“I must have lost my mind somewhere between Briarwood and London,” he reasoned, turning his head so he could address the nightstand. “There is no other explanation for this madness.”
And it had to be madness. If not, it was love, and he was certain that was the silliest notion that had ever crept into his mind. How could he be in love after one evening? It was impossible.
He sat up, stretched his arms over his head, and let out a long sigh.
“I suppose there is nothing for it but to call on her. I can’t rightly know if it is madness unless I see her again.”
That decided, he dressed and went to investigate the matter of breakfast. He had brought his butler, a man by the name of Liam, so the yawning staff was already prepared for an early morning. Liam nodded a greeting as Thomas stepped into the small dining room.
“Did you sleep well, sir?”
“Not at all.” He hesitated, then said, “Liam, I think I might be in love.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I have your things packed so we can return to Scotland?”
Thomas set his tea down with a confused expression. “Scotland?”
“Yes, sir,” Liam confirmed. “That is where the woman is, is it not? Miss Emmet, perhaps? Or Miss—”
“No, Liam, she is not in Scotland,” Thomas cut in. “Miss Nettlby is, unfortunately, very English. I say unfortunately only because Malcolm will never let me alone about that fact if I marry her,” he added. “There is nothing wrong with Miss Nettlby except the unfortunate inheritance of her surname.” But that is easy enough to change, he reflected with a wry smile. Miss Margaret Nettlby could easily become Lady Margaret Gyrlington, Countess of Briarwood and future Marchioness of Ravenwood.
Liam was staring at him with an odd expression. “Have I miscounted the days, sir?” he finally queried. “Have we not only been in London for two days?”
“We have.” Thomas scowled. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Perhaps you should return to bed and try to rest, sir,” Liam offered, as if speaking to a small child. “I am afraid you have a fever or some form of illness from the long journey.”
“This is either love or I have slipped into madness,” Thomas muttered. “I would prefer to think that I am in love, and not without my mental facilities.”
“Then you should call on the young lady,” Liam advised. “If it is madness we should catch it as soon as possible.”
Margaret yawned and tossed the book aside, rubbing her eyes with one fist while she reached blindly for something else to read. When she cracked open her eyes she grimaced and tossed that book as well. She stood, gathering her robe around her shoulders, and strode into the music room, thinking that perhaps a few finger exercises on the piano would provide enough distraction for her weariness to take over and send her into the realm of sleep.
She was exhausted, but Lord Briarwood, drat him, had kept her awake. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his dark blue eyes soften, heard his deep voice rumbling through her chest. Her mind was still swirling from the dances—at least six of them—and she stumbled into the music room in a flutter of frills and layers of lace. She detested her robe, but Cecilia had given it to her and so she felt obligated to wear it, no less for the reason than she had nothing else to put over her nightgown.
“What the devil are you playing the piano for at this hour?” her father demanded. “It is only half eight!”
Margaret grimaced in apology at her father when she noticed his haggard expression, bare feet, and crooked nightcap.
“I could not sleep,” she murmured, closing the lid over the keys so she was not tempted to play another dissonant chord.
Lord Nettlby’s expression softened. “Any particular reason?” he gently pried, sitting on a pale green settee. He patted the space next to him, and she grudgingly left the piano stool to join him.
“Nothing in particular,” she fibbed.
He nodded. “Lord Briarwood, then. He seems quite besotted with you as well. I doubt he would have spoken with me for the course of the evening if he were not. It was rather improper of him to dance with you for…how many dances was it, dear? Five?”
“Six,” Margaret grumbled, trying to burrow down into the settee.
“Yes,” he mused. “But he is Scottish; we must allow some barbarism on his part.”
“He is not a barbarian,” she snapped. “Scotland is a civilized country, and I have no doubt he is more of a gentleman that any other young man I know.”
“Thank you,” a deep voice intoned from the open doorway.
Margaret and her father both turned with shocked expressions to see Lord Briarwood standing at the entrance to the library, his thumbs hooked around the waistband of his breeches and his coat improperly buttoned. A cravat hung limply around his neck, as if it had given up trying to appear presentable after the tenth tug, and Lord Briarwood’s thick brown hair curled furiously around his broad forehead and high cheekbones.
“My lord!” Margaret gaped at the butler, who clutched the doorframe with an apologetic expression, his powdered wig dangling off one ear. “I am terribly sorry, Lord Nettlby,” he rasped.
“No, I am sorry,” Lord Briarwood apologized, helping the elderly butler to sit on an armchair so he could catch his breath. “I should have known no one stirs in the morning in London; Londoners certainly do not sleep.” He stifled a yawn with his right forearm and stepped towards the Nettlbys.
“I could not sleep last night,” he told them, his gaze lingering on Margaret’s face.
Margaret’s heart raced in her chest. She wanted to say that she had also suffered a restless night, but once again her lips could part but not form words.
“That seems to be a rather common ailment,” Lord Nettlby murmured. “You have the benefit of proper attire, however.”
