“Do you suppose,” Edward said, his chin resting on the top of his wife’s head, “that he’s in love with her?”
Pegeen’s voice was slightly muffled by the fabric of Edward’s shirt. “With Maggie? Oh, I don’t see how. She’s never been anything but nasty to him.”
“If I recall correctly, you were fairly nasty to me, too, upon first making my acquaintance.”
Pegeen lifted her head. “I wasn’t!”
“You were. You tried to hack one of my fingers off with a bread knife.”
“Oh.” Pegeen laid her head back down upon his chest. “Well, you deserved it.”
Edward raised his eyebrows, but wisely said nothing.
“You don’t suppose,” Pegeen said thoughtfully, a moment later, “that’s it, do you?”
“Suppose what’s it?”
“Well, you said she’d hit him … .”
Edward nodded. “Yes. Every bit as forcefully as I did, I think. Though she misaimed, and got him in the mouth. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Miss Maggie Herbert with her hand in a splint upon the morrow.”
Pegeen winced. “Oh, Edward, really, I wish you hadn’t. It was hardly necessary for both of you to punch him.”
“If you’d heard him, Pegeen, you’d have hit him, too, I’m quite sure,” Edward assured her grimly.
“Well, in any case,” Pegeen said, managing to sound somehow dignified, even though she was perched on her husband’s lap in nothing but her underwear, “I imagine that Maggie’s resistance to his, er, charms might be what attracted him to her in the first place. I can’t imagine any woman has ever resisted Jeremy before, let alone struck him. It must have been quite novel for him.”
Edward grunted. “Novel enough to make him want to marry her?”
“People have married for far stupider reasons. Why shouldn’t Jeremy want to marry someone who treats him as an equal, and not like some kind of god, like all of those girls he met last season in London, who did nothing but fawn over him just because he’s got a title and some wealth?”
“I highly doubt,” Edward said, “that Maggie’s punching Jerry in the face was what induced him to suggest they marry. I believe it had more to do with her suddenly comely appearance. You’d be surprised, my dear, what a long way a pretty face can go in making a man forget all his firmest resolutions.” Edward lowered his head to nuzzle his wife’s neck. “For instance, I merely came in here to tell you that our nephew’s joining the army, but now that I find you so fetchingly garbed”—Pegeen, giggling, didn’t protest as Edward lowered her onto the wide canopied bed—“I’m quite certain you and I are going to be late for supper again.”
Chapter 7
A few miles away, Maggie Herbert was doing anything but giggling. She was trying to brave the wrath of her parents, which, since Jeremy had only left her father’s library approximately twenty minutes earlier, was still palpable.
“I am not,” Maggie’s father began, from behind his massive mahogany desk, “going to ask you, Margaret, if what His Grace just came in here and told me was true. I am going to trust that a man like the Duke of Rawlings has no reason to be going about making up tales about his neighbor’s daughters.”
Maggie, standing before her father’s desk with her hands behind her back—she didn’t dare let him catch a glimpse of her newly bandaged finger—glanced nervously at her mother, who had sunk into a green leather armchair a few feet away, looking a bit pale but nonetheless more composed than Maggie would have expected, under the circumstances.
“And there’s no use looking to your mother for support, in this, young lady,” Sir Arthur said, as gruffly as he was able, which, since Maggie’s father had never been much of a disciplinarian, was not considerable. “She and I stand united in our mutual shame for you. You have disgraced this family, and, I must add, heartily embarrassed the house of Rawlings. I have no doubt that Lord Edward shares my disappointment in the behavior of both you and the duke … though I must say I feel the burden of the blame lies primarily with you, Margaret.”
Maggie opened her mouth to protest this unfair accusation, then noticed her mother’s small headshake. With an effort, she kept her tongue.
