A baby. Maggie’s hand went to her womb while a pang of nigh unbearable longing shot through her. “Unfair. I am not likely to have conceived.”
“You don’t know either way.” The comb dragging through her hair was applied with a careful touch, systematically working through one skein after another. “And while you’re hesitating, waiting to be sure, you’re going to give fodder to any gossip ever to take tea with Her Grace.”
The idea that Her Grace might find out what Maggie had been up to was disquieting in the extreme. “You don’t kiss and tattle.” Her voice shook a little, so disconcerted was she.
“I won’t have to say a thing when your body is great with our child. We can be married quietly if you prefer, though Their Graces will likely be puzzled by such a choice.”
He sounded so damnably sure. Maggie seized on the resentment that engendered and clung to it fiercely. “Stop bleating about marriage. You don’t love me, and we’re not getting married just because we shared a little pleasure on a blanket behind some secluded bushes.”
She could feel him beginning to braid her hair, feel him rearranging arguments like so many longbows poised above a battlefield.
“A little pleasure, Maggie?” The pitch of his voice had her insides fluttering in remembrance. “I gave you only a little pleasure? Imagine what I could do if we had the privacy of a locked chamber, hours of solitude, no clothes, and a large bed with lots of pillows. Imagine getting your hands on me. You could tie me hand and foot, explore to your heart’s content, put your mouth wherever you pleased, and I’d be helpless to stop you.”
“Oh, hush.” She closed her eyes against the weakness his words provoked. “You are naughty, Benjamin Hazlit.”
Though she was one to talk about being naughty.
“I am determined.” He began to pin her braid in a coil at her nape. He was a more efficient hairdresser than Alice, and Maggie had to drag her mind away from the idea of having him tend her like this for years… much less the idea of that other nonsense.
“Why won’t you marry me?”
“Gracious, you are persistent.” She patted the bun he’d so expertly fashioned. “Has it occurred to you if I marry you all my wealth and independence would be forfeit?”
“If you don’t trust me to leave your fortune in peace, transfer your wealth to your brother’s name. He’ll steward it as you direct.”
Gayle would be more conscientious with her money than she was, which was saying something. “And what of my freedom, my independence?”
How such a big man could move so quickly was beyond her. One moment Maggie was looking around for her boots and stockings, the next she was flat on her back with fifteen stone of determined earl poised above her.
“You call it independence, but you never so much as go for a drive in the park, Maggie Windham. You do not make social calls except on your family members, you do not entertain, and you do not permit yourself even a dog for companionship. As my countess, you’ll have the run of the society functions, your invitations will be accepted by all and sundry, and you will have my charming and devoted company at your beck and call, even and especially in your confinements. Plural, God willing. Marry me.”
Devoted was a daunting thought, particularly coupled with beck and call and confinements—plural—and most especially when he emphasized his point by lowering his mouth to hers.
This was not a pillaging or plundering kiss, it was a convincing kiss. Slow and sweet, mesmerizing in its tenderness. Gracious God, the man was kissing her witless. Maggie raised a hand to cradle his jaw, thinking only of how badly she was going to miss him, when an outraged whiskey baritone cut through the haze of pleasure clouding her mind.
“Magdalene Windham, I cannot believe what my eyes are seeing!”
***
Benjamin Portmaine’s reflexes had stood between him and severe bodily harm on more than one occasion. He was used to the narrowing of vision that came with extreme peril, the electric jump in his system’s level of alertness.
“Lady Dandridge.” He rose to his feet and extended a hand down to Maggie. Thank God and all His angels they were more-or-less properly attired. “Apologies for my lapse of discretion, but a pretty day and the company of my intended overcame my better sensibilities.”
Maggie’s head came up, and he could feel a contradiction boiling forth from her, so he leaned over to kiss her cheek.
“Not now.” In addition to the warning growled in her ear, he squeezed her hand then turned a fatuous smile on Lady Dandridge. “I’m sure you’ll congratulate me on winning Lady Maggie’s hand.”
