by Lynda Hurst
Jeffrey, usually the picture of manly comportment and sleek composure, ruffled at his hair, a clear gesture of controlled frustration. “In a word, yes,” he confirmed. “But I do want you as my wife. I chose you and only ever you.”
Margaret had to admit that his last admission was a romantic one, considering how eligible a bachelor he was. But she somehow couldn’t fully move past his first.
“It sounds to me like your father must have a reason he deems important for us to marry so quickly,” she stated coldly. She never had occasion to be cross with Jeffrey, and this situation had the earmarks of suddenly being that first time.
Jeffrey would be an idiot indeed not to recognize she wasn’t pleased, and he was thankfully an intelligent man. Realizing the blunder of his own creation, he rushed to grasp her hands in his, and stepped in closer to bury their clasped hands against his chest.
Looking deeply into her eyes, he earnestly said, “I can’t speak for my father. All I know is that when I mentioned you as my choice for a bride, he remarked how great an advantage it would be to have a stronger connection with your family. And I have to admit, I agreed with him.”
Margaret knew this wasn’t a confession of love; rather, it seemed more of a starkly honest account of Jeffrey’s own thoughts and feelings regarding their union. Again, she was forced to see that theirs would be a marriage of assets and connections, but they at least had a foundation of mutual affection and respect. She couldn’t be upset at the truth of their union, for there was no pretension of love on either side, and neither were there any secrets about why they considered each other as a partner for life.
Sighing, she said, “I know I shouldn’t be surprised at this. I’m sure your father has your best interests at heart.” And quite possibly his own, she thought uncharitably.
Kissing her briefly on the forehead, he again smiled brightly. “I knew I chose wisely in you. You’re understanding how well our match would benefit both of our families just proves how wonderful you really are.”
Margaret gave him her best smile, wishing she could feel the same way about their match that he did. Only goodness knew he deserved the best life had to offer; he was such a kind, patient man, at least, with her.
Jeffrey then acceded, “I know you want to ease into our lives together with all of the best possible advantages. If my officially meeting and getting better acquainted with your family will make you happy, I will state your case with my father. He is not unreasonable, and I’m sure he will stay any further comments because his future daughter-in-law requests it.”
“Thank you, Jeffrey. You are wonderful, and I’m indeed fortunate to have you.”
“My dear, I’m the lucky one,” he said with a charming wink. “Now that I’ve done my best to muck up persuading you to marry me sooner, I believe I shall take my leave.”
Amused at his attempt at whimsy, she let out a little chuckle and said, “You already know I’m set on marrying you, you odious man. And you also know all I require is for my family to also be better acquainted with you before I officially announce my answer to your proposal.”
“I do,” he said, sighing dramatically as if he were in a play. “I confess I hope you would change your mind each time I ask. There’s no harm in the asking, is there?”
“No, but I must tell you the answer will be the same until the time is right,” she said. “Now, I must excuse myself, as I have a lot to accomplish today before the day is done. After all, don’t we both have a ball to attend to later tonight?”
“Yes, I look forward to it. I trust you’ll save me the appropriate two waltzes before we set tongues awagging?”
“Of course,” she replied. She enjoyed waltzing and especially with an accomplished dance partner such as Jeffrey. It was really too bad that a society such as theirs had to dictate how many waltzes were deemed appropriate for an unmarried woman. She so loved the romanticism behind the dance itself; she loved the feeling of being held protectively while trusting her partner to keep her from the path of other dancers. Like there is no one else on the dance floor but them.
Shaking off the dreamy sentiment, she came back to the present where Jeffrey was gazing at her quizzically. He must have caught her daydreaming and wondered where she and her fanciful mind had gone to.
Clearing her throat to cover her embarrassment at being caught daydreaming, she said, “Er, I’d like to thank you again for the flowers, and I will look forward to seeing you later tonight.”
Knowing he was being kindly dismissed, he took her proffered hand and kissed it briefly. “Until tonight, my dear,” he said, before turning on his heel to see himself out. Hugo, who must have been waiting in the wings, handed the future Duke of Collingwood his hat and coat and saw him dutifully to the door.
Margaret hadn’t moved from the spot where Jeffrey left her in the parlor when Hugo came up to announce, “My lady, the carriage has pulled up to the drive, ready for your use.”
“Thank you, Hugo. I just need to collect my reticule, and I shall be on my way,” she replied while snatching up one of the scones from the nearby tray and demolished it in three bites on her way to her room. If Hugo noticed her lack of manners in doing so, he never let on other than a slight arch of a brow, almost undetectable on his otherwise stoic face.
13
Once Margaret collected her reticule and a few other items in a small case, she fleetingly made her exit with a small retinue consisting of Faust and Janet. Her overbearing, overprotective brother would not allow her to ramble through town without a proper escort, despite her pointing out that she never required a second body other than Janet to accompany her.
