by Karen Ranney
A tall, angular woman with a long face stepped forward. She glanced curiously at Michael and then away, as if dismissing him.
“I’ve come to tell you, Mrs. Esterly, that you’ll not be teaching my Dorothy again,” she said. “I don’t want her near the likes of you.”
“It seems as if your Abigail wasted no time in circulating her tale,” he said in an aside to Margaret.
She nodded.
“Nor I,” said another woman. Her face was round, her eyes narrowed with an expression of repugnance “Harlot.”
He felt Margaret wince beside him.
He didn’t give a flying farthing what the world thought of him. His experience was that society would talk about him whether or not he participated in their discussions. But he had no intention of standing here and listening to them revile Margaret. Perhaps the two of them had been unwise, but they had not sinned against these women who had set themselves up as moral jurists.
He stepped forward, in front of Margaret.
“You are speaking of my wife, madam,” he said sharply, “the Countess of Montraine. And as her husband,” he warned them, “I am not disposed to hear your insults.”
The announcement had the effect of a bolt of lightning. They silenced as one, utterly transfixed.
Penelope and Tom moved to his side. “I’ll have you know, Anne Coving,” Penelope said, in a voice that carried well, “that Miss Margaret was married this morning. And I’ll not allow you to ruin this moment with your vicious tongue.”
He guided Margaret from the steps, the women falling back as they walked through the group to the carriage. An oddly silent crowd now.
He turned as Margaret bid farewell to her friend, then waited as she entered the carriage. He frowned at the assembled group, smiled his thanks to Penelope and her still silent husband and entered the carriage, sitting beside his wife.
Margaret glanced at him, a small smile curving her lips.
“Well, what did you expect?” he said, still irritated at the group of harpies outside the church. “For me to tolerate their insults to you?”
“I was only thinking,” she said, “that this is the first time I have seen your arrogance directed at another. On the whole, I prefer not being the recipient of it.”
“You’re well quit of this place, Margaret,” he said, still annoyed. “Little minds in little places.”
“London will be better?” Her quizzical look chided him.
“Very well, it’s true. We’ve fueled the gossip mills well. I do not doubt that there will be nothing but rumor and innuendo for months to come.”
“Do you mind?”
He sat back, tossed his walking stick to the opposite seat.
“Not one whit,” he said, honestly.
He had his share of friends who were his rank, but his closest association was with Robert, a man without a title. In addition, he labored beside men in the Black Chamber who were measured not by their rank, but by their abilities and intelligence. Was that why he saw the boundaries of his society as more fluid than most? Because he admired men not for what they had inherited, but for their reasoning? Or for their ability to dwell in an abstract world few people understood?
Perhaps. But he was well aware that there were those who would find great pleasure in ensuring that Margaret’s entry into society was difficult. By keeping the walls high and the moat deep, the inbred xenophobic ton kept itself pure and unsullied.
He would have to protect her from the more vindictive members of society, his mother included.
Chapter 27
The love of pleasure must never be mistaken
for the pleasure of love.
The Journals of Augustin X
It seemed to Michael that he and Margaret had spent an inordinate amount of time in a carriage together. Night had fallen by the time they entered the outskirts of London. His carriage was well sprung, a vehicle built for uncertain roads. The London cobbles could barely be felt. Margaret had long since succumbed to sleep.
He should have done the same. He had not slept well the night before, having taken shelter at Malverne House. He would not have insinuated himself into the squire’s good graces had Silbury Village boasted an inn. A concession to Margaret’s reputation. He would have sacrificed far more than being nipped and barked at for half the night by Squire Tippett’s six terriers.
His wife lay against him, a small unearthly smile wreathing her lips even in sleep. He wanted to kiss it gently from her lips.
Only a sign, then, of how half-witted he was becoming. To find the one woman in the entire world who could render him idiotic. Then to turn his world upside down to marry her.
Another indication of his foolishness. He was a rutting beast. A man clearly out of his element. Even in sleep she aroused him.
They halted, finally, before his home. Michael thought the sudden cessation of movement would wake her, but Margaret slept on, so deeply that he thought it a pity to disturb her.
He leaned forward and placed his hand against her cheek. Margaret’s eyes flew open as if he had called her name.
“We are home, Margaret.”
She nodded drowsily and sat up. His hand dropped away as she straightened her skirt and checked to see if her hair was orderly. It occurred to him that he had never before seen a woman perform such gestures so matter-of-factly. There was no cry of distress, no fumbling for a mirror, no lamentations as to fatigue or the tedium of the journey. Simply a pat and a smooth of hand, and that was all.
He descended from the carriage and held his hand out for her, a role better suited to footman than earl, but he was concerned for her footing. It had evidently rained earlier from the sheen on the cobbles.
He took Margaret’s valise from the coachman. It seemed a foolish thing to summon Smytheton at this late hour. Especially since the man was still irritated at him for making him travel to Silbury. He hefted it with a grunt and glanced at her.
“What have you packed in here, Margaret? Bricks?”