“Congratulate you?” A painted eyebrow rose skeptically, and the perfectly matched footmen in their spotless livery and curled wigs looked like they each wanted a turn drawing Ben’s cork.
“Lady Maggie has agreed to be my countess. I’ve yet to conclude discussions with His Grace, so I’m sure we can rely on your discretion.”
The hole he was digging yawned wider and deeper with each word coming out of his mouth, but it was a hole he’d be sharing with Maggie, which had been his objective after all.
“Lady Magdalene, is this the truth? If you’ve been taken advantage of, I can at least inform your mother of Mr. Hazlit’s disgraceful conduct.”
Without even turning to regard his new fiancée, Ben knew what she was thinking: Her Grace is not my mother.
“His lordship has decided to resume the use of his title, Lady Dandridge.” Maggie gave him a brilliant smile. “A man contemplating marriage must consider his place in the world.”
She would rather have stated a threat to his life, of that he was fairly certain. He smiled at her in return. “My countess is entitled to all that I have, including the privileges of rank.”
Lady Dandridge’s outrage was visibly giving way to perplexity. “And what rank would that be?”
“He’s the Earl of Hazelton,” Maggie replied. “The seat is in Cumbria, where I’m sure he’ll be repairing as soon as he’s spoken with His Grace.”
“Or perhaps”—Ben brought her knuckles to his lips—“I will reserve that travel for the wedding journey, my love.”
Lady Dandridge thumped her walking stick against the ground. “Enough, you two. I will be touring the grounds here for another hour at least. I expect to see you departing for Town posthaste, and I will also expect an announcement in the Times by week’s end. Good day.”
She turned and moved off in the direction of her coach—the lumbering old vehicle Ben had spotted almost two hours earlier. The footmen glared at him ferociously before falling in step behind their employer.
And with comic timing, Ben’s own coach tooled sedately around a bend several hundred yards away, the horses walking along as if God were in His heaven and all were right with the world.
***
“Mr. Hazlit to see His Grace, Your Grace.” Andover passed a little silver tray with one simple white card on it to the duchess where she sat reading by a window.
Esther Windham glanced at the card. “Show him in here, Andover. The tea tray is fresh, and Mr. Hazlit is a friend of the family.”
Andover bowed and silently withdrew, his consternation—he would never presume to disapprove—evident in the angle of his white eyebrows. Andover’s view of ducal consequence required that gentlemen be received somewhere besides a cozy little parlor at the back of the ducal mansion.
Leaving Esther to feel some consternation of her own. She liked Benjamin Hazlit and trusted him, but still…
He was an investigator. Nobody liked to be investigated. She smoothed the distaste engendered by that thought from her features and uncurled her feet out from under her.
“Your Grace.” Hazlit paused inside the door before Esther had slipped on her house mules. He held a particularly low bow for an extra moment, no doubt giving her time to get properly shod.
“Mr. Hazlit. Andover, that will be all.” She did not stand but waited until the butler had withdrawn. “This is an unexpected pleasure. You may h
ave a seat, if you prefer.”
He quirked one dark eyebrow. “If I prefer?”
“I raised five sons, Mr. Hazlit. Men like to prowl and paw and stalk about, just as little boys must ride down the banisters on rainy days. Would you like some tea?”
“No tea, thank you. Will His Grace be joining us?”
She poured for herself, trying to assess Hazlit’s mood. He was utterly unlike dear Percy, whose moods were writ large and loud for the most part.
“His Grace will be at Morelands to oversee plowing and planting this week, or to get away from certain committee obligations. Was it a political matter you needed to discuss with him?”
She sipped her tea, regarding him over the rim of her cup, watching while he ran a hand through his hair. Though his eyes were on the gardens beyond the window, she felt him moving mental chess pieces in the space of a few heartbeats.
“Perhaps it’s for the best that His Grace isn’t able to join us, though my mission is a trifle urgent.”
“A trifle urgent, Mr. Hazlit?” She put her cup down on its saucer. “Is that like being a trifle married?”
