A Lady Most Lovely

by Jennifer Delamere

  Two hours had passed since the guests had arrived and been served. Somehow Tom had made it through dozens of toasts and the many assurances (from people who barely knew them) that theirs was bound to be a long and felicitous marriage.

  Throughout it all, Tom had done his best not to think about Spencer. He was glad now that Lizzie’s delicate condition had prevented her from attending the wedding. He did not want Spencer anywhere near her until Tom had been able to warn her and Geoffrey about the hazard he presented.

  Champagne was flowing freely although it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, and everyone had eaten their fill of beef, chicken, sweetbreads, and puddings. Tom did not mind the expense, but he marveled at how much a hundred people could consume, especially when someone else was paying for it. At last, the food having been devoured and the wedding cake served, most of the guests rose from their tables and began milling about, greeting one another with champagne-induced friendliness, making sure they were seeing and being seen by every other attendee, the mark of their social status that they had been invited to this grand event.

  “Will you excuse me?” Margaret murmured after she and Tom had finished greeting yet another in the endless stream of well-wishers. “I must go find the ladies’ retiring room.”

  “Shall I escort you?” Tom asked. For the first time he noticed small circles under her eyes, signs of fatigue that she had been doing her best to hide. The strain of the day was beginning to wear on her.

  “That won’t be necessary.” She disengaged herself from his arm. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  Tom watched her thread her way through the crowd. He could not help but be reminded of the night he had met her, how he’d watched her much as he was doing now. How much had changed since then. The best change was that Margaret was no longer on another man’s arm. She was his now, in name at least. He was determined to do all he could to capture her heart as well, even if it took the rest of his life to do it.

  A dozen conversations buzzed around him. Tom’s hearing was excellent, having been well honed during his time in the Australian wilderness, where he’d learned to pick out the sounds of animals and bird calls. Many times being alert that a dangerous animal was nearby had saved his life. This luxurious banquet hall was far different, but Tom had the sense that plenty of dangers lurked here, too.

  He had no sooner had this thought than he heard a voice say quietly, “Tom Poole. How fortunate that we should meet again.”

  Tom turned to see Spencer leaning nonchalantly against the wall near a potted plant. “Were you invited?” he said coldly.

  Spencer held up his hands. “Shockingly bad taste, I know, to turn up where one isn’t invited. But of course, you’d know all about that.” He paused to let his insult sink in. “However, I only wanted to offer my personal good wishes to my cousin Margaret. She did tell you that we are cousins, didn’t she?”

  “She doesn’t want you here.”

  “Neither do you, I’ll wager.” He moved away from the wall. “You have played this game well, Tom Poole. Now you have married her, and gained Moreton Hall in the bargain.”

  Tom took a warning step forward, his hands clenching to fists. “What happens to Moreton Hall will never be any business of yours.”

  Spencer leveled a hateful glare. “That property should have come to me, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you keep your filthy murderous hands on it.”

  “You don’t have any say in the matter.”

  “Don’t I? Suppose I notify the authorities about a certain illegal action you were involved in back in forty-five? Suppose I get you brought before a tribunal for attempted murder?”

  Spencer’s large and menacing physique was at odds with his university-educated speech. He looked like one of those brute beasts who guard the doors to gambling dens, throwing troublemakers out on their ears. But Tom had faced down worse men, and he wasn’t about to cower now. He took another step forward. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  Spencer laughed. “You’re more cagey than you used to be, aren’t you? You used to be all boldness and bluster, barging in like a bull in a china shop. You act so fine and genteel now. But I’ll wager it wouldn’t take much for your criminal nature to reveal itself.”

  Rage was rising inside Tom—too familiar, too hard to stop once it broke free. But Tom would not allow it. He had to keep it at bay. For Margaret’s sake, he had to avoid an altercation here if at all possible. “If you have something to say, then say it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Then get out.”

