by Cheryl Bolen
“Oh, Tubby,” she sighed, “I do detest that horse-faced Lady Fiona.”
Tubby purred in perfect agreement.
Chapter 7
“It will be damp, and it will be cold,” Edward said, looking up into gray skies the next morning, “but I give you my word it won’t rain.”
She regarded him with amusement as he handed her up into the gig. “Pray, my lord, are you in direct communication with the Almighty?”
He came around and climbed up to sit beside her. “My weather predictions are based on years of studied observation,” he said as he took the ribbons.
“For whatever purpose?” she asked, smiling up at him. “It’s not as if you’re a farmer.”
She looked especially fetching today in her scarlet cloak trimmed in ermine. Her cheeks were flushed--with cold, not rouge. Which was reassuring since he disliked artifice in women. It suddenly occurred to him that there was nothing artificial about Maggie. Not in her extraordinary appearance, not in her sleekly rounded body, not in her demeanor. If she had a fault, it was that she was too forthcoming. “I used to be mad for angling and shooting, if you must know,” he said. “That’s why I educated myself on clouds.”
“And you’re not mad for those pursuits anymore?”
“Ever since English troops landed in Portugal, I haven’t had the time.”
“You should allow yourself a holiday.”
“Every time I think I’ll go to the country, something important comes up--something much more important than shooting grouse.”
“Something like saving lives, bringing this war--and its bloodshed--to an end?”
She understands. “I don’t mean to exaggerate my own importance,” he said.
“There’s nothing conceited about being conscientious in your duties. A man of honor puts duty first.”
Her praise made him feel deuced awkward. He had best change the subject. “Did your sister finish her book last night?”
“Not quite. She succumbed to fatigue at four this morning. When I left she had just awakened and planned to read the last fifty pages before dressing.”
When they crossed Westminster Bridge Maggie watched with interest the barges and sailing vessels powering along the murky Thames, then she turned to him. “I would have thought the fastest way to Greenwich would be along the River Thames.”
“You’re correct. Unlike most of your sex, you must be able to read a map.”
She put hands to hips and gave him a mock scowl. “You, my lord, have a low opinion of women’s intelligence. Women can’t read maps. Women can’t play chess,” she mimicked. “If you think us so mentally deficient, it’s a wonder you’re pledged to spend the rest of your life living with one of us!”
Fiona. Fiona did not play chess. Fiona did not read maps. Fiona, he’d swear, did not know what classification was. Yet he was prepared to grow old beside her, despite that they had little in common. “Lady Fiona is possessed of many fine attributes.”
“Attributes, I take it, but not intelligence.”
He whirled toward her, his brows lowered. “Why do you keep maligning the woman I intend to marry?
“See! You didn’t defend her. She’s an empty-headed beauty, I daresay.”
“She is not empty headed! She writes the cleverest letters imaginable.”
“I’m sure she does,” Maggie said in a humble voice. “I don’t mean to speak harshly about Lady Fiona. I have no right to speak of her at all since we’ve never met. Your affection for her speaks to her worthiness.”
He hoped that meant Maggie realized he would be loathe to spend the rest of his life with an empty-headed beauty. Surprisingly, he had at first thought that description aptly applied to Maggie. After all, it was Maggie who turned into a watering pot not once, but twice the first night he met her. It was Maggie who said the most outrageous things about his beautiful Fiona being horse faced. It was Maggie who had been taken in by the charlatan Henshaw. But with the clarity of spring water he suddenly realized that Maggie was not empty headed.
She might disparage herself for not liking to read the great thinkers, but she was possessed of a keen mind. If she knew the Thames was the fastest way to Greenwich, she knew her geography. Even if she did get Hampshire and Hertfordshire mixed up. Which was of no great significance since she had never stepped foot on English soil until this week.
“So why, my lord, are we not traveling to Greenwich by water?”
He would rather not tell her the real reason. “My horse needs the exercise.”
She gave him a quizzing look. “So you’re willing to increase your travel time by three hundred percent in order to exercise your horse?”
Damn. She knew her arithmetic, too. “If you must know,” he said through gritted teeth, “traveling on water makes me ill.”
She had the audacity to laugh at him!
“What do you find so amusing, madam?”
“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, sobering. “It was just such an incongruous image picturing a big, strapping man like you weakened by a perfectly placid waterway.”
“There’s nothing funny about being seasick.”
“No, there isn’t. I’m sorry.”
Now she made him feel the ogre again. “Were you ill during your crossing of the Atlantic?” he asked.
“No, but Rebecca was. Dreadfully ill. And you’re right, it’s nothing to laugh about.”
As they traveled Maggie turned her head this way and that, eager to take in the sights of the city coming awake: the milk carts and hay carts and street urchins and plump matrons hanging out their wash. All of it held her childlike interest. Then he remembered this was all new to her. She had never before been in a city nearly as populated as London, the capital of the world.
When their surroundings turned more rural, the skies darkened, and she turned to him. “You’re wrong about the rain.”
“I’m never wrong about rain.”
“You are this time.”