She’d meant it as a riposte, nothing more, but his gaze came to rest on her in a particularly considering fashion, and Esther felt her heart speed up.
“Perhaps I’ll have a seat after all.” He took the chair at right angles to the sofa Esther had appropriated for her reading—a luxury she rarely engaged in during daylight if her husband was underfoot. Hazlit made the delicate little chair look like doll furniture.
“Whatever has brought you here, Mr. Hazlit, you’re best advised to just say it and be done with it. We have pigeons in the mews that can get to Morelands in no time.”
He gestured to the tea service. “May I?”
“Of course.” She shifted to pour him a cup of tea, but he helped himself to a crème cake, chewing with the sort of purpose Esther associated with hungry adult males. Still, she suspected he was strategizing while he put on a display for her benefit.
“I have been considering courting your daughter, Lady Maggie.”
Esther heard both the sense of his words and the conditional phrasing: he had been considering courting Maggie. Concern for the oldest of the girls she’d raised coursed through her. Please let there not be any more trouble for dear Maggie. Not now, when it seemed Maggie had finally found some measure of peace.
“Maggie is a lovely woman, and her path has not been easy, Mr. Hazlit. I would take a dim view of anybody who trifled with her.”
“As would I.” He sat back and crossed his legs at the knee, when any of Esther’s sons would have been up and pacing, and her husband would have been devouring the last of the crème cakes. “I was precipitous in demonstrating my regard for Lady Maggie—precipitous and… ardent—and it has become necessary…”
She cocked her head and waited. Precipitous and ardent meant Maggie and this man had been caught in some breach of propriety. It remained to be seen what Hazlit meant to do about it.
“I would like to marry Lady Maggie, but I’m seeking the approval of her parents before I make a formal declaration.”
His voice was perfectly calm, his posture relaxed.
“And yet you mentioned urgency, Mr. Hazlit. I do not apprehend that this is the urgency of a man overcome with tender emotion, but rather some other urgency.”
“It is the urgency of a man bent on protecting his lady’s peace of mind.”
His lady’s peace of mind, not a lady’s peace of mind.
“Do you love Maggie, Mr. Hazlit?” She did not expect him to say he did—men were blockheads when it came to understanding their own feelings—but she was very curious to know what he would say.
He took his time, his gaze roaming the room while he chose his words. It was a pretty little sitting room, Esther’s personal retreat. Maggie had a room much like it from whence she ran her private empire.
“I have grown attached to Lady Maggie, and I am protective of her. I think we would suit.”
“That is not a bad answer, Mr. Hazlit.” Esther got to her feet, which meant he had to, as well. “I expect it’s even an honest answer, but Maggie deserves something more than a man who simply thinks she’d suit him. His Grace turned away a good two dozen of those before Maggie’s second season.” After about the fifth hopeful suitor, he’d stopped even asking Esther for her opinion. He hadn’t needed to.
“Two dozen?” Hazlit’s brows were pulled together in a scowl, and heaven help poor Maggie, the man was even handsome when he frowned.
“Before the beginning of her second season.” Esther crossed her arms and regarded the gardens blooming beyond the window.
Hazlit came up to her side, a large man capable of moving without a sound. “If it makes any difference, I’m fairly sure Lady Maggie is of the same mind as I. She agrees that in significant ways we would suit, though she is not enamored of the idea of marriage in general.”
Esther turned to regard him. “Mr. Hazlit, Maggie deserves a man who adores her, who loves her, who would give his life for her. I was fortunate enough to find such a man for myself, and his devotion has been sufficient to allow me to accommodate all manner of otherwise difficult aspects of a long marital union. I cannot possibly speak for His Grace on this matter. Maggie is not my daughter.”
It hurt to say the words. It always hurt to say them. It hurt to even think them.
“In many regards, Your Grace, she is nobody’s daughter but yours. When will His Grace return from Kent?”
He sounded very sure about his pronouncement, and Esther could not help but hope such a man might win Maggie’s hand after all. “His Grace will likely be back on Saturday if the weather holds fair.”