“Just my things,” she said, covering her yawning mouth with both hands. “Oh, and the Journals.”
“I will have to read them one day,” he said.
She said nothing in response to his remark, only smiled slightly. He left the valise on the table, watched as she walked slowly up the stairs. It would be better to allow her to rest. Certainly he could restrain himself for a little while. One night, after all, was not that many hours.
“Margaret,” he said, stepping forward. His hand was on the banister, his gaze intent on her.
She smiled, tenderly. An expression that should not have made his heart thud in his chest. She held out her hand to him, answering his unspoken question.
He reached her quickly, his breath coming in a piercing rush as he kissed her.
The journey up the remaining steps was easily made, but not quickly executed. Twice he stopped and kissed her until their breaths came shallow and fast. Twice, he thought that the chamber was too far away and the stairs, although uncomfortable, would make an adequate trysting place.
It was his wedding night. An occasion that called for some restraint. He managed to reach their room before he lost his senses. Again. Forever.
Once in their chamber, Michael turned to her. His fingers flew over fastenings and buttons, removing her dress, his coat, her chemise, his cravat, her stockings, his trousers. She began to laugh as he threw each piece into the air to land where it would.
“Wait,” she said, before he pulled her to the bed. “Stand there, Michael, just for a moment.”
“Why?” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes seemed to glitter.
Her hand flattened against his naked chest, moved slowly up until her thumb rested in the well at the base of his throat, fascinated at the rapid beat of his pulse there.
“I have to warn you, Margaret,” he said tightly. “I am decidedly impatient at the moment.”
He had always spoken of his regimented life, the order he craved. Yet she’d never witnessed the
control he claimed ruled his world.
“There is a certain value in waiting, Michael.” Her fingers moved slowly to his shoulder as if giving him time to protest the exploratory touch. Her palm curved around the ball of his shoulder measuring it.
“Not tonight there isn’t,” he said, reaching for her.
She smiled, amused.
“You should have modeled for the statues in your pantheon. You are so utterly beautiful.”
For a moment he seemed at a loss for words, but he quickly recovered from his surprise. “Shall I make you pay for my favors, then?” he asked, as he led her to their bed.
“I hope not,” she said, watching him. He moved to the bed, lay down upon it, and stretched out his hand for her, seemingly impervious to his nakedness.
He lay there, pasha-like, a feast for her eyes. Lit by the candlelight and shadowed by night. A man blessed with a physical attractiveness that lured her and a mind that fascinated her. A man who made her smile even as he seduced her.
Yet this was not seduction. It was, perhaps, an alchemy of the spirit. A sharing that occurred whenever they came together. Something rare and extraordinary, as if God himself had given him to her. For your grief and your tears, I give you something wondrous. Something to be treasured for the rest of your life. Guard it well, you’ll not see a love like this again.
“I doubt I could afford you,” she said, a smile curving her lips. “You look as if you would be worth your weight in gold. All the richest women in the world might wish to purchase you for their pleasure.”
“There are commodities other than money, Margaret,” he said, his teasing smile a match to hers.
She lay on the bed, turned to face him.
Heat was in the center of her, spreading outward until even the tips of her fingers felt on fire. “Truly?”
He reached out a hand and pressed it against her hip, slid his palm across her stomach.
“When will your body begin to change?” he asked.
The question surprised her. “Soon. I think.”
He drew a circle around a nipple. “Your breasts will grow larger,” he said.
She nodded. His gaze lowered; he traced a line from the middle of her breasts to her navel.
“I find you eminently worthwhile,” he said, his smile soft and alluring. A gentle smile with only the barest touch of wickedness to it.
“No payment necessary to enjoy you?”
“A kiss?”
He rolled onto his back and reached out for her. She leaned over him, placed her hand on his cheek. His skin was hot beneath her touch. She traced his lips with her fingers before lowering her mouth to his. Something opened up inside her. A sweetness, a poignancy, not unlike the moment just before tears.
She could not remember a moment as exquisitely beautiful as this one. The room around them was hollowed out by shadows, the only spot of illumination the single candle. Its flickering light made the rain-streaked windows appear diamond encrusted.
Could time itself be halted? If so, she would wish to savor this instant when she lifted her head and his gaze held hers.
His face seemed to change. His hand reached up, cupped her face, his fingers threading through her hair. Teasing desire had been replaced by tenderness. Heady and sweet, passion filled, it promised more than simple fulfillment.
She felt spellbound.
This man was her husband. Bound to her by ritual and God. He was the man who had fathered her child, who had promised to protect her and shield her and worship her with his body.
He turned her and raised himself over her, entered her slowly, as if he knew that she was ready for him. Needed him. There was hollowness inside her, an emptiness only he could fill.
His eyes remained open, watching her. She reached up with both hands and curled her fingers within his. Was this aching delight she felt shared by him?
She could see herself reflected in his eyes. If she looked deeper, would she see the man he truly was? Overpoweringly male. An earl who laughed with abandon and loved with intensity. A man of arrogance, dedication, pride. A noble who loved his country, honored his family. Loved her.