“You have always proven something of a trial to the young duke,” her father went on, “though you’ve been asked repeatedly to refrain from teasing him. His Grace’s childhood was not the happiest, due to his father’s unfortunate choice of a bride—”
Maggie rolled her eyes. She had heard this particular story too many times to pay attention to it. On and on her father went, about how Lord Edward’s elder brother, John, had married a vicar’s daughter, Lady Pegeen’s elder sister, Katherine, a mistake for which he’d eventually paid with his life. No mention was ever made of where Jeremy’s mother was now, but snippets of conversation that Maggie had overheard as a child led her to believe that Katherine was not only alive, but living in London, forbidden by Lord Edward from ever seeing her son. The reason for this seemed to stem from Lord John having been murdered in a duel over her.
“I’ve no doubt that this incident today,” Sir Arthur continued phlegmatically, “like similar incidents in the past, is a result of your tricking His Grace into behaving with impropriety—”
Again, Maggie drew a swift breath to defend herself, and again, her mother shook her head. Gritting her teeth, Maggie lowered her flashing eyes to the floor, so her father would not notice their mutinous expression.
“I have therefore given His Grace my sincerest apologies for your behavior, though he, tactful young man that he is, insists it is entirely his fault, and that you are blameless. Tomorrow, I shall extend a similar apology to Lord and Lady Edward, as well.” Sir Arthur, a portly man, placed both of his plump hands on his green leather desktop blotter and sighed. “And now, Margaret, your mother and I feel that the question of your future is at stake. I hardly need point out to you that the kind of behavior exhibited by you today would be quite out of place in the ballrooms of London. I have also heard you admit in the past, Margaret, that you are a young lady governed by your, um, impulses. If this is any evidence of where your impulses guide you, then I can only say, a season in London would be a highly questionable undertaking. The introduction of any young woman into society is a significant financial commitment. There is lodging to be considered—we can hardly, after this, count on the kindness of Lord and Lady Edward for the use of the duke’s town house, as we did for your sisters—and all manner of gowns and hats and such fripperies to be purchased. This is a considerable expense for a young woman who will most likely embarrass us by throwing herself into the arms of the first man who asks her to dance—”
Maggie lifted her gaze then, to pierce her father with a furious glare. But he did not appear to notice the poisoned darts her eyes were sending in his direction. Instead, he said, “And so, after careful consideration, your mother and I have decided that you are not to have a season in London next winter.”
Since Maggie knew her father meant this as a punishment, she did not shout hurray, although that was her first impulse. Instead, she lowered her gaze once again, and tried not to smile too widely. “Yes, sir,” was all she said, and that sounded suitably humble.
“Now we come to an impasse, your mother and I. For while I feel—and I might add, your sister Anne agrees with me—that a few months in a convent might be just the thing for someone of your, er, temperament—”
Maggie lifted startled eyes toward her mother, who gave a barely perceptible shrug.
“—your mother disagrees. She seems to feel that part of your problem, young lady, is that you have the restless soul of an artist”—He made a face as he said the word artist, as if its pronunciation made a bad taste in his mouth—“and that it is our obligation as parents to try to rein in that restlessness as best we can. While I think the convent would be eminently. suited to this, your mother feels someone of your talent might be stifled in so stringent an environment. Accordingly, she has suggested that the art school in Paris you mentioned
last month is the best solution—”
Maggie could not contain her feelings this time. She whirled around to face her mother. “No!” she cried incredulously. “Really? Do you really mean it?”
Lady Herbert was a little better at disguising her emotions. “Yes, dear,” she said calmly, though her face was beaming with pleasure. “You’re to start in the fall—”
Maggie fell upon her mother’s neck in a rain of grateful tears. Her father, still seated behind his desk, cleared his throat several times before he again captured the attention of both women. “This is not meant as a reward, Margaret,” he reminded her severely. “You are to study hard, and any reports I hear from Madame Bonheur about any more, er, skittish behavior will result in your immediate removal … .”
“Oh, yes, Papa,” Maggie sniffled happily, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief her mother had extracted from her sleeve. “You shan’t regret allowing me this opportunity. I swear you won’t hear a peep from Madame Bonheur, except in praise.”
“I sincerely hope so. We shall be sending Hill with you, young lady, to keep an eye on you. Don’t think we’d ever allow you out of England without a chaperon.”
