A Lady Most Lovely

by Jennifer Delamere

  Tom shot him a quick grin before turning back to his wife. “Come here, Margaret, I’ve brought someone for you to meet.” He led her around to the back of the cart. The last rays of the late afternoon sun gleamed on the gelding’s bay coat. Even in the fading light it was easy to see he was a magnificent animal. “Mrs. Poole, may I present Bright Star.”

  “He’s beautiful!” Margaret gasped. Immediately she began inspecting the animal with practiced care, her hands traveling over him from head to tail. “He’s perfect,” she pronounced. “I can’t wait to ride him!”

  “We must go out first thing tomorrow,” Tom agreed.

  Gently she traced the star-shaped mark on the horse’s forehead. “Bright Star. It’s lovely.” Tom could have sworn there was a tear in her eye. But it might have been a trick of the fading light. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  For once her smile reached her eyes, lighting her face with pure happiness, making her nearly irresistible. More than anything in the world, Tom wanted to hold her tight and kiss her senseless. Only an impatient stamp and a snort from Castor, who could sense that meal and bed were close at hand, kept Tom from carrying out this notion.

  Two servants carried Tom’s baggage inside while Tom paid the driver. “Let’s get the horses settled, shall we?” he said to Margaret as the driver tipped his cap and drove away.

  “I’d like that.” She took hold of Bright Star’s lead.

  A lamp at the stable door shone like a beacon, lighting their way. As they walked, Margaret spoke quietly to the horse, telling it how happy it would be here and of all the wonderful times they were going to have together. She spoke with the simple exhuberance of a child, and Tom was glad. He had hoped this gift would soften Margaret’s heart, and her giddy rambling seemed proof that it had worked. Remembering the warm greeting she had given him even before she had taken note of the horses, Tom’s heart lifted with thankfulness.

  A stable boy who slept above the barn heard their approach and came out to meet them. Tom set him to work grooming and feeding the horses. Margaret spoke to Bright Star once more before they turned to go. “Rest up,” she said, patting his neck. “You and I shall have a good long ride tomorrow.”

  “May I come along, too?” Tom asked with a smile as they strolled arm in arm out of the stable. He liked this new, friendlier Margaret. He hoped fervently that it would last.

  “Do you think Castor can keep up with him?” she teased.

  “I think they are a well-matched pair.”

  She looked up at him quizzically. “You speak as though they were carriage horses.”

  “Cannot two riding horses be well matched also? They are free to go in any direction, and yet they can move together in harmony if they choose to.”

  A flicker crossed her face as she caught the meaning of his words. “I suppose they can,” she acknowledged.

  Once again Tom was seized with the urge to pull her close and kiss her. This time, there was no reason not to. He was alone with his wife on a moonlit fall evening. Her lips parted, as though she were thinking the same thing.

  He leaned in, ever so slowly, every nerve alive with anticipation. Her breath quickened, but she did not pull away. Dear Lord, she wanted this as much as he did. Their lips touched. Tom kept the kiss gentle, savoring it, marveling that she was so willing. Then her arms came up around his neck, pulling him closer, and he was lost.

  Her lips opened to him freely, and he deepened the kiss, reveling in the taste of her. She returned the kiss with equal passion, her body pressed against his, igniting flames of desire. Tom began to loosen the pins from her hair, relishing the feel of the silky strands as he ran his fingers through them.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “What will the servants think if I return to the house with my hair in disarray?”

  “They will think I have been greeting my wife,” he said, trailing kisses along her cheek. The warm vanilla scent from her skin and hair roused every one of his senses. “There’s no sin in that.”

  She placed soft hands against his chest in gentle remonstration, murmuring between his kisses. “But we mustn’t… there should be… propriety…”

  Tom relented, but as he stepped back he chided gently, “I’m afraid you asked for it, my dear wife.” He loved how she looked just now, with her hair down around her shoulders, and her softly parted lips swollen from his kisses. “It’s too late for propriety,” he observed. “They’ll know you’ve been giving me a warm welcome.”

