Margarita and the Earl

by Joan Wolf

  “Yes, my lord,” said Reid. He was almost smiling. Nicholas went upstairs to dress and in forty-five minutes was on his way to Oxford.

  *

  It was a beautiful, warm summer day when the Earl of Winslow’s carriage stopped in front of a charming brick cottage with a front yard full of truly magnificent flowers. He told the coachman to take the horses to an inn in Oxford and wait for further directions. The carriage pulled away and he was left looking at his mother’s house. Very slowly, he walked up the path.

  His knock was answered by a young maidservant, who showed him into a cozy sunny room with faded chintz and bowls of flowers. Mrs. Hamilton was in the garden, she told him. Whom should she say was asking to see her?

  “The Earl of Winslow,” said Nicholas.

  The young girl’s eyes widened, and she left the room with rapid steps. After her footsteps faded, the house was quiet. Nicholas listened, but could hear no sound of either his wife or his son. He walked to the window and looked out at a beautiful rose garden. He was still standing there, looking at the garden, when his mother came to the door. The maid had not closed it, and he did not hear the light step on the worn carpeting, but quite suddenly he knew she was there. He had always known, he remembered, whenever she entered a room he was in. He turned around. “Hello, Mother,” he said.

  Her hair was less silver than gold, he saw, and her eyes were the same vivid dark blue. He would know those eyes anywhere. She was very pale, but at his words the color flushed into her cheeks, making her look almost as young as he remembered her. She looked, searchingly, into his face. “Nicholas,” she said falteringly, and then, hesitantly held out her hands. He was across the room in two strides and had her in his arms.

  Charlotte was the one to loosen her grip first. “Let me look at you,” she said softly, and reached up to cup his face between her hands. “You’ve grown so tall! Why you must be over six feet.”

  “Six-three, to be precise,” he answered, smiling down at her. “It annoyed my uncle no end that he had to look up at me.”

  “You get your height from the Holts,” she said. She turned him a little toward the window so the sun fell full on his face, then she let him go. “You’re even better looking than your father, and I always thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen.”

  “I seem to have inherited more than his looks,” Nicholas said, a strain of bitterness in his voice. “Can you ever forgive me, Mother, for my abominable behavior toward you all these years?”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she replied calmly. “I always understood how you felt.”

  A muscle jumped along his jaw. “God!” he exclaimed. “The generosity of women! I totally ignore my mother for seventeen years and she says there’s nothing to forgive. I behave so outrageously to my wife that she is forced to flee from my house, and then she writes to tell me it was wicked of her to leave me, that she will try to be a good wife to me in the future, and will I please take her back. The both of you ought to tell me never to darken your doors again.”

  Charlotte was smiling at him. She picked up his hand and patted it. “We could never do that. Now tell me, do you want Margarita back?”

  He stared at her. “Want her back? Of course I want her back!”

  “Why, Nicholas?”

  Her eyes, with the glimmer of a smile in the dark blue depths, were so familiar. “Because I love her,” he replied, his voice calmer than it had been.

  The smile in her eyes grew. “I thought perhaps you might. She has been so very unhappy, Nicholas.”

  “I know. This whole mess has been my fault, Mother. I only hope I can put it right.”

  “Just tell her what you told me, darling. That is what she needs to hear.”

  Her eyes held his for a minute longer and then he sighed. “Yes, I know. Where is she now?”

  “She went up to her room to lie down.”

  He hesitated a minute and she said, “It is the second door on the right as you go down the hallway. Go up to her, Nicholas.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” he said simply, and went.

  *

  It was a warm day and Margarita had taken off her dress and lain down in her chemise and petticoat. She was lying curled on her side, trying to stop thinking and drift off to sleep, when a knock came at the door. Startled, she sat up. “Yes?” she called. “Is it you, Charlotte? Come in.” The door opened and her husband was there.

  “It isn’t Charlotte,” he said. “May I come in?”

  “Nicholas!” Her hand flew to her throat. “Yes, of course. Come in. I did not think to see you so quickly.”

  “Did you not?” He closed the door behind him and came over to the bed. “My mother sent me up,” he said.

  “Your mother? Oh, Nicholas, have you seen her then?”

  “Yes. And I have apologized for my outrageous neglect, and she has assured me that I am forgiven.”

  “I am so glad,” she said softly.

  He stood silent for a minute, gathering his thoughts and looking at her. “Will you forgive me?” he asked.

  She bowed her head. “It is I who should be asking that of you. It was very wrong of me to have run away.”

  “It was the smartest thing you could have done,” he said flatly, and she raised wide, wondering eyes to his face. It was very serious. “I have loved you for so long, Margarita, but it wasn’t until you left me that I realized how very much you meant to me. You are the most important thing in the world to me, and I will never ever even look at another woman again. I promise.”

  At his first mention of love, Margarita’s eyes began to glow, and by the time his speech was finished her face was radiant. “Oh, Nicholas,” she said huskily. “Oh, my love.” Then she was in his arms, the roughness of his coat under her cheek. She closed her eyes and clung to him tightly. His cheek was against her hair.

  “My little love,” he was saying. “My little love.” Then, his voice sounding rougher, he said, “I meant what I said just now, Margarita. I only got involved with those other women because I was trying to prove to myself that I didn’t need you. It was a piece of colossal stupidity only I could have invented. And all I succeeded in doing was demonstrating the opposite.”

