“You know you can visit anytime. Besides, it’s only a mile from door to door.”
*
Maggie was glad they had one more event to attend together, and she laced her arm through Jenny’s as they entered the Fortner’s residence. A more intimate affair than a coming-out ball, this dinner and dance would have only about sixty people, all friends of the hosts. There were many married couples, supposedly to offer a good example of what awaited the bachelors and single ladies should they accept the handfasting rope.
Playing matchmaker, the hostess had paired up the eligibles for the evening, each person having someone to sit with at dinner and with whom to dance.
Maggie felt a few butterflies, wondering with whom she had been partnered, hoping against hope it could be John Angsley, which meant he would be forced to spend the evening with her. If it happened, she hadn’t decided whether she would charm him out of his stockings or be cool as ice.
As Lord and Lady Fortner were good friends of Simon’s deceased father, he and Jenny were offered places of honor near the table’s head. When they left her side to take their places, Maggie’s escort for the evening appeared before her, Lord Christopher Westing.
She could own up to a sliver of disappointment, followed quickly by relief. With Christopher, she could relax. It would be a far easier evening, without any sparring, hurt feelings, or guilt.
When they were all seated, Lord Fortner called for quiet and introduced himself and his wife at the other end of the table. Making special note of his honored guests, Maggie’s heart swelled with pride when he introduced Lord and Lady Lindsey. Then the guests were charged with enjoying themselves and “not to bore the others.”
Everyone laughed. After a brief exchange with Christopher on her left, Maggie turned to her other side to greet a gentleman whom she’d never met before. In doing so, her gaze swept the far end of the table and she saw him. John! He was already deep in conversation with the granddaughter of their hosts, Lady Isabella Fortner.
Hm, at least it wasn’t the ever-present Lady Chatley.
Then John leaned back, and lo, there was Jane on his other side.
Which one was he paired with for the evening? Maggie supposed she would find out when the dancing began. Turning her attention back to Christopher, she knew she had better try to forget Lord Cambrey had ever kissed her.
*
Cam couldn’t forget Margaret was seated at the end of the table between the infernal Westing and the newcomer, what was his name? Some sort of bird. No matter! For his part, he had Jane at his side, of whom he had grown increasingly fond. She was steady. Yet, he could occasionally hear Margaret’s effervescent laughter cut through the muddied voices of all the other diners. Like a particularly sonorous instrument to his ears, or like fine wine trickling down his throat when everyone else was like well water.
Stop it, Cam. What was Jane saying about the hors d’oeuvres they would serve before the banquet at the cricket match?
He felt himself frowning at his lovely companion. It seemed good ale and crusty bread, perhaps with thick slices of bacon interspersed, ought to be the food of choice. Or pork pies wrapped in waxy paper one could hold easily while watching the match. However, he doubted London’s finest would pay a hefty ticket price for such food, even for the orphans.
His mind wandered back to the stairwell in his own home, to the delight of feeling Maggie’s lips part beneath his. He could still recall the surge through his body as his yard rose to attention, and how easily he could imagine the pleasure they would give one another in the marital bed. Or in any bed, for that matter.
“Yes, fig glaze on crackers,” Jane was saying.
Cam wanted to glaze Maggie’s nipples with fig jelly and lick it off of her while she squirmed beneath him.
Christ!
Glancing down the end of the table again, his gaze met his best friend’s. Simon offered him a smile, oblivious in his own marital happiness to the torment his friend was undergoing. Simon deserved his newfound joy, and Cam only hoped the forthcoming heir would be delivered easily of Jenny. The two of them had suffered enough.
Speaking of suffering, he couldn’t keep his eyes off Margaret another moment, even though it was only the back of her lovely head since she was turned away and in close conversation with Westing.
Westing! Bah! If only there was one thing wrong with the man. That he had no flaws was the solitary trait one could hold against him. What an annoyance, this paragon. This—
“Do you agree?” Jane asked.
“Yes, fondant-iced cakes after the match,” Cam repeated the last words he’d heard.
