Chapter 9
It was all Margaret could do not to trip over her own feet in her attempt to keep up with him. Over the morning, she’d come to realize who he was. Of course, she’d begun to suspect last night, when he’d called her brat while playing that game, and she was now hoping to prompt him into a confession. Only he seemed so intent upon continuing this farce. What, precisely did he want from her?
“Just a bit further,” he urged.
“Where are we going?”
“You will see,’ he said, tormenting her with his elusiveness.
“I must be mad,” Margaret said. It had been years since she’d ventured this far onto their parklands—not since she’d been a child—with Gabriel.
He brought her to the crest of a hill, then laid down the pasteboard he carried in his hand.
“Now sit on it,” he demanded.
Margaret stared at him in disbelief. “I mean to say, I think you must be mad. Why should I wish to sit on that?”
Gabriel winked at her, grinning. “Only humor me,” he suggested. And then persisted, “Sit down, please?”
Margaret frowned. She could scarce refuse him when he looked at her so... so... engagingly...
The sun glinted off his hair, like spun gold, and the scent of wildflowers filled her senses.
“Very well,” she relented, if grudgingly, tiring of this ruse. She sat down on the pasteboard, feeling like a silly goose. “Now what?”
He began to laugh.
Margaret peered up at him in sheer exasperation, her hands going to her hips in outrage. “Did you, perchance, drag me all this way to force me sit on your piece of cardboard, only to snicker at me like some ungracious oaf?”
To her dismay, he continued to cackle, and Margaret decided she’d had enough. She made to rise. “I thought I heard you say you wished to show me something,” she said. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”
“No.” he said, thrusting out a hand, urging her to remain seated. “Ah, but, Maggie. Tis that you look...” He shook his head. “So….” He began to laugh again. “You have no idea what good it does my heart to see you.”
“You mean to say I look a merry-Andrew,” Margaret countered, wholly vexed with his amusement at her expense. “Look at you.” she said, waving a hand at him. “I did not laugh at you, sirrah, when you came to me looking like... that.” She waved a hand in disgust and made again to rise. But, for the first time, she noticed his feet. “You’re not wearing shoes,” she said. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”
He knelt down beside her, chortling as he placed a hand to her shoulder to soothe her. “Hold still,” he said, and groped about her, feeling for the pasteboard at her back.
He moved his hand to her sides and Margaret slapped his hand in scandalized horror. “I beg pardon,” she said, pinning his hand under her own and glaring defiantly. “What is it you think you are doing?”
His grin was infectious, but Margaret had no intention of allowing it to disarm her. “I simply need to see how much room is left on the pasteboard.”
“Why?”
His eyes twinkled with a devilish light. “You’ll see.” He tilted his head, once again giving her that little-boy glance and smile that melted her will. “Trust me,” he said.
He wasn’t playing fair, Margaret decided. How could she refuse him when he begged so sweetly? She lifted her hand, freeing him, but gave him a warning glare. “Very well,” she relented. “Do what you will.”
Like a boy, his grin returned, brighter than before, and the sight of it melted Maggie’s heart.
“Now scoot forward,” he demanded.
“Scoot?”
“Yes, Margaret, scoot.” He placed a hand behind her, and quite boldly shoved her bottom forward on the cardboard when she didn’t respond quickly enough.
“Oh!” Margaret exclaimed.
He sat behind her suddenly, and before Margaret could think to protest, he wrapped his legs around her, trapping her between them.
“Now,” he commanded, “close your eyes!”
“This is preposterous,” Margaret protested. “What in the Queen’s name are we doing?”
“You’ll see,” he said. And then again, “Trust me, Maggie.” And he took her hands into his own, and said, “Hold tight.”
Margaret didn’t even have time to ask why. Within an instant Gabriel had shoved them forward, down the hill. She squealed as they went flying, and for an instant, she was horrified, but Gabriel wrapped his arms around her and held her close. And then suddenly they were racing down the steep hill on his pasteboard, the wind sweeping her face.
Margaret couldn’t contain a peal of laughter. It was glorious! Freedom! She opened her eyes and watched the horizon fly by and giggled madly.
They ended at the bottom of the hill in a scattered heap, laughing uncontrollably.
Neither could seem to stop for the longest interval, and Margaret lay with her head on his chest, wholly oblivious to propriety, laughing like a girl. “Oh, my! That was unspeakably delightful,” she confessed.
He hugged her, a smile in his voice, and his chuckles subsided. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that with you, Maggie.”
She peered back at him, tears shining in her eyes. “Your name isn’t truly Morgan, is it?”
He shook his head, with a smirk. “Neither is yours.” And then, once again, both together, they began to laugh, and couldn’t stop for the longest time.
Finally, Maggie opened her mouth to speak and Gabriel put a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” he said, and sat up, turning her about to face him, looking her straight in the eyes. “I still love you, brat. I never stopped. I told you I’d never forget, and I never have.”