  He expected Spencer to say more about the duel. Instead, Spencer said, “Your sister is married to Lord Somerville, isn’t she? How in the world did she manage to marry a man who is an ordained clergyman?”

  Tom fought for self-control. He could not allow this man to manipulate him. “Do not speak ill of my sister,” he ordered. “She is a good woman.”

  “Oh, she’s a model of virtue,” Spencer replied sarcastically. “But perhaps you heard about the incident that happened last year at the Thornborough estate in Kent? A man died there. A mutual acquaintance of ours. His name was Freddie Hightower.”

  At the sound of Hightower’s name, the murmur of nearby conversations ceased. These people were nothing if not excellent eavesdroppers. Tom had to keep the conversation away from dangerous territory. “Hightower died of natural causes. It’s in the coroner’s report. It’s public knowledge.”

  Spencer made a scoffing noise. “When has there ever been any correlation between an official report and the truth? Hightower was there for a little assignation with Lizzie—”

  Tom grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. “She is Lady Somerville to you,” he ground out.

  Spencer delivered a swift, surprising blow to Tom’s gut, forcing him to take a step back, gasping. “You are the last person to tell me what to do,” he said. “In fact, you’d better heed my instructions, unless you want certain information about your sister to get out.”

  Tom straightened, finding his breath. “If you say anything to slander Lizzie, I will make sure you regret it.”

  “What will you do? Attack me?” He looked Tom up and down with disdain. “I’d like to see you try.”

  The last of Tom’s resolve snapped, rage twisting his soul and rising so quickly that he was barely conscious of what happened next. His fist connected with Spencer’s jaw, sending him backward, knocking over a potted plant as he tried to regain his balance. He recovered quickly, though, in a move that was surprisingly agile. He lunged at Tom, tackling him and sending them both colliding into a nearby table. It collapsed amid the crash of silverware and breaking glass, the force of the fall making him temporarily breathless. But he didn’t stop to think. He pushed Spencer off of him and rolled him over on his back against the remnants of the table, hitting Spencer’s mouth repeatedly, this time drawing blood.

  After that, it was a complete blur. There was nothing except Spencer, the man who threatened everything Tom held dear—the man he wanted to pummel into extinction right here in this banquet hall. All his anger over Hightower’s treatment of Lizzie came pouring out into each satisfying punch. But Spencer was a tough foe and he knew how to fight, landing vicious blows of his own.

  Through the haze of the fighting he heard Margaret’s voice. “Stop! Tom! What are you doing!” But Tom was not about to stop. He was gaining the upper hand; he could see Spencer’s strength was flagging. He pulled Spencer to his feet and gave him one last, final shove, sending him over another table and crashing to the floor along with its contents—plates, glasses, and an enormous silver urn. Tom stepped around the pile of debris and looked down to assure himself that Spencer was not going to get up for more. He was out cold, bloody from the fighting and from landing face-first in shards of glass.

  The roaring that had filled Tom’s ears during the fight was now replaced by an eerie silence. As he stared down at what was left of Spencer, Tom felt, rather than saw, the shocked expressions
of everyone in the room.

  “Tom Poole!” Margaret’s voice broke the silence. She rushed forward and bent down over Spencer, then looked up at Tom with anger. “What have you done?”

  Tom clenched his fists, trying to rebottle his rage, trying to regain his equilibrium along with his breath. A quick glance confirmed that their fight had made a shambles of the banqueting hall. But he’d be damned if he was going to show any remorse. “He came here uninvited,” he said, as though that explained everything.

  Chapter 19

  Three hours.

  Three hours it had taken to sort out the mess, to clear the guests from the hall as graciously as she could, and to settle with the owner for the damage. It would take far longer to recover from the blow to her good name. Tom Poole had humiliated her publicly. He had shown the world that he was nothing but an ill-bred, lower-class hooligan with no regard for common decency. He had turned their wedding breakfast into a brawl.