“Of course not,” Maggie said, from her perch on the arm of her mother’s chair. “Oh, Papa, you don’t know what this means to me—”
“No, you’re right,” Sir Arthur interrupted a bit testily. “I don’t. In my day, young women didn’t follow young men into stables … particularly not unmarried dukes! And they certainly didn’t go to art school, either. I don’t pretend to understand what’s happening to this generation, and I don’t expect I ever will. A woman’s place is in the home, keeping her husband happy and providing him with heirs. Your sisters all seem to have grasped that concept. It is my hope, Margaret, that when you’ve gotten this infernal interest in doodling out of your system, you will return home and settle down with a suitable fellow, like your sister Anne has. I don’t understand why you can’t be more like Anne. Anne never insisted upon attending school in France. English schools were fine enough for your sisters. And when they were through with their education, they married, exactly as ladies should. This unfortunate new propensity women seem to have to want to pursue an occupation outside the home will be the ruin of all—”
“Yes, Arthur,” Lady Herbert said, reaching up to tuck a lock of her daughter’s hair behind her ear. “I know. But Maggie isn’t like our other girls. She’s special.”
“Especially troublesome,” Sir Arthur grunted, “is all I can tell that’s special about her. Now, if you two are done weeping, I’d like my supper. And what’s that you’ve got on your finger, Margaret? Some kind of bandage? What have you done to yourself now?”
After supper, Maggie repaired to her room with Hill, her mother’s maid, to start making a list of things they’d both need for Paris. True, she wasn’t leaving for another four months, but Maggie felt it was never too early to start planning for an extended trip abroad. Besides, she needed something to keep her mind off what had happened earlier in the day, and constant activity had a way, she’d noted, of keeping one from brooding.
Not that Maggie was brooding over the Duke of Rawlings. Not at all. She understood perfectly what had happened between them, and felt nothing but the most excruciating embarrassment—and occasional burst of anger—because of it. It was all perfectly obvious. Jeremy, bored, had chosen to pass a little of his spare time attempting to seduce a girl with whom he’d been childhood friends. It was certainly nothing more than that, or wouldn’t have been, if Lord Edward hadn’t caught them.
Of course, there was the fact that Maggie had allowed it to happen at all to be taken into account, but that was fairly easily explained. She had always been a highly excitable sort of girl, and she had simply gotten carried away by the moment. Fortunately, she had been saved from ruin—this time—and had learned a valuable lesson in the meantime, which was that men were not to be trusted, and, more importantly, she was not to trust herself around men, either. Prevention of future, similar incidents would be all too easy. She’d simply never allow herself to be alone with a man again. That was all.
Problem solved.
Her first chance to put her new prevention plan into practice came a little sooner than anticipated, however. As she and Hill were cataloguing the contents of the wardrobe in her dressing room, Maggie heard a tap on the French doors to the terrace just off her bedroom, and when she went to open them, thinking it was her cat asking to be let in, she was startled to find the Duke of Rawlings standing in the moonlight, a warning finger to his lips.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” he whispered.
Maggie, one hand still on the door latch, the other on the frame, said, through suddenly bloodless lips, “Have you lost your mind? My father is downstairs. If he finds you up here, he’ll kill you.”
“He will not,” Jeremy said, looking perfectly unimpressed. “I’m his employer, remember?”
“Acting as your solicitor is his hobby,” Maggie said, with an imperious toss of her head. “He certainly doesn’t need the work. He is a man of independent means. Now go away.”
She tried to close the door, but to her fury, Jeremy insinuated a booted foot between the door and the frame, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not shut him out.
“Do you mind?” she demanded at last. “I never want to speak to you again.”
The moonlight was strong enough for Maggie to see the corners of Jeremy’s lips curl up. “That sounded very convincing, Mags. Maybe if you actually kept your mouth shut, the threat would carry some weight.”
Furious, Maggie hissed through clenched teeth, “I mean it, Jerry. You got me in a lot of trouble today—”
“I got you in trouble?” Jeremy interrupted with a humorless laugh. “Oh, I like that! I’m not the one going about, looking like that … .” He nodded at her meaningfully.