Margaret’s brows slanted as bittersweet memories accosted her. She peered around at the familiar landscape… the bright blue skyline... the circle of trees... the hill they’d come racing down... the windflowers swaying with the breeze… and her heart began to hammer, because this was the very spot where they’d said their goodbyes.
“It’s true,” he said, and time slipped away.
She choked on a sob, casting herself into his arms. “Oh, Gabe!” she said, clutching at his dirty shirt, and Gabriel reached out to do what he hadn’t had the nerve to do all those years past. He took a wayward lock of Margaret’s hair between his fingers and brushed it away from her beautiful face, and then he said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too” she cried.
“I know, sweet Maggie. I know.” And he bent to seal their avowals with a sweet, if slightly muddy kiss.
“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,” he murmured, reaching out to trace the curve of her breasts with a finger. He reveled in the feel of her supple flesh beneath his greedy hands. “I would like to discuss a renegotiation…”
“Renegotiation?”
“Yes, dear.”
Maggie grinned. “I stand firm on the matter of gambling,” she revealed.
“Not a problem.” After all these years, it was difficult to believe she was truly his—at long last—with her glorious hair all mussed from their play. He reached out to thread his fingers through the shining mass and sucked in an awe-filled breath.
“No separate quarters,” he whispered, as he kissed her mouth. She closed her eyes, but her desire was more than apparent on her face, and Gabriel rejoiced in it. He wanted to please her for the rest of his days. He wanted to shower her with affection, make up for lost time…
And more than anything else in the world, he wanted to make her laugh.
“If you insist.”
He did insist—yes, indeed, he did.
Everything he now had, he wanted to give his sweet lady—and this moment, he wanted to give her his body and his soul. He rolled over, atop her, looking down into her face, and whispered, “Margaret... do you understand what it is we are about to do, my love?”
It took her a long moment to respond, and then she said, “I rather think I do… we are consummating our marriage,” she said with a w
hisper, and Gabriel grinned.
“Yes, we are,” he said. “Indeed, we are.”
And there at the foot of their favorite hill, they did precisely that.
Chapter 10
June 15, 1968
“Papa George! What’s dis one?”
Arm in arm, Gabriel and Maggie watched their children cavort with Grandpa George. At five-and-a-half and eleven months, respectively, Victoria and Scott Thomas were sweet little cherubs, every parents’ dream. While Scott Thomas sat atop his Papa’s lap, trying to wrest a white rose from his grasp, precocious little Victoria listened to his tales, much as Maggie had once done, even after Gabe was gone.
“This one…” He studied it a moment. “It is Rosa Alba,” he declared. “Made famous by the War of Roses.”
“What?” shrieked Victoria. “Roses can go to war?” I don’t believe it!” she said with a sing-song voice, a trilling laugh, and an exaggerated flutter of her hand.
“No, dear. It was the sigil of the House of York. And see that red rose over there—see it? That was the sigil of the House of Lancaster. Eventually, both families lost to a Tudor, and this is why we now have Queen Victoria.” He pointed an old finger at her. “Your namesake.”
She grinned widely. “Me?” And she pranced about the garden, lifting up her skirt, sashaying across the lawn, her red-gold curls bouncing as she flounced. “I am queen!” she crooned, laughing. “I am queen!”
“Yes!” Papa George was saying to Victoria. “You are a queen!” And he nodded enthusiastically as their child paraded by lush, blooming roses of every color.
“Papa!” Scott Thomas squealed again, snatching at the white rose that swept too close, and clutching the captured petals in an iron grip, then pulling out a handful, fascinated as a few escaped and fluttered to the ground. Even before the last one fell to the lawn, he was shoving his hard-won handful into his mouth. The nanny rushed over to help, brushing the fine-scented detritus from their son’s mouth.
They had been married now for more than six years. Gabriel could hardly believe his good fortune. He’d never seen his father so content as he was with two tots at his heels. It certainly made it easier to slip away. Tugging his Maggie by the hand, he lured her away from the arbor, craving a little solitude. “Da,” he said. “You good with the wee ones?”
The old man raised a hand, barely listening. “Where’s your crown?” he asked Victoria. She slapped at her head, and shrieked with laughter. “Make me another one,” she demanded, and Maggie laughed as she turned away.
“She reminds me of you,” said Gabriel with a lopsided grin.
Maggie gave him an exaggerated, wide-eyed glance. “Me?” She pressed a hand to her breast, precisely as their four-year old daughter had done.
Gabriel laughed.
It was a fine, fine summer day, with the scent of fresh blooms wafting on the air. The gardens had never appeared lovelier, despite that George was no longer tending them. He oversaw their care, but managed a number of attendants, each with particular skills. At the end of the day, he could look on his accomplishments with glee—not the least of which was his matchmaking attempts. Anyone who doubted for one instant that there was genuine affection, between the lord and lady of Blackwood, would be hard pressed to defend their position, especially when Maggie’s belly was once again as round as a ball. Five months into her pregnancy, she was nevertheless as fresh and beautiful as she’d been the day he first spied her. And if she was sassy as well, it wasn’t a slip of her mood.