  It was too dark to be sure, but Tom imagined a lovely pink blush on her fine, high cheekbones. He sincerely hoped it was there. It was more proof that she was coming alive to him. He took hold of her arm and they began to walk once more toward the house.

  Tom pulled her gently to a stop before they reached the front steps. Although he wanted nothing more than to sweep her up the staircase and into his bed, he felt that simple logistics were against them. Lights poured through the open door, and the butler and footman were visible in the entry hall. Margaret had again reached up to rearrange her hair, and already she was taking on the posture of the lady of the manor. Soon her mask of propriety would be firmly in place. This moment they were sharing was a delicate thing that could be easily lost in the glare of lights and the presence of the servants. It would be swept away by the bustle of the maid and the valet and the usual business of turning in for the night. There were things Tom needed to share with her—plans she probably would not like. Perhaps she would be more amenable if they talked now. “Let’s not go in just yet,” he suggested. “It’s a fine night. Perhaps a stroll in the back garden?”

  The glow from the house bathed her face in pale light, and she relaxed into a smile. She almost looked relieved. “All right.”

  *

  Margaret sat in the garden, waiting for Tom’s return. He had gone inside briefly to release the servants for the evening. She ran her fingers along the rough stone bench, glad for these few moments to compose herself. She took in long, deep breaths, thankful for the way the night air cooled her cheeks.

  She had planned to give Tom a warm greeting, to set in motion her plan of winning his confidence rather than trying to force it from him. She had not planned on the particular way her heart had jumped when she saw him, the way his presence only magnified how lonely the house had been without him. Tom’s gift had touched her deeply. He had clearly chosen Bright Star with care, understanding Margaret well enough to pick a horse that was exactly right for her.

  He had been gone just a week, and yet she had forgotten how easy it was to lose herself when he was near. The idea that she could remain aloof in her heart, even as she attempted to draw him physically closer, had faded. She realized she was nowhere near being able to play Delilah. She had caught a glimpse of just how intense their physical union would be, and it had shaken her soundly.

  “I’ve brought you something.” Tom slid onto the bench beside her. He was holding one of her shawls. He carefully draped it over her shoulders. “I didn’t want you to catch a chill.” His arms wrapped around her along with the shawl, encircling her with warmth.

  “I could hold you like this forever,” he murmured in her ear.

  She leaned against him and sighed. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps his trip to London had been just what he’d said it was: an opportunity to handle papers that had come from Sullivan and to visit Lizzie. And yet, as the breeze sent a few dead leaves dancing at their feet, she remembered her discovery at the cabin. “Tom?” she said tentatively.

  “Hmm?” He was nuzzling her ear.

  “I visited the little abandoned cabin the other day.”

  “Oh?” The nuzzling paused.

  “I found a box of writing papers. Are they yours?”

  “Yes.” He pulled away slightly, though his arms did not entirely leave her. “I suppose you are wondering why they are there.”

  “I was.”

  “I’ve been doing a bit of writing.” He actually sounded sheepish, not as though he’d been cau
ght at anything underhanded. “It’s just for myself, you understand. Thoughts on things I am learning, or things God is showing me.”

  Margaret certainly had not been expecting this. “You mean, like a diary?”

  “Of sorts. Nothing formal. Just notes. I find it helps me to write it down. And I like that cabin. It’s quiet, and easy to think there.”

  It was a plausible enough explanation, if somewhat unusual. But she wouldn’t mind seeing proof. “Will you show me your notes sometime?”

  “If you like. I doubt you’ll be able to decipher much of it, though.” The breeze blew more stiffly, ruffling Margaret’s shawl. Tom settled his arms around her again, and she had the sense that he had dismissed the writing papers from his mind. “And now, Margaret, I have something to ask of you. Would you like to spend Christmas in London this year?”

  “London?” she repeated in dismay. “But that’s such a dismal time to be there. The wind howls around the buildings, and the coal dust makes everything filthy.”