He glanced at the menacing sky. “What makes you think it will rain?”
“I can feel it in the air.”
“Madam, if you will but look at the clouds. The clouds never lie. Those are cirrus clouds. They’re not given to producing rain.”
She gazed up, and the hood of her cloak dropped from her head. He thought she looked like an angel, the ermine circling her dark hair like a halo. “I don’t care what kind of clouds they are,” she said. “It’s going to rain.”
His lips thinned as he flicked the ribbons. “You’d best put your hood back. You’ll take an earache from the cold.” He patted his pocket where the pistol was concealed. He might not be able to protect her from the cold, but he sure as hell could fight off anyone who threatened her.
“It’s beastly cold,” she said. “Perhaps it will even snow.”
“It’s not going to snow.”
She began to laugh.
“Oblige me by telling me what you find so amusing.”
“You. You’re so absolutely pig headed.”
No woman had ever spoken to him in such a manner. “Precisely what do you mean by pig headed?”
“Stubborn. Unyielding. Cocky. Arrogant. Take your pick.”
Oil and vinegar. That’s what they were, he and Maggie. Whenever he would be on the verge of thinking that perhaps she wasn’t so objectionable, she would begin to say the most outrageous things about him. Or about Fiona.
He chose not to reply. His glance fell to her ermine muff. “Cold?”
“Terribly.”
“I shouldn’t have brought you,” he said.
“I don’t mind the cold, and an outing in dreary weather is preferable to sitting around your townhouse. My sister’s no company whatsoever.”
“I daresay your admirers would have endeavored to entertain you.” The only three men who had met Maggie all seemed to have been completely captivated by her, but none of them would do. Perhaps at Almack’s she would find a more suitable man.
“That might have been
true--had you allowed me out of doors, but I would not think any of the men particularly interesting in a drawing room.”
Her assumptions were on target, except for Harry, but Harry was never his jolly self around women. How had a woman of such sound judgment been hoodwinked by Henshaw? The title. Edward himself, having come into his title just eighteen months ago, well understood how differently a titled man was treated than a man who had no title. Fortunately, Lady Fiona was not marrying him for his title. She had been attracted to him when a baronetcy had been his only prospect.
“Perhaps you’ll meet the right sort of man at Almack’s.” As he flicked the ribbons along the country lane Edward found himself wondering what kind of man Maggie would be attracted to, putting titles aside.
“Does Aynsley’s title not attract you?” he asked.
“I would hope I’ve learned my lesson regarding men bearing titles--yourself excluded, my lord. If I’m fortunate enough to marry again, you can be assured it’s the man, not the title, who has won my affection.”
Edward cleared his throat. “What . . . sort of man appeals to you?” Then, he hastened to add, “If I know, perhaps I can be of some service in locating such a man.”
“An honest man!” she said with a laugh.
“I assure you, madam, I would not have you making the acquaintance of dishonest men.”
He still had a keen desire to know more about what kind of man would win Maggie’s heart. Surely she required more than honesty. She had previously told him the man did not have to be rich. All she required in that area was a comfortable home for herself, Rebecca and the maid. He cleared his throat again. “Other than honesty, there must be something else you seek in a potential mate.”
“I’ll know when I meet him.” She flicked a glance at him and frowned. “I could enumerate the attributes I seek, but I could still reject a man who’s in possession of all of them if the spark isn’t there.”
“The spark?”
“What you feel for Lady Fiona.”
“Oh, yes.” He slowed as a post chaise loaded with baggage and swarthy men sitting on top came whirling past them. “Then none of the three men from the theatre meet your criteria?”
“First, I really have no specific criteria. And as to those three worthy gentlemen, it would be most uncharitable of me to dismiss any of them after one partial evening together. They all seemed very fine men. In fact I found nothing objectionable in any of them.”
“Then you wouldn’t be adverse to marrying a man with a large brood of children?” Lord Aynsley.
“Of course not. I love children.”
Edward frowned, squinting against the straining sun. Aynsley was sure to offer for her. The very thought had Edward’s chest tightening. Not that Aynsley wasn’t a fine man. It was just that the stiff fellow and the vivacious Maggie would not suit. Aynsley would likely keep her in Shropshire tending his progeny and keeping her breeding. The thought of Maggie carrying Aynsley’s seed produced a profound physical reaction in Edward. His stomach felt as if he had fallen from a great height, and his breath quickened, his pulse pounded. Aynsley’s intimacy with Maggie ignited a strange jealousy within Edward.
He could not allow himself to think of Maggie in any intimate way. He tried to picture Fiona’s blond beauty, tried to recall the sound of her silken voice, but he was unable to. He kept hearing Maggie’s voice, picturing her lovely face, the auburn glints in her dark hair, the creamy neck and full breasts.
“I dislike my own shallowness in saying this,” she said, “but I’ve never been attracted to portly men.”
“Therefore poor Cook is not in the running.” Edward easily recalled Henshaw’s looks, which had attracted many women even though he had no title. “But your mate doesn’t have to be tall. Henshaw certainly wasn’t.”
