When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  “I will leave you. And when we meet again, rest assured, it will be the fulfillment of my dreams, and I don’t care in the least how many men there were before in your life, for we’ll begin life anew together.”

  He didn’t kiss her. He smiled, dropped her hands, turned and left.

  When he was gone, Maggie fell to her knees, asking for forgiveness.

  And she hated herself because the most vile thoughts still came to mind to haunt her. Was this right? How could it be? Jamie would still be in her life, he was Charles’s great nephew, his heir—unless this marriage brought forth a son, and God help her, but that idea made her shudder. Memories of the night gone by were too vivid in her mind, and she knew that she could never go back, that she would always wonder. . . .

  And yet, Jamie didn’t share his great uncle’s belief that her worldly pursuits were in the least intelligent. He was quick to her rescue, but because of Charles. And he had felt that same desperate pull she had known herself, and they had spent a night together, but what did that mean? A moment’s pleasure, and nothing more.

  The Christ figure from the crucifix above the altar, carved hundreds of years ago, stared down at her with reproach.

  “I will be a good wife to Charles, I swear it. I will be all that he wants!” she said, and she knew that she was pleading, seeking redemption for her sins. She suddenly felt that they had been many.

  At last, she crossed herself, rose, and left the chapel. It was time to dress for her wedding.

  As she left the chapel, she reflected that she might have told Charles that his daughter despised her, as well.

  To hell with both Arianna and Jamie. She would be a good wife.

  * * *

  Despite the fact that the chapel was a small distance from the house, Justin could hear the music as he adjusted his cravat. He was late; his fingers kept tangling with themselves. He was to give his sister away.

  He shook his head, annoyed with himself, afraid that even now, in the midst of the ceremony, he would suddenly rise and scream. He would protest. It would be horrible. He’d shout out that Sir Charles was an old, old man and his sister was young and good and beautiful and it was simply disgusting and wrong.

  No, no. Lord Charles would have apoplexy from the horror. Maggie would probably drop dead on the spot with shame. She had sworn again and again that she wasn’t just resigned to her marriage, she wanted it. And maybe it was true that the youth and desire once in her heart had died along with Nathan, and that her passions in life, with which Lord Charles could help her, were now of utmost importance to her.

  Swearing, he started out to the hall, still trying to tie the cravat.

  “Hell’s fire and dog’s balls!” he swore, quite certain that he was alone.

  But a soft giggle alerted him to the fact that someone was near.

  “Here! Let me help you, sir!”

  A girl stepped out from the archway. She was dressed in a poor woolen cap, a servant’s bonnet on her head. She must have been watching the pageantry below from the safety of the archway at the top of the landing.

  “Can you help me?” he said. “And forgive my slip of the tongue.”

  “If only that were the only thing to forgive today!” she muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Oh, nothing!” she murmured.

  “Will you help me?”

  She stepped closer, leaving the shadows of the archway behind. His breath seemed to catch in his throat. He’d never seen skin so delicate, so pure, an ivory, almost as fine and white as snow. Her eyes were the darkest he’d ever seen. Her hair . . . a pure symphony in black velvet.

  She paused, looking up at him. Her eyes widened as she surveyed him. She moistened her lips suddenly.

  “I . . . I . . .” she stammered.

  “I’m so sorry to ask your assistance,” Justin said. He couldn’t draw his eyes from hers. It seemed that he breathed her now. And what he inhaled was youth and beauty and purity. It was intoxicating.

  He heard the damnable music again.

  “I’m desperate!” he whispered.

  “Yes, yes, let me help you.”

  She came closer to tie the cravat. Their faces, oh, God, just a whisper of a breath, and he’d be kissing her. A servant girl. Ah, imagine the scandal! The sister, marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather. The brother, taking up with a serving wench.

  What the hell did he care? What had Maggie told him? Marry anyone, noblewoman or commoner, just so long as she was young and . . .

  This incredible sweet beauty was young.

  He felt the expulsion of her breath against his lower jaw, his lips. And he couldn’t help himself. “You’re . . . incredible,” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “It’s not tied quite properly.”

  He smiled very slowly. She hadn’t really moved away. He saw her eyes widen again, and the way that she looked at him, and he suddenly understood what all the poets meant when they said that their hearts sang. Yes, she felt it too, this wonder, amazement, sensation, incredulous belief that the entire world would be right, if only they were together.

  He took hold of her shoulders suddenly, telling her, “Wait for me, please? Wait for me, until after the ceremony. I have to know you. And no, please, nothing, nothing . . . there is nothing not perfectly right in this, really. I’ll . . . I’ll explain.”

  The music rose high with a thudding urgency.

  “I’ll be back!”

  Justin raced on down the stairs. Maggie was waiting for him in a little antechamber. The wedding itself was down a few steps from the grand salon, in the family chapel.

  “Justin!” She was anxious and nervous, near to tears.

  “Maggie!”

  He stepped back, breathless again, amazed at the sight of his own sister.

  She hadn’t worn white. She was marrying for a second time. Neither had she chosen a beige or off-white. She had gone for a soft, aqua-toned blue.