  “I know it’s asking a lot, but you see, Lizzie is not well. She cannot leave her bed, and we are all deeply concerned about her health, although no one will admit it.” The pained look on his face showed the depth of his worry. “She will be glad for your company, and you can help her when the baby arrives.”

  “Me?” Margaret had no idea how much help she would be. The thought actually gave her some trepidation. “But the baby is due well before Christmas, isn’t it?”

  “In early December. The fact is, I’d like to leave here in just a few weeks, if we can manage it.”

  “Surely you don’t mean we should stay with the Somervilles all that time?”

  “Will it really be such a trial?” He squeezed her gently. “I know I promised you a honeymoon in Scotland. But perhaps we can go in the spring. For now, Lizzie needs us. And isn’t that what’s most important?”

  “Of course,” Margaret replied, though without enthusiasm. She understood the need, but still she did not relish the idea of leaving Moreton Hall for weeks on end when she felt like she’d only just returned. She thought, with some small measure of resentment, that it was a hard thing to ask of her. She stood up, wrapping her shawl tightly around her. “Well, good night,” she said. “I’m sure we can discuss more of the details tomorrow.” He looked disappointed, but made no move to follow her as she hurried back to the house.

  *

  “Here we are. It’s cozy, but comfortable.” Mrs. Claridge, the Somervilles’ housekeeper, threw open the door to the bedchamber where Tom and Margaret would be staying.

  Margaret gasped. The room was small. And there was, of course, just one bed. “We are both staying here?” she whispered to Tom.

  “I’m afraid so,” he whispered back, looking decidedly pleased at the prospect.

  Mrs. Claridge did not miss the look of dismay on Margaret’s face. “We are a bit tight for space at the moment, I’m afraid. We’ve had to convert one of the rooms into a day room for Lady Somerville, now that she is no longer able to take the stairs. And of course, another is being prepared for the nursery.” Mrs. Claridge beamed at the prospect. “But we’ll do all we can to make you feel at home.” She pointed to the far side of the room. “There is a small dressing room through there, to make things more convenient for you.”

  Margaret threw a cold look at Tom, wondering why he had not mentioned this arrangement before they’d come. He had to have known. He’d lived here all summer, so he knew full well the layout of the house.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Claridge,” Tom said. “I’m sure we’ll be quite happy here.”

  As soon as the housekeeper left the room, Tom closed the door and burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Margaret demanded.

  Tom leaned against the bedpost and gave her a cheeky grin. “Don’t look so scandalized, my love. You are my wife, remember? Besides, there’s one thing very convenient about this arrangement.”

  “Just one?” Margaret asked drily.

  He walked over and lightly touched her chin. “I won’t have to go very far to find my good-night kiss.”

  Chapter 28

  At last Lizzie was asleep.

  Margaret put down the book she had been reading to her, setting it gently on the small table next to the bed. She stood and stretched, careful not to allow her skirts to rustle too much, wishing most of all not to awaken Lizzie. Reading to her every afternoon had proven to be the best way to calm Lizzie’s restless agitation. Margaret was glad to see her drop off at last into a doze. The room was far too hot, and Margaret was desperate to step outside for some cool air. She could not understand why it was necessary to keep the room so stuffy, with the windows tightly shut and the fire burning hot. But she knew little about these things, and she supposed the doctor knew best.

  Carefully she slipped out the door and down the hall. Lizzie was likely to stay asleep for an hour or more. There would be time for Margaret to step outside and breathe. The day was fine, if cold, but Margaret would welcome its bracing effects.

  As she reached the first floor, she was surprised to hear Lady Thornborough’s voice coming through the open door to Geoffrey’s study. “You mean you haven’t told her yet?”

  Margaret paused, wondering why Lady Thornborough had not come upstairs to visit her granddaughter straightaway. That had been her usual pattern on her daily visits here. In the brief time Margaret had known Lady Thornborough, she’d been rather put off by that lady’s crusty and somewhat imperious manner. Margaret was debating whether to slip quietly outside and avoid seeing her when she heard Tom say, “I haven’t yet gotten permission from Lizzie to tell her about it.”