With the murders of those poor girls in Donnesbury still fresh in their minds, Devlin budged not an inch when it came to her safety and made her promise to bring the two servants with her to “run her errands”. In filial obedience, she allowed her brother his way since he made a concession for her planned activity. In fact, Devlin insisted that she travel to and from the house with a trusted and known carriage driver, along with appropriate traveling companions.
While ensconced in the Prestonridge carriage, Margaret had some time to ponder over Jeffrey’s morning visit. While recognizing that he wasn’t her grand passion, she had left the house satisfied with their genial conversation.
There was every advantage that potentially would accrue to them both once they were wed, except for the part about being in love with each other. Since dishonesty and disloyalty were not part of her makeup, there was no danger of her crying off and causing embarrassment to either her family or his. She knew many ton marriages weren’t based on love, and she clung to the thought that theirs would be one of kindred spirits. As a couple, they both loved entertainment, excitement, and adventure, and had even discussed plans to take a trip roaming the Continent as a grand tour for their honeymoon.
Snapping back to the present, there was much for Margaret to look forward to, especially with the carriage quickly approaching their destination. Glancing out the window, she glimpsed the men and women lined up across the lawn, gathered there for today’s outdoor exercise.
When she and Devlin were still children, although their father deemed Devlin to be on the cusp of manhood at the age of twelve, she had desperately wanted to be included when the father-son pair went out hunting. As his only daughter, the late Duke had gently pronounced, “It’s too dangerous for a sweet little girl,” but he knew she would not try to heed caution in his words and arranged for special lessons to keep her mind off of hunting.
As unconventional as it was, the duke indulged his only daughter in archery lessons as well as learning to shoot with a pistol. With no mother to naysay him, Margaret happily went about her lessons with a natural aplomb that greatly impressed her father. Now that she and Devlin were grown, it was a common sight to see the both of them practicing at targets while at residence in the country, the both of them evenly matched.
Now, Hyde Park contained a small section for archers of all skill
levels to practice, and it was here that Margaret had set time aside for the very same activity. Eager to start, she alit from the carriage, parked some distance from the marked-off range, her longbow and full quiver in the capable hands of Faust, while Janet trailed behind with her case.
After waving a greeting to some of the members of their archery club whom she knew, Margaret found an unoccupied target available, set herself forty yards from it, and readied her bow with Faust’s assistance. The case Janet carried contained a small jar of beeswax, which she brought to use on the bow’s string after she had Faust restring her bow for her.
She had taken good care of this bow, the last one her father gifted her before his murder. Cherishing its fine quality made her feel she was also cherishing one of the last good memories of him, one that surprised her in receiving it.
She had been participating in an archery contest that had seen her lose to a fierce rival, her own brother. It had been an unfortunate oversight that involved her much-used bow having been made worse during the competition, and a loosened string didn’t help any. Frustrated, she had blamed herself for the loss, not having checked the bow’s condition after practice the night before. As a result of the loss, her brother won not only bragging rights, but the rights to her favorite mount for a whole week.
Their father had noticed her sulking about the house for the week, and had presented her with the new bow she possessed now. Upon receiving it, her father told her, “Look at the inscription.”
Turning the bow, she had noticed neatly carved writing near the handle, which read, “Exceed the mark.”
She remembered looking at her father in exasperation and telling him, “I hit my chosen target more times than not. How do I exceed that?”
He had smiled at her and said, “That’s not what that means. It refers to what winning really means. Think on that, if you will.”
Margaret had done what her father suggested and heavily pondered on the words. After some thought, she had decided he was referring to not just the sport, but to her goals, aspirations, and life in general. The duke had raised her and Devlin to be independent in their thinking and strong of will, to the effect that they would strive and plan strategically to succeed in everything they did as adults.
Without that inscription, she presumed she would not be the amateur, yet effective historian she was now. For her, winning didn’t mean to settle for what she achieved; but that it meant to aim higher, to work harder and exceed her goals.
Needless to say, with the next archery contest in the parish, Margaret had thoroughly thrashed her brother with the number of arrows she had accurately slung in the time allotted.
After Faust had finished its restringing and allowing it to rest, Margaret gave the string a series of several half-pulls then several three-quarter pulls. Once she felt her bow was ready, she picked up her first arrow and loaded her bow with it. Getting into proper stance, she searched across the lawn for her desired target and raised her charged bow in its direction.
Her focus then honed in on her stance, on her aim, and then on her muscles shoring on its potential energy to perform. But before she could properly let her arrow fly, a voice behind her boomed out, “Halloo!”
She jumped at the unexpected shout, let loose her arrow prematurely to her dismay, and rounded crossly on the offender. “What are you about? That was dangerous!” she shouted, before recognizing who she was yelling at.