  And she was a vision, shattering, awe-inspiring. Her hair was free, her veil was attached to a small, pearled crown, one proper for the wife of a viscount. The veil was sheer, floating behind her. With her reddish-gold hair falling in waves behind her, she looked like a fairy queen, an ice queen perhaps, perfect in her face and form.

  He took her hand.

  “Please, Justin, we’ve kept them waiting.”

  They started across the salon.

  He balked suddenly, almost weeping. “I can’t do it, Maggie. I can’t.”

  “Justin! I’m going with or without you!” she warned, and her voice threatened tears as well. “Please, please, please, don’t do this to me now!”

  “Maggie!”

  He hugged her tightly.

  “Go!” she whispered.

  He nodded miserably and took a deep breath.

  Then, with tremendous dignity, they started for the chapel.

  * * *

  The bride was late. Standing at Charles’s side, Jamie wondered if that meant she was having difficulty going through with the wedding. For several moments, his sense of bitterness was tempered with hope.

  Except that he shouldn’t feel that way. One look at Charles, and he knew that the man was living for this dream. And why not? He would have a lifetime of magic.

  Charles had confided in Jamie that he’d met Maggie earlier, here, in the chapel, that she had been near tears, that she had tried to make all kinds of confessions.

  Jamie wondered then if he should make a confession of his own. Then, he thought, no. He could not. Because if the bride had decided to go through with it, he didn’t have the right.

  Bitterness filled him again. She had been nothing less than fantasy and magic, as sensual as the earth, and something far above. Thinking of last night made his blood pound against his veins, and his cravat seem far too tight at his throat.

  She must have felt, surely, she had felt something of the same!

  She would not come. She would not go through with this.

  But
there she was, on Justin’s arm, coming into the chapel. And she was a vision. God, yes, her hair was loose, brushed to a high gloss, shining like a halo around her. Her eyes were as deep a blue as the ocean at its depths, her stature, her walk, her every movement, supple, graceful . . .

  He almost groaned aloud. Almost spoke.

  And then he saw his uncle’s face.

  His hands balled fiercely into fists at his side. He wouldn’t speak, God help him, he wouldn’t speak.

  She had made her choice.

  * * *

  Maggie had chosen to keep the wedding as quiet as possible, and Charles had tried to accede to her wishes. But though the Queen had decided not to come, Her Royal Majesty had sent gifts and envoys, since Charles was one of her favorites. Maggie had attended some social functions in the last years, but admittedly, after her marriage to Nathan, she had not been on many guest lists.

  So, she only knew half the names Justin murmured to her as they walked down the aisle and there were at least fifty people present. A few were her own friends from the limited circle she had maintained. Andrew and Missy Kelton, from her reading group. Sir Arnold Brighton and his daughter, Lindsey, from the Salvation Army. Father Vickers. She would have smiled at them as she passed, except that she couldn’t seem to do anything other than keep one expression glued to her face.

  There, naturally, was her Uncle Angus, her cousins, and their wives. Strange, she never seemed to visit her family. Today, they might have been as close as a band of thieves. She was marrying an important man, so naturally, they were in attendance. Frankly, she should be grateful that Angus had found the husband for her—and not an aging bride for Justin. Angus stood to gain a great deal, if Justin were to perish without a male heir. Before the demise of Angus’s wife a good twenty-something years ago, she had given Angus three sons, Sean, Stuart, and Tristan. In turn, her cousins had married well, and their offspring included half a dozen boys. They were darling children, however, they weren’t at the wedding. She enjoyed the boys, and many times, had tried to tell herself that it wouldn’t be so terrible should one of them inherit the title.

  It was only Angus himself who galled her so.

  Angus, who watched her come down the aisle, an ever-calculating smile on his face.

  She looked away.

  Justin gave her a nudge in the ribs.

  She realized that her brother was pointing out Her Grace, the Duchess, Lady Marian. Both the Prince of Wales and his son, Eddy, were in attendance, along with Princess Alexandra. That meant, certainly, that a number of the fashionably dressed fellows in attendance were guards for the royal family.

  The royalty might have given her a start, except that her attention was diverted elsewhere.

  Jamie stood beside Charles, somber and elegant in a black waistcoat, jacket, and trousers, and perfectly starched white shirt. His hair appeared as dark as pitch, an absolute opposite to the snow white cap of hair upon the groom.

  He stared at her, straight at her. And she felt a shudder within, for he looked at her with such loathing, and such contempt!

  How had he ever been so passionate, so vital, and so tender?

  That had been last night . . .

  And this was now. And now . . .

  She had been engaged to Charles, and still, she had fallen into his arms so easily! Did he hate her just for that . . .

  Or because he hated himself, just a little, too?

  She missed a step, and nearly tripped. Her brother’s strong arm kept her from falling. She quickly recovered, and knew that she would be all right, as long as she didn’t look at Jamie.

  When she refocused her gaze, she saw Mireau. Very handsome in his formal attire, he was near the front, and he smiled encouragingly to her.

  You are beautiful, like an angel! he mouthed to her.

  She managed a smile.