How would Westing feel when Maggie led him on a merry dance and started to kiss Burnley or even the nameless man beside her? Would he give up as Cam had done, or would he dig in his heels and fight for her affections?
Undoubtedly, she was worth fighting for. Like Helen of Troy. As Maggie turned, she flashed her dazzling smile that stole the breath from his lungs. There it was, being wasted on all and sundry. Perhaps he had been too hasty in deciding she was not suited to being a wife, anyone’s wife, until she grew up. Possibly, the better course of action would be to offer tutelage as she matured into the spectacular woman she would become.
Reaching for his goblet, Cam drank down the Spanish red, hoping it had come from the business in which he’d invested. Then he signaled for more.
*
Maggie began to fidget. This interminable meal had far too many courses. She was ready to dance. Westing was not as good at the polka as Burnley, but they made a good couple on the dance floor. She hoped for a quadrille and a few other of the Anglais country dances when couples mixed and danced with others.
Why? she asked herself. She knew why. Thus, even indirectly, she could dance with John.
There was no Grand March, but the first dance was indeed a quadrille, followed by another, and yet another, until every couple who wished had had a turn. Then a waltz. Then a comprehensive Anglais in which nearly everyone fit onto the dance floor in the Fortner’s grand room, which was serving as a ballroom.
Feeling a tremor of anticipation as she worked her way along the line, being twirled and spun by each gentleman, suddenly, she was in John’s arms once again.
She would savor it. Looking at him directly instead of off to the side as all the other dancers, Maggie took in his fine-looking face, positively appealing in every regard. And then, as their gazes locked, delicious warmth twisted through her.
She saw in his eyes he, too, felt something, like flame to a wick, stir between them. For a few seconds, they stared at one another. The music faded, as did the noise of the other couples enjoying themselves. She could hardly believe she was still dancing.
Gracious!
And then he spun her into the arms of the next dancer.
*
To hell with decorum and being restrained by the whim of their hosts, Cam was determined to hold Margaret again. That brief moment during the Anglais country dance was torment when he had to give her up. Like passing the single most delectable morsel of sponge cake to the next unworthy diner while Cam was left with a feast of dry, tasteless blocks of wood.
No offense intended to the other ladies, especially Jane, whom many men would find delectable, he was sure, but she wasn’t Margaret. No one was. That was the problem.
Thus, as the first notes of a waltz began, when Jane was in the retiring room, Cam looked for Margaret. Westing stood next to her but was too foolish to have taken his partner to the dance floor. Instead, the marquess had turned away to speak with another couple.
Moving quickly, Cam crossed the parquet floor in three strides, grabbed Margaret by the wrist, and yanked her into the middle of the ongoing dance, making room for them among those already waltzing.
Obviously, she was stunned into silence for she hadn’t protested. With his hand on her back, Cam guided her around the floor. At last, he could take a moment to simply hold her body close against his and look down into her lo
vely, upturned face.
He half-expected to see a mask of fury. Any other lady might struggle, pull away, and leave him to be disgraced for poaching someone else’s partner and breaching dance-floor etiquette after the waltz had already started.
Instead, Margaret’s golden-brown eyes twinkled with excitement. Her gorgeous lips were upturned into a delighted bow. Apparently, he had done something right at last.
“That was very naughty of you, Lord Cambrey,” she said without a hint of censure. “Lord Westing might come after you and challenge you to a duel.”
“I would win,” he said, feeling utterly confident he spoke the truth. “However, we both know this is not exactly a dueling offense. After all, he has not declared for you. Has he?”
Her smile grew bigger. “Even if he had, I could certainly dance with you in a public place without causing an incident.”
Cam felt his heart stutter. “Has he?”
“Has he what?”
She was enjoying teasing him. It could be immensely fun in the bedroom, but not in the ballroom, and not about this.
“You know what. Has Westing offered for your hand?”
Her hesitation nearly did him in. Then slowly, Margaret shook her head.
“Not yet.”