Lord Briarwood’s cheeks flushed, and Margaret watched him as he tore his eyes away to study the floor. “Forgive me,” he offered, his voice strained. “I thought only to arrive before my competition.”
“Competition?” Margaret heard her father chuckle at her outburst.
“There were several other gentlemen that danced with you last night,” Briarwood stated, determinedly keeping his eyes on his toes.
“But…”
“I came to ask you if you would do me the honour of a turn in Hyde Park this morning,” he continued, his dark blue eyes flicking up to meet her astonished gaze.
“Well, I think that is the perfect opportunity for me to go upstairs and alert the servants that we need to get dressed,” Lord Nettlby announced, rising to his feet. He hastily retreated, leaving Margaret still staring up at Briarwood with rosy cheeks.
Briarwood extended a hand, hauling her to her feet when she tentatively accepted. Propelled by his strong tug, she stumbled into his chest. His lips found hers tenderly, sweetly devouring her gasp as he enfolded her in his embrace.
“Margaret,” he sighed, releasing her only for an inhale. “Margaret.”
She gasped, tumbling back onto the settee when she broke free of his embrace. “Lord Briarwood?” Her hand rested over her mouth, and he grinned down at her as she stared up at him with wide eyes.
“Thomas,” he supplied. “If I can call you Margaret, you can call me Thomas.”
“But I never said you could call me Margaret,” she whispered.
“No? Hmm. Perhaps it was another Margaret.”
“Lord Briarwood!”
“Thomas,” he reminded her, sitting beside her and taking her hand. “Nettlby does not suit you. It sounds too…nettle-y.”
“Briarwood sounds prickly,” she pointed out.
“That is why you can call me Thomas.” He ducked his head and captured her lips once more. This time she moaned and wrapped her arms around him, and might have lost herself forever in his embrace had her father not returned.
“Good heavens!” Lord Nettlby cleared his throat several times, allowing his daughter to hastily dart from the room, her cheeks flushed a cri
mson red from embarrassment.
“I want to marry her,” Thomas declared, straightening his coat.
“That sounds a little hasty, does it not? After all, you only met her last night,” Lord Nettlby stated, still glancing between the young earl and the doorway through which his daughter had disappeared. “Perhaps you should take the time to think about your actions, and call on her again tomorrow, or next week, or even in another month. It might take you until next Season to come to a rational decision.”
Thomas blinked. “Sir, I realize you have every reason to doubt my intentions. You love your daughter, and you wish to protect her from a mad Scotsman that fancies himself in love. But this is no fancy, Lord Nettlby. I love her. I will always love her. I have never been so certain of anything before in my life. If I cannot have her as my wife, I will walk forever in shadow wishing for her by my side. I love her. It seems hasty, it seems rash, and it seems like madness. But I love her. I love Miss Margaret Nettlby, and I want her to become Lady Margaret Gyrlington, Duchess of Briarwood and future Marchioness of Ravenwood. I love her.”
“You—well…I have a hard time believing—You are both so young,” the baron moaned, flopping onto the settee and passing his hands over his face. “Have you ever been in love before?”
“No. And I never will be again,” Thomas said simply. “She has made it impossible for me to love another.”
“How? How can you believe that? This is too—too hasty. I cannot let her rush into a marriage when just last night she could barely speak to you, or any man.”
Thomas nodded in understanding, but his heart was too full of chaos to see sense in waiting out the storm brewing inside him. If he did not marry Margaret, he would regret it for the rest of his life. He wasn’t certain how he knew this, but he knew it had to be true.
“You will not take no for an answer, will you?”
“Will you at least permit me to court her?”
“I would be a fool not to,” Lord Nettlby sighed. “No one else has offered for her.”
“They are the fools,” Thomas murmured, settling on the settee beside the baron. “She is intelligent, witty, charming, kind, beautiful, loyal to her friends…” He smiled and turned to Lord Nettlby. “Am I a fool? I have never done this before; I have never fallen so completely, so irrevocably. As I told my butler this morning, I have either gone mad or fallen helplessly in love. I do not doubt my sanity at this moment.”
“You do appear in control of your faculties,” Lord Nettlby consented. “But I do not understand how you can be in love with her after so short a time.”
“Nor do I,” Thomas admitted, “but I am.”
Chapter Three
Back to top
“You look beautiful.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow and glanced across at him out of the corner of her eye. “You have said that three times already.”
“It is still true. Every time I look at you, you look more beautiful. Blue is an excellent colour for you.” Thomas grinned as she continued to watch him as if he were going to sprout a second head at any moment. He should act reasonably, but he could not help the desire to make a fool of himself by staring down at her and grinning, and complimenting her every five steps they walked in Hyde Park. Lord Nettlby had been kind enough to allow the two a morning stroll through the park, and though there were others milling about, enjoying the warm sun, Thomas felt as if he and Margaret were the only ones present. Even the constant shadow of one of the baron’s manservants could not dim the joy bubbling up in his chest.
