. He had promised her a partnership. Maybe that was just a pretense to win her over, but she would make sure he lived up to it. He might bully some men around—she had seen him do it with her own eyes—but he would not bully her. “Enjoying the view?” she said caustically.
He turned. His face was in shadow, but she felt him looking her over from head to foot. “It’s not nearly so lovely as you are,” he said as he walked over and kissed her hand. “May I say you look ravishing this evening, Miss Vaughn.”
An unwarranted heat washed over her, which she tried to cool with a light laugh. “Such fancy language. Is that something you were taught during your etiquette lessons?”
“Actually, I learned that one from James Simpson,” he admitted with a genial smile.
“Mr. Simpson is a shameless ladies’ man and full of empty flattery,” Margaret said pointedly, uncomfortably aware that Tom’s warm hand still held hers.
His gaze held her, too. “Happily for me, I have no need of empty flattery.”
Margaret pulled her hand from his. “Shall we go into dinner?”
She turned toward the door, but Tom stopped her, holding up his arm. “I believe I should escort you. Isn’t that the proper thing to do?”
His words gave Margaret pause. In truth, the two of them dining alone was most improper. She ought to have invited additional people—Williams and his daughter, perhaps, or the rector and his wife. But the unforeseen events of the day had set her thoughts in such an uproar that she’d not given any real thought to dinner at all. Of course, if she married Tom, there could be no damage to her reputation—
“Humor me, I beg you,” Tom said, cutting into her thoughts. “I want to practice so that I will not embarrass you in public when the time comes.”
The irony in his tone worried Margaret. He was the kind of man who probably did not place much stock in the opinions of others. But he proffered his arm once more, and since he was standing between her and the door, she took hold of it and allowed him to lead her into dinner.
Once the soup had been served, and the servers had retired to a more comfortable distance, Tom said, “So tell me about Mr. Williams. He seems to think he’s been a valuable asset to you. Would you call that an accurate assessment?”
“Of course,” Margaret replied, irked that his question seemed designed to put her on the defensive. “After my father… Well, when I began to look after the affairs of the estate, Mr. Williams took me under his wing, so to speak. He taught me many
things about the workings of such a large property. I was very young when he began to work for us, after we had to… that is, after Mr. Browne, the previous land steward, had to retire due to ill health.”
Margaret took a long sip from her water goblet. She did not wish to mention that it was her father’s drunkenness and compulsive gambling that had made him unfit to manage his affairs, nor did she wish to speak of Mr. Browne’s near-criminal ineptitude. But both were gone now, and Mr. Williams had been helping her to bring the estate around. He was far too aware of his value, to be sure, and his arrogance often led him to challenge her authority. But the progress they had made had been worth the occasional battle.
“He seemed ill-informed about the proper treatment of the horses.”
She set down her goblet so hard it clunked as it hit the table. “He’s a land steward, not a veterinarian,” she said frostily. “And in any case, you know nothing about the particulars.” Too late she realized how loudly she spoke. She ought to have kept her voice more moderate, especially with the footman in the room.
“You are right,” Tom said evenly. “I don’t know nearly enough. But I intend to learn.” He picked up his soup spoon, but he was still looking at her with a determined expression. “I meant what I said about being involved in everything.”
“I would appreciate it if we could discuss this later,” Margaret said softly. With a slight motion of her head she indicated the footman, who was arranging something on the sideboard. “When we can be alone.”
“As you wish.” Tom went back to his soup, and they ate in silence. When Tom reached the bottom of the bowl, he tipped it toward him in order to get the last of the soup onto the spoon.
“Mr. Poole,” Margaret said archly, “you must remember to tip the bowl away from you, not toward you.”
He set down the bowl with a little thud and the spoon followed it with a clank. “Thank you, Miss Vaughn. I had forgotten.” He might have been addressing a schoolmarm. Then he added, with a hint of mischief in his eye, “You should have seen the way I used to finish off the soup.”
This, thought Margaret with embarrassment, was what she had to look forward to.
When the footman had taken away the soup and set the fish course in front of them, Tom made a show of looking over the variety of forks in front of him. “Let me see… it’s this one, isn’t it?” He lifted a fork.
Margaret nodded stiffly. She was aware that his playful manner was intended to lighten the mood, but it only irked her.
“I think,” Tom said, cutting into his fish, “that you should give me etiquette lessons, just to be sure I have everything right for our wedding breakfast.”
There was a clank of metal from the direction of the sideboard, as though something had slipped from the footman’s grasp. Margaret looked at him sharply. He’d been trained not to listen, of course. Or at least, not to appear to listen. But she did not doubt he’d heard Tom’s mention of the wedding. “Mr. Poole,” Margaret hissed, “you promised.”
“So I did.” But he gave her only an apologetic shrug.
Somehow, they kept to more neutral topics during the rest of dinner, whenever they spoke at all. The advancing darkness was evident through the dining room windows by the time they had finished eating. Margaret was relieved when Tom refused to linger over coffee, saying he needed to get Castor back to his stall and a good rubdown.
“Will you walk with me outside?” he asked when they reached the front hall. “There’s one more thing I’d like to say to you, out of earshot of the servants.”
Margaret studied him warily. His ways were far too unconventional. “You know a gentleman would not ask this of a lady.”
“Just to the edge of the drive,” he pressed. “The grass is still wet from the rain, and we must be mindful of your shoes.”