  Then all the names and faces became a blur as her brother handed her over to Charles. She was afraid, at first, that she was going to have to tug away from her brother. He didn’t seem to want to let her go. What a scandal that would make. Brother and sister busy at fisticuffs in the midst of such a noble and solemn rite!

  But Justin released her at last and kept quiet when the Very Reverend Father Ethan Miller asked if there was anyone present who might object. Then the ceremony went on, and Maggie felt as if she had entered a netherworld, as if she were there, but not there. She watched as if from afar, as if she had somehow brought her soul to rest high above the altar, as if the proceedings involved someone else entirely, a shell of herself. She heard all the words she had heard before, and she felt in her heart that she was the greatest liar ever to live. Love, honor, and obey? She did love Charles, but as a good friend. Honor? Certainly, he was a man worthy of incredible honor. Obey?

  Sadly, it wasn’t in her chemistry to obey anyone, and for one absurd moment, she considered stopping the Anglican priest to argue the point. Why did such a promise have to be in a wedding ceremony? They were not living in the Dark Ages. Women were doing incredible things, laws were changing, and . . .

  “You may now kiss the bride!”

  And Charles turned to her. She saw his smile, and felt him draw her close, and then he kissed her.

  Dry parchment against her lips. She felt nothing, and even as that kiss ceremonially sealed her vows, she found herself remembering a touch that was liquid fire, glorious in the extreme, awakening every fiber of her being.

  And then it was over. Charles’s eyes were on her with sheer delight, and they had turned. A hail of rice fell upon them, and she was blinded as they walked back down the aisle.

  Charles had hired a photographer, and the man waited for them just outside, determined to take advantage of the last rays of sunlight. He was every inch the Viscount then, noble and kind but authoritative, directing his guests as to where and when to pose. First, naturally, the royals were asked to join with the bride and groom, and they were charming. She had heard that the threesome had been at an opera house lately—the booming industry of the last decades had brought about many changes, and there were those who were heartily against what they considered the excesses of the Royal House. Perhaps with good reason, for though Maggie knew that the Queen was distressed by many conditions within the city of London and its surroundings, she was blind to many of the activities practiced within her own family.

  She now knew, with certainty, that the Prince of Wales was a flagrant philanderer, and that Prince Eddy . . . had many different tastes.

  There was a moment when she felt a small seizure of panic, as she wondered if the Prince of Wales himself might recognize her as being the woman at the table so near his own the night before. But he gave no sign, and Princess Alexandra was as sweet and courteous as one could hope.

  The royals moved on to the house, where the reception would take place, and then, Charles wanted photographs with just himself and Maggie; then the wedding party, Justin and Jamie, then her family, including Angus, the sons, and the wives. Then his family, Jamie and his daughter.

  Except that Arianna was not to be found.

  He threatened no violence, and yet Maggie realized that she would not want to be his daughter, facing his displeasure.

  “Jamie, then, if you will, with my new lady wife!” Charles said, beaming.

  And so, she was stood beside Jamie, and in those terrible moments, he looked at her, and she felt as if she wanted to crawl beneath the earth and die. And though he was far too well-mannered and schooled in the mores of their society to make any outward show of his displeasure, she felt the way that he touched her as they stood for the camera. As if he had been forced to pick up dung in the streets, as if he could barely stand it until he could release her. It was as if he had touched something filthy beyond comprehension.

  “My turn!” Mireau called happily.

  She felt almost giddy with relief as her dear friend came to stand beside her, his warmth real, his friendship and loyalty always unconditional.

  At last, the photo
sessions came to an end. They moved on to the house where an orchestra played, and a grand march began for their entry. Then, the first wedding dance, a waltz, and she was pleased to discover that she could fall into step with her new husband beautifully, and despite the tremors that had taken hold of her somewhere during it all, she could move about the floor without being an incredible embarrassment to Charles.

  A magnificent dinner had been planned, and she had to marvel at the elegance and grace with which everything moved. Champagne was served, and she drank liberally, knowing she would need the fortitude for the hours to come. She met friends of Charles, and others she knew through her brother. She was walked around on her uncle’s arm to speak with various people, all members of the elite, friends from his club, those he would consider to be the right people for her to nurture in her new life.

  Each of her cousins and their wives greeted her warmly, watching her with a new esteem. Seriously, the boys were not so bad. Tristan told her that he had been studying some of the latest reports on work regarding investigations in France, and though he hadn’t told his father yet, he was seriously considering police work himself. She encouraged him, and he admitted sheepishly that he hadn’t yet admitted it to his wife.

  “There is nothing wrong with honest work, Tristan,” she told him.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I’ll support you, whatever you choose. So will Justin—and Charles!”

  Tristan nodded, grinning slowly. “I may well need your support, and you just might find that I’m forced to seek a bed within your walls.”

  “Tristan, the world has changed, and I believe that the rest of our family will have to figure that out soon.”

  He moved closer to her, speaking softly. “Indeed! It’s actually getting quite frightening. There are so many people who feel that royalty and nobility alike take such advantage of their situation—the insurrectionists are often in the streets. The royals are often booed on the streets. Not Her Majesty, the Queen, of course . . . but there are others . . .”

  She knew that he referred to the Prince of Wales, and his son, Eddy.