“Looking like what?” Maggie demanded defensively.
“Like every man’s idea of perfection,” he finished, though he clearly hadn’t wanted to admit it. “Now, are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to rush the door?”
“Don’t you dare!” Maggie’s cheeks were on fire. Over her dead body was there going to be a repeat performance of what had happened that afternoon. “I nearly got sent to a convent because of you!”
Jeremy took a deep breath, as if fighting for patience. “Look, Mags,” he said at last. “I’ve come to apologize. Will you let me in? Or am I going to have to stand out here and shout until your father comes along and puts a bullet in my brain?”
Maggie’s heart began its unsteady rattle inside her chest once more. “I—” She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but it wasn’t Hill she was worried about. It was her bed, a very large, comfortable four-poster, looming just a few yards away. “It’s just that …”
Jeremy held out both of his hands. Even in the moonlight, they still looked menacingly large and masculine to Maggie. “If it’s these you’re afraid of,” he said amiably, “they’ll stay in my trouser pockets. I swear it.”
Maggie stuck out her chin. “I’m not afraid of you,” she lied contemptuously.
“Oh, I know,” Jeremy said with a smug smile. “I’ve got the bruises to show it. So if that’s the case, why not let me in?”
It was a challenge. Maggie could not back down from it, and still retain what little honor she had left. So, eyeing him distrustfully, Maggie called, over her shoulder, “Hill?”
From the depths of her dressing room came a muffled, “Yes, miss?”
Keeping a careful eye on the man on her terrace, Maggie asked, “Hill, would you be so good as to leave the rest until tomorrow? I’m afraid I’ve developed a headache. I want to go to bed now.”
Behind her, the middle-aged maid popped her head out from the dressing room. “A headache, miss?”
Belatedly, Maggie realized her excuse had not been a good one. Miss Margaret Herbert had never been ill a day in her life, and the entire staff at Herbert Park knew it
.
“Do you want me to fetch your mother? Or the surgeon, Mr. Parks?”
“Oh,” Maggie said, turning swiftly so that her back was to the French doors. “No, that isn’t necessary. I just need a little sleep, that’s all.”
“P’raps I should fetch a tonic fer you, miss. Wouldn’t be no trouble a’ tall—”
“No, no,” Maggie said, waving away the older woman’s concern. “Just run along, and thank you so much. We’ll finish tomorrow.”
The maid bobbed a slightly disapproving curtsy. “Very well, miss. But if you be needin’ a tonic later, be sure to ring fer me.”
“Yes, Hill, I will.” Maggie smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”
No sooner had the woman closed the bedroom door behind her than Jeremy came barreling in through the French doors, nearly knocking Maggie over in his haste to get inside.
“So,” he said, after taking a long and careful look about the white, femininely furnished room. “I’ve finally been granted admittance into Miss Margaret Herbert’s boudoir. I must say, I feel honored. I’ve never seen anything quite so virginal in all my life.”
“Oh, do be quiet.” Blushing furiously, Maggie went to the terrace doors, which he’d left standing wide open, and closed them. “It’s no thanks to you that my virginity’s still intact, thank you very much.”
Jeremy raised his eyebrows at this piece of information, but decided that he’d best not pursue that particular topic. “Yes,” he said. To be on the safe side, he put his fingers in his pockets, as promised. “Well. I’m sorry about all that. Were they really going to stick you in a convent?”
“Yes.” Maggie had never let a member of the opposite sex into her bedroom before, and it was only after she’d already admitted one that she realized what a dreadfully inappropriate place it was to entertain a man. Undergarments lay in untidy piles all about the room, including her torn crinoline, looking like a deflated birdcage on the floor, and various pairs of stockings, camisoles, and corsets draped over the back of a pink satin chair. Jeremy, after his initial comment, tactfully ignored these things, however, and strolled—his hands in his pockets, as promised—over to the easel she’d set up by the bay window.
Portrait of My Heart Page 7