It was an oblique reference to the dinner party at the Somervilles’, when Tom had ultimately shown himself more than willing to see to her needs. He spoke with such cheerful deference that she found herself grudgingly agreeing to his request.
“What did you wish to say to me?” Margaret asked when they had reached the edge of the gravel drive.
Tom drew her a few steps farther down the drive, until they had stepped out of the light streaming from the mansion windows and were bathed only in moonlight. He took her face in his hands, an intimate gesture that set her pulse racing. She could just make out his features as he gently brushed her cheek. “Your skin is so soft,” he murmured. “So delicate for such a robust and determined lady.”
She tried to think of some retort, but her mind was stupidly a blank. She was aware only of the lovely sensations he was drawing with his touch.
He drew his thumb gently across her lower lip. “I propose that we should end every night with a good-night kiss,” he murmured. “And that we should begin tonight. What are your thoughts on the matter?”
Margaret’s heart hammered wildly. “Well, I…” She tried to remind herself of his nosy questions, his barely civilized manners, the way he threatened the very foundations of her self-sufficiency. But she could trap none of these things in her mind—they flitted through her brain and were gone, like the moths in the night.
Her mouth went dry. Without thinking, she licked her lips. Taking this as a sign of assent, Tom bent his head and touched his lips to hers. It was not a deep, passionate kiss, but light and gentle, unbearably tender and teasing, making her want more. Breathless with anticipation, she waited for him to pull her close.
Instead, he pulled away, and a small sigh escaped him. “Good night, Maggie.”
He turned to go.
Wait! she wanted to cry out. But she was speechless, unable to move, the echoing whispers of his kiss still playing across her lips. She stood breathless for quite some time, watching until he was long out of sight.
Chapter 16
The mutton chop is excellent, is it not?” Margaret said. “I do enjoy coming here.” She knew her voice had an unnatural sprightliness. She was trying to hide her lingering discomfort over what she was about to divulge to her luncheon companion.
Margaret’s unease was lost on Miss Lucinda Cardington, however. She was looking distinctly uncomfortable for reasons of her own. She glanced around the small restaurant, scrutinizing the patrons for what had to be the dozenth time. Joining Margaret for luncheon here at Verey’s restaurant on Hanover Street had been for Lucinda an act of unqualified courage.
“Are you worried that someone will accost us?” Margaret asked. “I assure you it’s perfectly safe. Women are dining without escorts much more than they used to. Soon it will be quite the thing.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s safe. It’s just that Mama is so terribly old-fashioned. If she finds out I’ve come here, she’ll be livid. She thinks I’m shopping on Regent Street.”
“Well, then, everything depends on the loyalty of your footman, doesn’t it?” Margaret nodded toward the window, where they could see Lucinda’s footman standing outside, waiting like a sentry keeping watch.
“Yes, he’s very discreet,” Lucinda confirmed. “He’s had to accompany me on some journeys to the darker parts of London, where I’ve been working to help the poor. Places that would make Mama faint dead away in horror.”
“Well, this is hardly such a place. And since we’re only two steps from Regent Street, you can pick up a new set of gloves or a shawl on your way home, and your alibi will be intact.”
“In fact, it’s the proximity to Regent Street that has me worried,” Lucinda said with another nervous glance out the window. “Someone might recognize my footman and realize I’m inside.”
“Someone as in your little sister, perhaps?” Margaret teased.
“Exactly. She’s no longer little, unfortunately. Now that she is fully out in society, she’s had plenty of opportunities to observe my actions. More than once she’s tattled on me for some supposed offense.”
“Then she is still little,” Margaret averred. “Infantile.”
“I feel
I should not comment on that remark,” Lucinda said sagely, although she brought her napkin to her lips to hide a tiny smile. “However, there is nothing here that Mama could find objectionable. The place is clean and orderly, and the clientele quite respectable. Governesses, and the like. And old maids.” Seeing Margaret’s eyebrows raise, she added hastily, “I’m speaking of myself, of course. Not you. Even though your engagement to Mr. Denault has ended, you will find someone else. You’re beautiful.”
Lucinda said this with such sincerity that Margaret felt a sting of tears in her eyes. When she came to London, Margaret had been introduced to countless members of society, but she had been careful to keep a formal distance from everyone. There were too many things about her situation that she had to hide. But one night she’d found herself chatting with Lucinda at a dinner party. It hadn’t taken long for Lucinda to win her over with her sensible conversation, so different from the vacuous drivel being spouted by the other society misses.
“It takes more than beauty to find a husband,” Margaret said. “And I don’t believe for a moment that you will end up an old maid. Times are changing, and quite rapidly. Even our visit to this restaurant is proof of that. You’re different from all the other vapid society ladies. Someday, someone will realize what a catch you are and scoop you up and marry you.”
“You must also believe in fairy tales,” Lucinda said robustly. But she gave Margaret a grateful smile and went back to her mutton and potatoes.
This was as good an opening as any. “Actually, Lucinda, the subject of marriage is why I asked you here. I… have some news.”
“Oh?” Lucinda looked up. “Is it good news?”
“I believe so,” Margaret responded hesitantly.
“You’re engaged again—how wonderful!” Lucinda exclaimed, immediately coming to the obvious conclusion. “Who is this most fortunate gentleman?”
A Lady Most Lovely Page 15