“You are incorrigible!” she said, giving him a sidelong glance. “And greedy.”
“Why? Because I love my wife and covet her for myself.” Despite the exaggeration, she laughed, and he guided her around the house, pressing her up against the ivy-covered brick around the corner from the rose garden. At the moment, not even her rounded belly could dissuade him.
“If you do not cease and desist, at once, we will never again have time to ourselves.”
“Alas, I am greedy,” he lamented. “Guilty as charged. But I assure you I feel no remorse.”
Once again, Maggie laughed. Six sweet years they’d been wed, six years of laughter, six years of joy and few regrets. She would bear him a hundred children if he so pleased, with nary a complaint, and no matter that she claimed he was the greedy one, she was greedy as well.
Maggie drew him by his lapels, boldly lifting her face for a kiss… puckering her lips… remembering the first kiss they ever shared, in a bumpy carriage en route from Gretna Green. She’d asked him then for but one, and if he ever denied her now, she’d weep on her knees. “Happy anniversary, my love,” she said.
“Happy anniversary, brat.”
Even after all these years, Margaret reveled in the endearment. “Brat?” she said, reaching down to caress the front of his trousers. “I will show you a brat, my dear.” And her lips turned mischievously at the corners, her eyes alight with the tint of a bright blue flame. “Kiss me,” she demanded, and he fell to his knees.
“Gabriel!”
He ducked his head beneath her skirt, ensconcing himself beneath—not something any gentleman would ever do—and certainly no true lady would ever allow it.
“Gabriel! Someone will see us!”
In answer, Gabriel lifted his tongue into the cleft between her thighs, kissing her in his very favorite place—hers as well, she was mortified to say. With a contented sigh, Maggie sank against the ivy-covered wall, allowing her husband to explore. And, perhaps, indeed, kisses weren’t contracts, but they were certainly promises, and she knew he would always keep them.
“Shall I stop?” she heard him ask.
Margaret shuddered as his tongue played, and she shook her head with absolute delight. “Nay, my love… I’ll gladly enjoy… just… one more... kiss…”
Afterword
A Perfectly Scandalous Proposal was originally conceived as part of an anthology. It has been extensively rewritten, with new scenes, and this is the author’s preferred version.
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Happily Ever AFter: Preview
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Boston, 1899
The evidence seemed undeniable.
It was, in fact, her fiancé’s penmanship, but just to be certain Sophie withdrew her most recent letter from Harlan from her private desk, meticulously comparing the handwriting. She studied both letters side by side, trying to find some difference in the script.
Behind her, Jonathon Preston opened the drapes a bit wider, letting in every last ray of afternoon sun, giving her ample light to see by. “I would never have brought it to you,” he claimed, somewhat more eagerly now that she had begun to take the matter seriously. He stood at her side, peering over her shoulder, and his razor-sharp scrutiny of her while she read the letter made her cheeks bum with both anger and humiliation.
She swallowed uncomfortably.
No matter how much she wished to find the letter a forgery, the penmanship was the same; identical long-tailed y’s looping purposely about to cross simple t’s... precisely dotted i’s and j’s. Harlan rarely capitalized the names of his acquaintances... nor did he ever capitalize hers, though his invariably was—something that plagued her acutely.
“Although Harlan has always been a friend to me, it seemed somehow unconscionable,” Jonathon continued, “that you should be treated with so little regard!”
&n
bsp; Sophie doubted Jonathon’s intentions were at all honorable. He might have sold his soul to the devil for her father’s favor. Still, she was not the sort who preferred not to know. If her fiancé was making her out to be a fool, then she certainly did wish to know about it—no matter what Jonathon’s motives for relaying the information.
And, damnation, it seemed Harlan was, indeed, making a fool of her!
Her entire future suddenly crumpled before her like an old castle in some forgotten fairy tale, all of her carefully laid plans reduced to rubble and her dreams blown away like so much dust.
What a fool she had been.
She peered up at Jonathon to find him still staring at her, as though he expected her to burst into heart-wrenching sobs any instant. Sophie frowned. No doubt he would enjoy that. Well, she wasn’t about to give in to hysterics! Anyway, she shuddered to think of Jonathon comforting her.
Strange how before today she had not thought him quite so nefarious, but the boy she remembered from her youth was gone, and in his place stood a gleaming-eyed, calculating man. No, she had no doubt of Jonathon’s intentions, and less of his motivations. Her father was a powerful and beneficent man—witnessed by the generosity and support he had bestowed on Harlan. From the day Harlan had departed Boston, his best friend had set out to woo not her, but her father.
Drat men and their love for money!
Her eyes stung as she scanned the letter Jonathon had brought her, this time allowing herself full comprehension of the words scribbled so neatly before her.
God help her, she refused to weep—and certainly not before Jonathon Preston.
She examined the envelope again. It was postmarked April 20, 1899. Two months ago—ironic that he should have written this letter on the third anniversary of their engagement. She wondered if Harlan even realized.
A Perfectly Scandalous Proposal (Redeemable Rogues Book 6) Page 9