“I’m afraid we might not have until Saturday.” He spoke carefully, and he’d taken to studying the gardens too.
“You were very ardent, I take it?”
He nodded, a slight flush rising up his neck. It was endearing, that flush. Benjamin Hazlit did the dirty work the good families of Mayfair could not admit they needed done, and he’d undertaken some delicate investigating for the Windhams. He was the approximate age of her grown sons, and he was fond of Maggie.
Also capable of blushing.
“In that case, Mr. Hazlit, I will need to speak with Lady Maggie. In private.”
“She’s visiting with her sisters in the conservatory. I’ll ask her to join you.”
He bowed very correctly over her hand and took his leave at a decorous pace, but Esther had seen the relief in his eyes.
Very ardent, indeed.
***
“Her Grace wants to speak with you.”
Maggie could tell nothing from Benjamin’s expression, his tone, or his words. He’d at least waited until they were at the foot of the stairs—far from her sisters’ curious glances. “Was Her Grace angry?”
“Concerned, maybe. For you.” Benjamin looked concerned, too, which suggested Her Grace had been more than angry. She’d been disappointed.
The whole way back from Richmond, Benjamin had said little. He’d taken the seat beside Maggie, put an arm around her shoulders, and after about two miles, spoken five words.
“It will be all right.”
She’d given him four in return. “I cannot marry you.”
And that had earned her a nod and a comforting squeeze of her hand, but here they were, in the middle of Mayfair, trying to contain a social disaster that would have repercussions far beyond Maggie’s private universe.
“Does Her Grace know you’re Hazelton?”
“His Grace might have told her as much. She’s waiting for you.”
Feeling much as she had after that incident with Bart and the brandied pears, Maggie slipped her arm through Benjamin’s and let him escort her to the duchess’s sanctum sanctorum. In that same pretty little parlor, Her Grace had explained to Maggie how and why women bled and what to do about it. She’d relayed each and every proposal Maggie had garnered, and placidly sipped tea while Maggie had rejected suitor af
ter suitor. Her Grace had explained marital intimacies over another pot of tea, and God only knew what the coming conversation might entail.
“Maggie, my love?”
They were outside the door, Maggie’s heart beginning to thump against her ribs.
“I’m nervous.” The admission just slipped out.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” He held her gaze steadily, more serious than she had ever seen him. “I am responsible for what happened today. You must allow me to do what I can to make reparation to you.”
“You are not more responsible than I.”
“I was.” He spoke very quietly, very sternly. “I am. You were innocent, completely without experience, and I took liberties which inspired you to ungovernable passion.”
“So this is what you were doing the whole way back into Town? Flagellating yourself for a decision I made?” Except he was right: Her passion had been ungovernable. The thought almost made her smile, despite her pounding heart and queasy stomach.
“Talk to your mother. Be honest with her, Maggie. I think she will guide you out of a true concern for your best interests.” He looked like he might say more but held his peace, kissed her lingeringly on the cheek, and took his leave.
A kiss for courage. Who knew there were so many different kinds of kisses?
Maggie tapped on the door and fortified herself against the prospect of dealing with a disappointed duchess.
***
Esther turned to regard her husband’s eldest daughter. Maggie was in a riding habit, looking trim, fit, and composed. If anything, there was a subtle glow to her beauty, a luminance.
“You don’t look ruined.”
“I don’t feel ruined.”
“Then come sit with me. We’ll determine what’s to be done.” Esther did not hold out her arms to this woman she’d raised. From the posture of Maggie’s spine, a maternal embrace would be politely tolerated, as it had been on the rare occasions Esther had attempted it since the girl had joined the household all those years ago.
Esther resumed her seat on the sofa and lifted the pot. “Shall I pour?”
“I don’t think tea and crumpets will put this right, Your Grace.” Maggie took the same seat Hazlit had used, but whereas he’d affected a casual posture, Maggie’s form was a study in propriety.
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