Yet! He twirled her around the edge of the floor and back into the thick of the dancers.
“Are you expecting him to?”
Her catlike expression made him feel like a cornered mouse.
“Anything is possible, my lord. Don’t you think? Why, this very evening, Christopher might tell me he plans to speak with my mother. In the same way as you might offer for Lady Chatley.”
“Christopher?”
She merely shrugged delicately at her familiar use of Westing’s given name. The minx!
Aware by the music the dance was near its end, Cam maneuvered her once again to the far end of the dance floor. Then he guided her off of it altogether. A well-placed door offered him the escape he sought, and soon, they were on the other side in a long hallway. Alone.
He wasted no time. Glancing up and down the corridor to confirm their privacy, he backed Margaret Blackwood and all her lusciousness against the robin’s-egg blue wall, in between a portrait of an ugly man on her left and an even uglier woman on her right.
Peculiar, he thought, since the contemporary Fortners seemed like an attractive family.
Then Cam thought no more of anything as he pressed his advantage and, at the same time, pressed himself against the object of his most fervent desire.
Margaret went along willingly with everything he was doing. Even as he wove one of his thighs between her legs, hampered only by her skirts swirling around them both, she still said nothing, simply clinging to his upper arms.
Then she moaned softly, and he was lost. The sound tugged at his groin, and he lowered his head and claimed her lips. Finally.
Sighing, she opened her mouth under his almost at once, and he took what she willingly offered. Feeling her hands intertwine behind his neck and pull him closer, he pictured what they would look like to anyone who stumbled upon them. Her reputation would be ruined at once, and he would be forced to marry her.
Strangely, that didn’t bother him in the least. Though she might feel otherwise.
In any case, all Cam could do was deepen their kiss, exploring her mouth with his tongue before sucking on it. When he drew back to nibble on her full lower lip, dragging at it gently with his teeth, Margaret moaned again.
Arching into her lower body, he felt her hips lift toward him in response. He had never shared anything like this with a woman who wasn’t paid for the pleasure, making it a heady experience indeed.
Knowing he was pushing his luck, he finally pulled away. Someone, probably Westing, would come looking for her. Or maybe Simon. He would hate to have to explain to his best friend how he was practically ravishing his sister-in-law in the hallway of Fortner’s London home. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
Chapter Seven
“We should return to the party.” Cam didn’t look down, for he didn’t want to draw Margaret’s attention to the bulge in the front of his trousers. Instead, he offered her his arm.
Margaret hesitated to take it, staring up at him with flashing eyes. Her chest was heaving delightfully, and she had bright spots of color on her creamy cheeks. Her mouth was reddened to perfection, unfortunately letting everyone who saw her know she’d been thoroughly kissed.
Perhaps they shouldn’t go back into the ballroom immediately. Taking her hand, which she’d pressed to her décolletage, the very spot where he wanted to place his lips and taste her, Cam tucked it into the crook of his arm.
“Why don’t we stroll the gallery a few minutes until we both return to a calmer state?”
At last she spoke. “That sounds like a good idea.”
Thus, when the ballroom doors opened a little while later, they were discovered merely discussing the merits of a Dutch painting with its intricate lacey detail.
“There you are.”
Surprisingly, it was Lady Chatley and not Westing who had come seeking. She gave them both a genuine smile, though he felt Margaret’s arm stiffen and pull away, taking her out of touching range altogether.
“John, it’s the most exciting news,” Jane began, and Margaret stepped back farther. “Prince Albert is coming to our cricket match! He wants to set up a private tent, of course, but he will donate quite a bit to the orphanage. And his attendance will assure us a large turnout. No word so far as to whether the queen will accompany him. She might though.” Jane clapped her hands. “Only think of the donations.”
She was practically prancing with excitement over this good fortune for the orphans of St. Giles.
“That’s wonderful news,” Cam said, though he wished he could have heard it later because, right then, even the queen herself wasn’t as important to him as Margaret. “Do you know Miss Blackwood?”