  Who were they talking about? Was it her? She slipped back against the wall so she would not be seen. There were no servants about, so she could listen without detection.

  “You don’t mean to say Lizzie knows about this,” Lady Thornborough said, sounding affronted. “In her condition—”

  “Lizzie does not know,” Geoffrey broke in. “We are all in agreement that she does not need any more cares thrust upon her at this time.”

  “But, Mr. Poole,” Lady Thornborough said, “I don’t understand why you have not told your wife. After all, she is part of this family now.”

  Margaret had to admit this remark made her like the old lady a little bit better. By the same token, it made her angry at Tom. There was something he was keeping from her. But what? And why?

  “The secret is not mine to tell,” Tom insisted. “I promised Lizzie that I would never speak of those events to anyone. I do not intend to break that promise until I have gotten her permission to do so. Until then, we must wait.”

  Tom said this with the adamant air of one who has gone over a problem many times and always arrived at the same conclusion. Margaret was all too aware by now that Tom was stubborn enough not to budge once he’d made up his mind on something.

  “Aren’t you afraid Margaret will get wind of this some other way and end up telling Lizzie about it by mistake?”

  “I have the situation under control,” Tom insisted. “Spencer is not going to do anything that will jeopardize his position.”

  Spencer! Shock rattled through Margaret and she leaned against the wall for support.

  “I’ve told him that drawing up the proper documents will take some time, as will bringing Margaret around. He doesn’t like it, but he has accepted it. He wants that land too badly.”

  Nothing in this conversation made sense to her, except for one thing: Tom was talking to Spencer. About her land.

  “I still don’t like it,” Lady Thornborough was saying. “What you are doing is dangerous. If things turn out badly, the scandal could be ten times greater. You must be careful.”

  Margaret heard the tread of someone coming up the stairs from the kitchen. Probably a maid bringing tea. Margaret had no wish to be found eavesdropping by one of the servants. She hurriedly straightened, took a deep breath to calm her nerves, and walked briskly into the study. “Goo
d afternoon, everyone,” she said. “What must we be careful about?”

  She didn’t really think that plunging in so rudely would get them to dislodge the information, since they had just agreed on secrecy. But it was worth a try. She stood waiting, her heart pounding during the uncomfortable pause while Tom and the others exchanged glances. Then Lady Thornborough said, “Hello, dear. We were just discussing Lizzie, and how we must be careful about these final days of her lying-in.”

  “Were you?” Margaret said crisply.

  “Yes. I was just saying that it’s a common practice to bring in a nurse at this time,” Lady Thornborough continued, ignoring Margaret’s undisguised disbelief. “I have persuaded Lord Somerville that my servant Martha is the best person for the job. Her grandmother was a midwife, and she herself has attended many births.”

  “Exactly,” Geoffrey said, taking Lady Thornborough’s story and running with it. “I agree that it is an excellent idea. How is she, Margaret?”

  “She is sleeping. I came downstairs for some fresh air.” She wasn’t getting it here, however.

  “You will be glad for Martha’s help,” Tom told her, picking up the charade. “We’ve asked too much from you. You are looking tired, and we mustn’t take advantage of your good nature.”

  Margaret could only stare at him, having no words. How on earth was she going to get to the bottom of this? She opened her mouth to speak, but Tom gave her hand a squeeze and dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. “Oh, look,” he said as the maid and a footman entered with heavily laden trays. “Here’s tea.”

  *

  “Are you absolutely certain everything is safe?”

  Margaret sat in Mr. Hawthorne’s office at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She had come here as soon as she could arrange it, still worried by the conversation she had overheard at the Somervilles’.

  “There is nothing untoward going on, I can assure you,” Hawthorne said. “If, as you say, Mr. Poole intends a land transfer of some kind, you know he cannot proceed without coming to me first.”