Margaret did look beautiful. She had returned to the music room clad in a deep navy blue dress, the three-quarter length sleeves capped with yellow lace to match the yellow underskirts that peeked out below the blue hem. The neckline was modest, but the fabric held her in a tight embrace, fanning out at her hips to form an arc of fabric that swished as she walked. She had donned a matching blue coat for their walk, and her reddish-brown hair was partly obscured by a straw hat adorned with blue and yellow flowers. Unlike many other women that were parading about the park, her skirts were not filled to exaggerate her hips; Margaret obviously favoured the more natural silhouette coming into style, and Thomas was grateful that he was able to walk a little closer to her than he might otherwise be forced to do.
“Blue is a good colour for you as well,” she offered, her fingers curling tighter in the sleeve of his coat. Her kid gloves, a pale tan, looked like cream against his navy blue coat.
“We have a similar taste in clothing, then,” he murmured. “How about politics?”
“I am indifferent to them, so long as I feel politics are not infringing on my life, or the life of anyone I know.”
He placed his left hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “That answer suffices. Do you want to remain in London?”
“No.” She chuckled and dipped her head. “I do like London, of course. Ever since Cecilia married Lord Rauley, the Season is the only time I can see her.”
“But you would leave, if you could return to see your friends?”
Margaret glanced up at him again curiously. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Your father agreed to let me court you,” Thomas informed her, steering her towards a bench. “He seemed to think it was hasty of me to ask for your hand outright.”
She sat with a surprised gasp. “My hand…?”
“After I spoke with him a little longer he did say it was your decision, and he would respect you no matter what.” He knelt before her, taking her hands in his, and asked, “Will you marry me? I know it is all rather—”
“Sudden.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “Very sudden.”
“I love you, Margaret. Surely that must count for something.”
“If I could believe you, it would. But I am afraid I do not yet know you well enough to believe you when you say that, after one day—nay, a few hours—you are in love with me. It is not sound, Lord Briarwood.”
“Thomas,” he corrected, still grasping her hands. “Please, Margaret. Believe me when I say that I love you, and I will always love you.”
“I want to, but it doesn’t make sense. Why do you love me?”
“Do you love me?”
“I—”
“Margaret!”
They both turned to see the Rauleys approaching them, Cecelia smiling broadly to see her friend in the company of the Scottish earl.
“I am surprised to see you out this early,” Cecelia declared, leaning against her husband.
Thomas released Margaret’s hand as she stood, and he waited a moment, frowning, before he stood beside her. Lord Rauley gave him a funny look, and Thomas wondered if the other man suspected what was transpiring between he and Margaret.
“Cecelia, just the person I wanted to see.” Margaret strode forward to embrace her friend, and Lord Rauley held out a hand to Thomas.
“Let her talk to Cecelia,” the young lord murmured, turning to watch his wife lead Margaret away. “She has had a…sheltered life. The idea of being courted is probably overwhelming her.”
“I asked her to marry me,” Thomas stated grimly, wishing he could chase after Margaret and kiss her senseless. Then she would consent to a marriage with all the glee with which she had accepted his embrace that morning.
“Well.” Lord Rauley looked almost impressed. “You certainly don’t take your time, do you?”
“He asked you to marry him?” Cecelia’s mouth formed a perfect circle. “What did you say? Please tell me you said yes,” she begged. “Men like Lord Briarwood do not come around every Season.”
Margaret shot a disbelieving look at her friend. “You have known him as long as I have, Cecelia. How can you derive his character in so short a time? Anyway, you and Charles appeared before I could give him an answer.”
“What point is there in waiting if you know he is the one?”
“But do I know that he is the one?” Margaret countered. “My heart tells me to say yes, but what if—”
“I agreed to marry Charles after two weeks,” Cecelia reminded her. “Two weeks in which we barely spoke to one another, since my parents disapproved and wouldn’t let him in the house. I think you have had more conversation with Lord Briarwood than I did with Charles before our wedding. And it is not as if you were discussing the weather last night,” she added.
“We talked about our friends,” Margaret dismissed. “It might as well have been the weather.”
“The way we treat the weather is not as good an indicator of our personalities as is the way we treat our friends,” Cecelia stated primly. “He treats his friends like his siblings, as do you. You are both only children, fond of dogs, and lovers of good music. I would say that is enough to go on, but then I would be ignoring the way he smiles when he looks at you, and the way his eyes warm when you cannot see him.”
Margaret glanced towards him curiously, only to see him turn away and say something to Lord Rauley.
“Does he really look at me as if—”
“As if he loves you?” Cecelia smiled and patted her friend’s arm where their elbows were hooked through. “Yes.”
“He is wonderful.” Margaret sighed wistfully. “I do think he is the one.”
“Good morning Lady Rauley, and if it isn’t the mute Nettlby,” a loud voice sneered, followed by a hiccough.
Both ladies turned to see Lord Thompson, an often drunk viscount, staggering towards them across the expansive lawn of Hyde Park.
Dancing with the Earl (After the Masquerade) Page 2