Jane stopped fidgeting and focused on Margaret. “Of course, yes! We’ve met before, haven’t we? I’m so sorry for my rudeness. It’s just this is absolutely thrilling. Did John tell you about our event?”
Cam cringed as she had twice used his given name. Too familiarly, and in front of the woman he’d recently kissed.
Margaret shook her head, her expression neutral. “No, I hadn’t heard.”
Before she could say more, Westing appeared in the hallway, followed by another couple of ladies who were, no doubt, heading for the retiring room to fix their ribbons.
“There’s my companion for the evening,” the marquess said, giving Cam the once over. However, since Jane Chatley was also there, he didn’t sound disapproving.
“I was looking at the Vermeer,” Margaret said, casually gesturing toward the painting.
“And I was hoping to claim another dance,” Westing said. “And your sister is looking for you. May I escort you back inside?” He offered his arm.
When Margaret took it, Cam couldn’t help but clench his jaw. They strolled away, the vixen of his dreams not even bestowing him with a backward glance.
At last, he could focus on Jane.
“From whom did you hear this information?”
“About the prince consort’s interest? I heard it from Sir Clark while we drank champagne only a few minutes ago.”
Good, then he could return to the ballroom and keep an eye on Margaret.
“Come, then, Jane. Introduce me to Sir Clark, and we’ll make sure the prince buys two dozen tickets at the least.”
With that, Cam took Jane’s arm and hurried her back into the dance.
*
Maggie fairly floated through the rest of the evening. She could barely hear anything Westing or even her sister Jenny said to her. Entirely wool-gathering with a silly happy grin pasted to her face, she didn’t mind when the evening ended, and they climbed back into her brother-in-law’s carriage.
“Are you well?” Jenny asked.
Was she well? Maggie touched her own lips, still posi
tive she could feel and taste John there. It was as if he’d branded her as his own. And the feel of his thigh against her most intimate, womanly parts had made her long for much more.
Never before had she wished to be unclothed with any man. Quite the opposite. Normally, she wanted to show off her figure in a gorgeous gown. Yet, after John’s kiss, she wanted to lie with him, with no finery between them at all. Absolutely bare. She wanted to touch him as much as she wanted to be touched.
“Mags?”
“I’m fine. It was a lovely evening, wasn’t it?”
Her sister sighed. “Truthfully, I’m glad it’s over. I’m ready for Sheffield.”
Her words brought Maggie into the present moment. Jenny was leaving shortly. Taking her hand, she squeezed it, looking over at her brother-in-law.
“You must take care of her,” she told Simon.
He smiled. “Precisely what I intend to do, for every moment before, during, and after our child is born.” He gave Jenny a loving smile.
Maggie sighed. “I’m so happy for you both.”
And now, she was happy for herself, too.
*
All of London’s society was talking about the Chatley-Cambrey pre-match banquet. Not having realized it was the event to which Westing had invited her, Maggie would sit at a table with the marquess and his younger brother, as well as her friend, Ada, and two others of their acquaintance. Her sister Eleanor was attending, too, and would probably find Beryl Angsley awaiting her.
They would probably sit with John. Lucky girls!
When Maggie arrived, a crowd of attendees awaited Prince Albert, standing near the edges of his tent hoping to catch a glimpse of him. As far as everyone knew, the fundraising efforts, spurred by the promise of a royal presence, were wildly successful. There would be enough for two orphanages to be built and sustained for at least two years, keeping some of the thousands of “guttersnipes” or “mudlarks,” as the unfortunate children were called, off the streets. Even Simon and Jenny had donated a huge sum to the cause before they’d left London.
For her part, Maggie skirted the crowds, more desirous of seeing John than the prince consort, having not been in the earl’s company since the Fortner’s ball. Having examined what had occurred from every side, Maggie had mulled over any words he’d said, which had been very few. Most of their encounter had been spent kissing. What did it mean, if anything? It was the second time he’d taken tremendous liberties with her person, the second time she’d willingly let him.
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