“You must admit he looked especially fine in his clothing with his broad chest and slender waist. And he had an eye for fine tailoring.”
“He had an eye for the ladies, too,” Edward grumbled.
“Pray, my lord, I do not wish to discuss him. Would that I’d never met him.”
“Discuss, then, what attributes your dream husband must possess.” What was the matter with him? He was obsessing over the woman’s mythical husband. Why should it even matter to him?
Her rosy little mouth lifted into a smile and she sighed. “A perfect mate would be kind above all else. Intelligent. Honorable. Compassionate.” She bit at her lip. “Physically, the perfect man would be tall. And handsome. And rich.” She stopped for a moment, then added. “And titled. Remember, you asked for the perfect mate. I don’t expect to find half these attributes in one single man.”
“That’s reassuring since you’ve already conceded on the title, wealth and height.”
“I daresay I’ll concede on other attributes before I’m finished.”
“You’re that desperate?”
She nodded gravely and spoke in a somber voice. “Would that I had time on my side, time to be sure, time to know, time to find true love, but sadly I don’t.”
He wished he could just give her a tidy enough sum for her and Miss Peabody to live comfortably until Maggie could find the right man. But of course he could not do that. There was Fiona to consider. “You mustn’t worry about haste. You’re free to live at Warwick House for as long as it takes.”
“When will you be marrying, my lord?”
No date had been set. He had assumed they would marry before the year was out, but since this was only February, his nuptials could be nearly a year off. Surely that would give Maggie enough time to find someone suitable.
The sooner she found someone, the better, as far as his relationship with Fiona was concerned. As dear as Fiona was, he doubted she would understand her affianced residing with two unmarried females. “Before the year is out,” he answered.
“Lady Fiona is most fortunate.”
“Why do you say that?”
She gave an insincere laugh. “Has it not occurred to you that you possess all the attributes I just described in the perfect mate?”
Chapter 8
His hands stilled as if frozen. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen had just told him he was her perfect mate. He should be ecstatic with pleasure, but the emotions that surged through him were the complete opposite. He felt as if a horrible grief had descended upon him.
He belonged to Fiona. No other woman had ever received a second look from him since Lady Fiona had acknowledged her affection for him. Fiona was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. He had known their lives were intrinsically woven together since he’d been a young man at university with her brother.
That a lady who had rejected dukes and earls had bestowed her love on a mere mister had brought him incredible happiness. Until this week he had been unable to even think about her without swelling with the most pleasant surge of emotions. He’d often tried to analyze the deep affection he held for her. It wasn’t merely her blonde beauty that had attracted him, or her title, or her sweet, unaffected nature. Her possession of his heart went so much deeper than those things. He could not be with her, could not remember her honeyed voice without experiencing a profound feeling of well being.
And she loved him. The moment she had confirmed it was he--and none of the bevy of her admirers--who held her heart was his life’s defining moment. He had been teasing her that day--they had always taken great pleasure in laughing and teasing one another--about her perpetual flock of admirers when she had met his gaze and--for once—had spoken somberly. “A pity the one who matters most is not one of those men.” In that instant he knew she spoke of him, and the most magical feeling of jubilation washed over him.
So why did he now feel as if someone he loved had just died?
Since Maggie had invaded his home Monday night, nothing was the same. It was as if all the components of his predictable, well-ordered life had been tossed into a jar and shaken prolifically.
And his opinion of Maggie continued to be s
haken. Now he was certain she must be the most honest woman who had ever walked the earth. Did she not know about feminine coquetry? Whoever heard of a woman babbling about a man’s perfection to the very man she spoke of? A man who was pledged to another. A decidedly honest woman, to be sure.
He did not trust himself to look at her. There was something absolutely provocative about the way she lowered those long lashes. And in his shaken state of mind the last thing he needed was to lust after the woman who sat beside him.
Gathering his wits about him, he realized the lady’s statement demanded a reply. “I daresay it’s the title,” he finally managed. “Had you known me eighteen months ago I would have been just another mister with very little fortune.”
“With your abundant physical attributes, you would never have been just another mister.”
Why did the woman always speak so blatantly what was on her mind? Were he a woman, he would be blushing at the moment. “I cannot deny being tall is a distinct advantage. I daresay it’s my height which has you thinking me some kind of prize.” Good lord, he sounded like some conceited fop!
“Oh, it’s not just me thinking it. You are a prize. Lady Fiona is a most fortunate woman.”
“It is I who am fortunate to have won her hand.”
She went silent for a moment, then said, “I should very much like to meet her.”
When pigs fly. If Fiona ever saw how achingly beautiful Maggie was, she would never believe he could be immune to Maggie’s vast charms.
Which, of course, he was.
They did not speak until they were on the outskirts of Greenwich.
When it began to rain.
They were drenched by the time he found the Spotted Hound and Hare Inn where they could take shelter from the deluge. “Come, Maggie, sit in front of the fire,” he said in a gently apologetic voice. “It will dry your clothing.” He led her to the hearth of their private parlor.