  It had taken four men to carry Richard out of the hall. Tom had beaten him so viciously it was a miracle he’d not been killed. Even now, the memory of the look on Tom’s face during the fight sent chills down Margaret’s spine. Even though she had seen him threaten a man before, she had not fully comprehended how dangerously volatile he was. Now that she was his wife, how was she to deal with this dark aspect of his nature?

  Margaret paced up and down in the suite of rooms Tom had rented for them in the hotel. She felt trapped in these unfamiliar surroundings, wishing she had not already closed down the town house. Coming here after the wedding breakfast had been her only option. All of her clothes and immediate necessities had been brought here.

  “Shall I find some tea, madam?” Bessie asked. “Perhaps some chamomile to help soothe the nerves?” She was sitting in a corner of the room, working on some darning and keeping Margaret company until Tom arrived.

  Where was Tom, anyway? He’d left with the men carrying Richard out of the hall, and he’d arranged to get the man home and under a doctor’s care. Then he had left, saying grimly that he had something else to attend to. But he had not told her what it was. Nor had he offered any apologies. “Tea won’t be necessary,” she told Bessie, ignoring her maid’s concerned expression. Nothing would calm her until she had given Tom a good piece of her mind.

  Margaret whirled from the window as the door opened and Tom walked in. Whatever he’d been up to since they had parted, he’d done nothing to repair his disheveled appearance. His cravat was loose, his shirt collar smudged with dirt and blood, his coat sleeve torn. Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw the dried blood crusted along his right eye and hairline. She told herself it was anger she felt. What kind of man fought like this, heedless of danger to himself? “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  Tom shot her a look, but didn’t answer. He set down his hat and looked at Bessie. “Leave us, please. I need to change.”

  “Then we shall both leave,” Margaret countered, motioning for Bessie to follow her to the door. “Where is your valet?”

  Tom put out a hand to stop her. “My valet has the night off. You will help me.”

  “Me?” Margaret said, astounded.

  “You are my wife.”

  “Precisely. I am your wife, not your valet.”

  He took a step toward Margaret, hands outstretched. “I had hoped I could count on my wife to help tend my wounds.”

  Margaret took an involuntary step back. What did he think she’d do after the mortification he’d caused her today? Run into his arms? He was a fool if he thought so.

  Disappointment crossed his face, but he made no move to close the gap. Instead, he surprised Margaret by walking past her, pulling off his coat as he did so, and tossing it onto a table. He began tugging furiously at his cravat. Good heavens, he’s serious, Margaret thought. He’s going to undress right here in front of me. In front of the maid.

  Bessie flushed, turning her eyes away in embarrassment, and Margaret had to take pity on her. This was Margaret’s problem now. She would have to face her husband alone sometime, and the sooner they had things out between them, the better. “That will be all, Bessie. I will send for you if I need you.”

  “Yes, madam,” Bessie said with unmistakable relief. She hastened to the door and let herself out.

  The cravat came off, and Tom tossed it onto the coat. His shirt fell open, exposing the base of his throat and upper portion of his chest. He slipped the braces off his shoulders.

  Margaret stood, unable to move, her anger displaced by the shocking novelty of seeing a man undressing. Her heart began to pound wildly, so much so that she thought he must be able to hear it. She tried to hold on to her resentment at all that had happened today, at how his actions had embarrassed and humiliated her. But it was difficult not to be distracted by the outline of his broad chest under the white shirt, at the way his trousers dropped lower on his hips without the braces to hold them up.

  He looked up and caught her looking at him, and Margaret thought she detected a particular glint in his eye. He had promised her he would wait, but here he was, half-undressed, and today he had proven himself a man of uncontrollable passions. What if he decided to take her now, even if she was unwilling?

  But he made no move to unbutton his trousers. Instead, he dropped into a chair by the fireplace. He lifted one foot and began to tug at his boot. After a moment he seemed to think better of it and allowed his foot, still shod, to fall back to the floor. He rubbed his hands over his face but then stopped, wincing, as he found a tender spot—a cut that was probably the result of his tumble into the broken glass. With a groan he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “God, I’m tired,” he said.