  Her voice was muffled by his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him. “Are you going to let me get off scot-free, then?” he asked softly.

  The brown eyes gazing at him were big and dark and bottomless. “Yes,” she whispered.

  His face was intent, profoundly serious. She knew what was coming next and felt the tremor deep within her. She raised her face a little, and his mouth came down on top of hers.

  *

  “We’ll go back to Winslow,” he said about an hour later. “You don’t really like London, and Nicky is much better off in the country.”

  She smiled. “I do like it best at Winslow. I have you and I have Nicky. I don’t need anything else.”

  “Mmm.” He was propped on one elbow, looking down at her face.

  “Perhaps we can have another baby,” she said, very softly.

  “That would be nice, but I wouldn’t mind waiting for a little while.” Very gently he ran his finger around her nipple. “Trying to make one is so much fun.”

  “Nicholas…” She tried to ignore the ache inside her his roving finger was creating. “What must your mother be thinking?”

  “The worst,” he murmured, and after a moment of token resistance, she capitulated.

  They missed tea and arrived downstairs only five minutes before dinner. “Nicky has been fed and is now asleep,” Charlotte informed them placidly. She looked shrewdly at the two young faces before her and smiled. “Dinner is served. You must be hungry.”

  Nicholas grinned. “Starved, Mother,” he said, and Margarita blushed.

  Later, after dinner, as they sat in the comfortable sitting room, he said, “Would you care to come and live at Winslow, Mother? Both Margarita and I w
ould love to have you.”

  There was suspicious brightness in Charlotte’s eyes, but she shook her head. “Thank you, darling, but I like my little cottage. It holds many happy memories for me, and I have some good friends in the neighborhood. When John died, I was afraid I should have to give it up, but thanks to my son I was able to keep it.”

  “You owe small thanks to your son for anything, Mother,” he said bitterly.

  Charlotte smiled at Margarita. “For how long do you think he means to keep this up?”

  Margarita’s answering smile was full of identical humor and tolerance. “I don’t know,” she replied.

  Nicholas scanned their two faces, taking in the kinship of expression. “Not for very long if you two plan to take sides against me,” he said drily, and both his mother and his wife laughed.

  “But seriously, Charlotte,” Margarita said, “if you won’t make your home with us, I hope you will come on long visits. Nicky has grown so fond of you. And I, also.”

  Charlotte smiled. “And I have come to love you both.”

  “Then you will at least come for visits?” put in Nicholas.

  “You couldn’t keep me away,” she assured him. She was sitting in a high-backed chintz-covered chair, her hands resting loosely on the arms. Nicholas leaned forward a little from the sofa where he was seated next to Margarita, and briefly covered one of his mother’s hands with his own. She looked for a minute at the large, strong hand that rested on hers and then raised her eyes to his face. The gray-green eyes were warm and unguarded, and reflected back her own feelings of tenderness and love.

  “We will expect you next week, then,” said Margarita serenely.

  Nicholas removed his hand from his mother’s and turned to look at his wife. He had a sudden urge to put his arm around her and hold her to him. All this, he thought, his mind encompassing Charlotte, the warmth and love in the room, the baby sleeping upstairs, all of this is because of Margarita. But he refrained from reaching for her; her Spanish dignity would be offended by so public an embrace. He contented himself with an endorsement of her invitation. “Next week,” he repeated, then yawned hugely. “By George, but I’m tired. Think I’ll turn in.”

  His mother looked amused. “By all means. It has been a rather exciting day. You two go ahead upstairs. I’ll just see about locking up here below.”

  “Good night, Mother.” He bent and kissed her cheek. He went to the door and held it for his wife. “Coming, Margarita?”

  “Good night, Charlotte,” she said sedately. She too kissed her mother-in-law’s cheek and then crossed the room to her husband. With beautiful dignity, she passed out of the room, and Nicholas, watching her straight back as it preceded him up the stairs, smiled imperceptibly.

  About the Author

  Joan Wolf is a USA TODAY bestselling author whose highly reviewed books include some forty novels set in the period of the English Regency, earning her national recognition as a master of the genre. She fell in love with the Regency period when she was a young girl and discovered the novels of Georgette Heyer. Although she has strayed from the period now and then, it has always remained her favorite.

  Joan was born and brought up in New York City, but has spent most of her adult life with her husband and two children in Connecticut. She has a passion for animals and over the years has filled the house with a variety of much-loved dogs and cats. Her great love for her horses has spilled over into every book she has written. The total number of her published novels is fifty-three, and she has no plans to retire.

  “Joan Wolf never fails to deliver the best.”

  —Nora Roberts

  “Joan Wolf is absolutely wonderful. I’ve loved her work for years.”

  —Iris Johansen

  “As a writer, she’s an absolute treasure.”

  —Linda Howard

  “Strong, compelling fiction.”

  —Amanda Quick

  “Joan Wolf writes with an absolute emotional mastery that goes straight to the heart.”

  —Mary Jo Putney

  “Wolf’s Regency historicals are as delicious and addictive as dark, rich, Belgian chocolates.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Joan Wolf is back in the Regency saddle—hallelujah!”

  —Catherine Coulter

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