Frederick Revelstoke stood before her, a ghost of a smirk lifting up one corner of his mouth. Mockingly, he intoned, “Ah, little kitten, I apologize for startling you. I thought I saw you across the way, and I just had to come over and say hello.”
“You already have,” she said darkly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a target I must hit, and if your business keeps you here any longer, that target may as well be you.”
He chuckled. “As you are my plum target of choice, which I recall I said about you the last time we’ve spoken, how can I resist your charming repartee?”
Margaret harrumphed at his mockery of her and turned her back on him to begin anew with a fresh arrow as she spoke, “As your target, I have to warn you that I can happily provide you worlds of trouble if you continue on your hopeless quest to wreak havoc on my family.”
“I like this protective side of you,” he mused, his face smiling, but his eyes remained chips of green ice. “It makes me wonder what I did that my own family couldn’t do the same for me. Oh, wait, it was your brother who sent us off our own land to fare no better than beggars, and hadn’t allowed our family a chance.”
Glancing up and down at the hateful man before focusing again on her target, she observed, “Well, it seems to me that you’ve recovered nicely if that’s not one of London’s finest tailors whose handiwork you are wearing.”
“Why, yes, it is, thank you for noticing,” he said, stepping up closer so that he was only one step behind her. “In fact, I believe with my return from exile and you standing here with me, the rest of London must think that we are suddenly the most interesting couple here, don’t you think?”
Narrowing her eyes at him, she glared, “What are you implying? We hardly know one another for anyone to make that assumption.”
“But, little kitten, this is the cream of our society surrounding us, and if they are to think that we are having a lover’s quarrel, there really is no one else to contradict their assumptions. Other than old Faust here, of course. Halloo, Faust! It’s been too long,” he said in false gaiety.
Faust had been glowering at Frederick all of this time, and summarily ignored the greeting. As a kitchen boy for the Revelstoke family when the old earl was still among the living, Faust had never had any interaction with any of the older Revelstoke brood, but he had heard about his reputation in the past from Faith. However, gone was the slovenly wastrel Faust had originally believed Frederick to be, and in his place, was a carefully groomed gentleman, looking for all the world as a dashing lord of the ton.
Wishing the annoying man gone, Margaret tried to ignore him and set about re-aligning her aim towards her chosen target. Seeing that Margaret’s interest was elsewhere, Frederick heaved an exaggerated sigh, and said, “My lady, I would love to linger overlong with you, but my business takes me elsewhere. I hope you will save me at least one dance tonight.”
“Tonight?” Margaret spoke, dumbstruck. “But the invitations to the Haversham ball were sent out ages ago. How were you able to get one on such short notice?”
Bringing a finger to his lips, he said softly with a smile, “Shh, it’s a secret. Until then, little kitten, I look forward to a waltz with you.” Before she could protest, he pecked her on the cheek thoroughly and made his way across the archery lawn to join a small circle of people who must have been his companions.
Gasping in outrage, she could do no more than hold back the screech that would have alerted everyone present to her distress. If anyone was watching them carefully, that kiss, as innocent as it was, would have people believing they were a matched couple.
Oooh, that impossible man, she thought, why can’t he just leave my family and me in peace! Now, the gossiping old biddies here will have enough fuel with which to burn me at the stake.
Intently fuming over Frederick’s display, Margaret hadn’t noticed another figure approaching. Or rather, three of them, to be exact.
Lord Jackson accompanied Lady Celia, along with his sister Lady Mary, who was invited along on their stroll in the role of a chaperone. None was more surprised by Frederick’s appearance here in Hyde Park than Jackson, who matched Margaret’s degree of fury when he had witnessed their exchange.
Remembering to observe the social proprieties, he waited for his sister to greet the fury-reddened woman holding the bow and arrow so the said armed woman could properly acknowledge them all.
“Margaret,” Mary called out softly. “We saw you over this way, and had to say hello.”
Turning fully to face the trio, Margaret’s mouth formed automatically to
greet Mary, but her eyes fell on the other woman standing next to Jackson, and her face fell as her ‘hello’ to Mary diminished on the last syllable. Immediately recognizing the beauteous and perfect Lady Celia, diamond of the first water just last season, Margaret felt tomboyish and unkempt standing before Jackson’s idea of the perfect bride.
Remembering her manners, she breathed an awkward hello towards Lady Celia, and then to Jackson who nodded briefly in her direction before saying, “Lady Celia, may I introduce you to Lady Margaret de Chamblay?”
With a serene smile, Lady Celia replied while holding out her hand, “Why, yes. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Margaret returned, injecting forced cheer into her voice, accepting Lady Celia’s extended hand, and firmly shaking it.