The candle sputtered, the seconds lengthened as they gazed at each other. The rhythm of their breathing slowed until they breathed in tandem. His fingers loosened, then tightened on hers.
It was a strange and disconcerting experience she had at that moment. As though she surrendered herself completely to him. He filled the void, becoming part of her in a way she did not fully understand.
Perhaps the boundaries of self, rank, world had simply disappeared.
The moment was timeless and trembling.
Unable to bear it a moment more, she closed her eyes. A tear slipped from beneath her closed lids, fell to the pillow. He bent his head and kissed its path.
She reached up, placed her lips on his, sighed inwardly as he deepened the kiss. A feeling began in the core of her, as if all the disparate parts, once cohesive and complete, were being separated from the person she knew herself to be. And he gathered up the pieces and held them safe.
Slowly, he pulled out of her. She closed her eyes and waited an eternity for him to enter her again. Her body bowed in joy when he did.
She began to anticipate his movement, her body arching toward his. A dreamy, achingly slow possession, unhurried and exquisitely timed, their bodies in rhythmic tandem. The feeling washed over her in waves, becoming stronger with each prolonged stroke of his body in hers.
It was too much. It was too intense, too much to endure. She arched beneath him, lost in bliss. Margaret clung to him, her breath captured in a startled scream. The rest of the world dropped away until there was only him.
All that she needed.
Michael propped his head on his palm and studied her. Margaret lay on her side, facing him.
Dawn was making an appearance on the horizon. The sky was growing lighter; its midnight blue fading reluctantly like a reveler not ready for his bed. Across the horizon streaks of pink, a hue to match the color of Margaret’s cheek, warned of the sun’s approach.
His fingers gently traced the curve of her jaw, then traveled upward to her mouth, nose. One fingertip dusted across her eyelids, marked the thick line of her lashes, then returned to trace the shape of her mouth.
“You are not asleep,” he whispered. “Else you would not be smiling.”
“I am,” she said firmly. “It’s only that you’re tickling me.”
He placed his hand on her shoulder, traced a path to her hand. Her fingers were long and slender; the nails gently rounded and clean. But there were calluses at the end of her fingertips. Until he’d seen her cottage, he’d not thought of the way she lived, had not considered that she had been on the edge of penury. Yet she had refused to take from him. Neither money nor security. A woman of independence and pride.
His wife.
“Margaret.” They lay so close that the speaking of her name was no more than a breath on her cheek.
Her hair was the color of autumn; her mouth curved easily into a smile and bestowed kisses with the flavor of eternity. The words were not his usual ones; they were almost poetic.
He’d thought he understood desire. Had experienced it, shared it with women in his past. He had tucked it into his mind along with other necessary emotions. Something to be understood and accepted. But Michael was beginning to recognize the depth of his ignorance.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her expression made him smile. Irritation, and sleepiness. She didn’t rouse easily.
The words must be said before another moment passed, before another second clicked upon the clock.
“I accept you, Margaret,” he said, looking at her beloved face. “Unconditionally. Madly.”
Margaret looked startled at his declaration, but then it seemed she remembered their earlier conversation. “I accept you, too, Michael,” she murmured, her smile luminous. “Unconditionally. Madly.”
A realization occurred to the Earl of Montraine i
n that moment. He had not entirely believed in love, but it was all too evident that it truly did exist. He had never understood, however, that love flowed outward, from the soul of one person to another. Until this moment, he had never realized that it was an all-encompassing thing, an emotion that blessed both the recipient and the giver.
Not at all a sensible thing, love.
She cuddled against him. He wrapped his arms around her as she buried her head against his shoulder, nuzzling his neck with her lips. A moment later her breathing was rhythmic, soft. She’d fallen asleep again. He smiled and held her there safely in his arms.
Chapter 28
Silence will stifle pleasure
while gentle words will encourage it.
The Journals of Augustin X
Smytheton was waiting for Margaret at the base of the stairs.
Smytheton was waiting for Margaret at the base of the stairs.
“Allow me to convey my felicitations to you, my lady, on the occasion of your marriage,” he said stiffly.
“Thank you, Smytheton,” she said. She wondered if he knew it was the very first time she had been addressed so formally.
He reminded her, oddly enough, of what her father might have looked like if he’d lived. He’d been a soldier, too. Her Gran had told her that he had big, strong shoulders and a broad face. She had been only a baby when he’d died, but sometimes she thought she remembered his wintry blue eyes. Or maybe it was just from all of Gran’s stories.
Smytheton had the same light blue eyes, and a shock of white hair that made him look altogether very distinguished. The perfect majordomo for an earl’s home.
A more proper accessory than she was, certainly.
She went to the table, picked up the valise.
“Where is Michael?” She revised the question at Smytheton’s frown. “Where is his lordship?”
“I believe, my lady, that he is in his library,” he said, bowing.
Not the same the respectful gesture he showed to Michael. This unctuous effort seemed to say that he knew well enough where she had come from and that she did not quite deserve his reverence.