  Seeing that there was no immediate threat to her person, Margaret found her righteous anger returning. She crossed her arms and regarded him coldly. “I should think you would be tired.” Her voice was crusty and hard, as she intended it to be. “It takes a lot of energy to get married and destroy a banquet hall in one day.”

  He merely opened one eye and looked at her. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “For God’s sake, Margaret,” he said with bitter irritation. “Do you plan to fight me on everything? Please, sit down.”

  Margaret took the other chair, watching him warily. At the moment there was no sign of that animal brutality with which he’d attacked Richard. He simply looked exhausted. He sat with his head against the back of the chair, unmoving, his eyes shut, one cheekbone tinged with purple. Clearly, he’d received as good as he’d given. Margaret had no idea her cousin could fight that way. It had been no easy matter for Tom to best him. Tom shifted in the chair, but winced at the pain this movement caused him. He might be more injured than Margaret had initially realized. He was probably suffering from a bruised rib or two.

  “Are you all right?” she found herself asking.

  He opened his eyes, studying her as intently as she’d been studying him. It made her uneasy, but she did not look away. “A wet towel would be nice.” He indicated the cut above his eye. “It hurts like the devil.”

  “I’ll get you something.” Margaret went into the bedchamber that adjoined the sitting room. She skirted the bed, steadfastly avoiding looking at it. Reaching the washstand, she poured water from the pitcher into the bowl and moistened a small towel. Tom was still in the chair when she returned. “Here,” she said, and began to carefully wipe away the dried blood.

  He winced at the first contact, but relaxed once the area around the cut was clean. His hand reached up and covered hers. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  An unexpected pang shot through Margaret’s heart, unsettling her. She slipped her hand away and returned to the chair.

  “Maggie,” Tom said, “I’m very sorry for what happened today.”

  “What did happen, exactly? How could you possibly feel justified in attacking him?”

  “I don’t.” He held up a hand. “Wait. Yes, I do.” He
sighed. “I’m not saying I believe the fight was a good thing. But he was threatening you. Threatening us. That I could not allow.”

  The fight was to protect her? It didn’t seem possible. Margaret fingered the gold band on her left hand. It still felt strange there. Uncomfortably heavy. “I don’t understand. How is Richard a threat?”

  “That is what I need to find out. First, I need you to tell me what caused the rift in your family. Why was your grandfather so determined to keep Moreton Hall away from the Spencers?”

  “Does it really matter?” Margaret asked, irritated.

  “Yes,” Tom insisted, returning her defiant look. “It matters very much.”

  Margaret sighed. If it was true that Richard posed some kind of threat, perhaps Tom did have a need to know—even if it meant revealing things her family had never discussed with anyone. “All right, I will tell you. My grandfather and Richard’s grandfather were brothers. The trouble started when my uncle—my father’s younger brother—died in 1815, in France.”

  “He was a soldier?”

  Margaret shook her head. “He worked for the war office. He may even have been a spy. We are not really sure what he did, nor even exactly how he died. What we do know is that Richard’s father was also out of the country at the same time. He claimed he was in Holland, but he may have been in France. My grandfather was convinced that he was actually a counterspy, working for Napoleon, and that some piece of intelligence that he’d passed on to the French led to my uncle’s death.”

  “Why would he do such a traitorous thing? Why would he work for the enemy and cause his own cousin’s death?”

  “What motivates anyone?” Margaret answered caustically. “Money, of course. His wife was descended from the French nobility. Perhaps Napoleon promised to return money or lands they had lost during the Revolution.”

  Tom took a moment to consider this. “That would certainly be a powerful reason to cut Richard’s family out of the inheritance. But if it’s true that Richard’s father was a traitor, surely under the laws of England he’d not be eligible to inherit anyway?”