A Lady Most Lovely (18 page)

“Marry me,” he said.

G
auging by her expression, Margaret found his second proposal as unpalatable as the first. And yet, Tom saw confusion in her eyes, too, and this he welcomed. It was evidence that he had put at least a tiny crack into her fortress walls.

He got up from the bench and closed the gap between them. “I can help you, Margaret.”

She held up her hands as if to ward him off. “Mr. Poole, this is neither the time nor the place—”

“I mean
really
help you,” he said, cutting off her protest. She was trying to retreat again behind her pride, and Tom was determined not to let her do it. He took her hands and drew her toward him, willing her to meet his eyes. “We are no longer talking about some short loan just to get creditors out of your hair. There is far, far more at stake now.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Her silence sparked Tom’s hope. But then she dropped her gaze. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said, her voice strained.

“I’m asking you to marry me,” Tom insisted. The memory of her involuntary sigh as she had leaned against him on Castor returned to his mind, giving him confidence that she
could
find a way to love him, if only she would give her heart the chance. Gently he tilted her chin up. “Believe me on this, Margaret. Together, we can make Moreton Hall prosperous again.”

She shook her head. “Too much depends on circumstances beyond our control. Crop failures, drought, the economy. No one knows what the future holds.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Are you a fortune-teller, then? Some kind of prophet?”

“I’m not talking about me. The Lord holds tomorrow. We must allow Him to work, and trust His ways.”

“God?” she said with a scoff.

“Haven’t you ever wondered if the Lord had some plan in mind for you—some special purpose for your life?”

She walked over to the window, staring out at the streaming rain. “I haven’t had time for philosophical questions. I’ve been too busy running this estate and digging out from under the mountain of debt my father left behind. Not to mention keeping pretenders at bay.”

“Pretenders?” Tom said curiously. “You make it sound like the throne of a kingdom.”

“The problem is the same,” Margaret declared. “Moreton Hall was entailed, as these things often are, to firstborn sons. When it became clear that I would be my father’s only child, my grandfather moved heaven and earth—and the necessary parliamentary powers—to break the entail so that I could inherit. If he had not done
so, the estate would have passed to my cousin when my father died.”

“You called him a ‘pretender.’ Does that mean he still feels entitled to this inheritance?”

She clenched her fists. “Richard Spencer will never,
ever,
own this estate,” she said fiercely. “I will do whatever it takes to prevent it.”

Tom now understood why Margaret was so dead set on keeping Moreton Hall at all costs. She was in the middle of a family feud, and she was determined to win it. “So you do have a purpose in life,” he pointed out drily.

Her eyes flashed. “You may call it what you like. I call it fighting for my family honor. And what about you?” she challenged. “What is your
purpose
in life?”

What drive and determination she had, Tom thought. What strength and resourcefulness. Yet somehow she did not see the obvious solution to her problems, although it was right here, right in front of her. It was time to show her.

*

Tom swiftly crossed the room. Margaret was so taken by surprise that she did not think to resist as he took her into his arms. He drew her close, and she was met with the intoxicating scent of rain and soap and starched linen. She found herself inhaling, remaining in his arms, feeling the heat of his chest through his still-damp shirt. “There is one thing that I am very sure I must do,” he murmured in her ear. He cradled her face with one hand and brought his lips to hers.

He kissed intently, as though wanting to draw Margaret out of herself and into him. And suddenly, she
found she wanted to go there, wanted to lose herself in the heady emotions he was arousing. She delighted in the feel of being pressed against his broad chest as his strong arms wrapped tightly around her. He seemed to radiate more heat than the fire. He kept kissing her, exploring her mouth with confident sensuality.

At last he moved to kiss her cheek, to nuzzle her neck. He murmured something very softly, so low Margaret could hardly make out the words. Then she realized he was not talking to her. “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered.

A flash of lightning lit up the cottage, followed by a crack of thunder so deafening they both jumped. Margaret was grateful for the interruption. This was not right; she could not be falling for this man. She went to the fireplace, feigning a need to warm her hands, although she would have done better to step outside and allow the pelting rain to cool her body, which was alive with the flames of desire.

“
That,
” said Tom from behind her, “was what the etiquette books call a frightful breach of protocol.” But he spoke without a trace of remorse. In fact, Margaret thought with hot embarrassment, he sounded rather pleased with himself. She kept her eyes glued to the crackling hearth, trying to still her wildly beating heart.

He came up behind her, and she could feel him standing just inches away. His mere presence called out for her to turn and melt back into his arms. “Come now, Maggie,” he whispered. “Didn’t you like that just a little?”

Grabbing on to what presence of mind she had left, she turned to face him. “My name is
Margaret,
” she said, dredging up all the chilly authority she could muster.

He laughed, not the least bit put off by her rebuff. “I think
Maggie
suits you much better.”

He had to be toying with her. No one had ever called her anything but Margaret, not even members of her family. Coming from Tom it sounded too tantalizingly familiar, like the memory of his kiss that still burned on her lips.

“How beautiful you are,” Tom observed. “You have such a lovely blush on your face just now.”

His words only fueled the flame in her cheeks. “It is from anger!” she protested. “You took ungentlemanly advantage.” Thunder shook the house once more. “Hah!” she said disparagingly. “Perhaps God does not approve either.”

But nothing she said rattled him. He only laughed again. “Why do people think thunderstorms are a sign that God is angry? Perhaps, Maggie, it means He is up in the heavens jumping up and down and shouting for joy.”

He seemed determined to keep her off-balance. “Why would God be jumping for joy because you kissed me? And I told you, my name is—”

“Hear me out,” he interrupted. “And let us consider the question logically.”

His dark eyes regarded her steadily from under full brows. The firelight played on the late-day growth of stubble on his jaw, illuminating the roughness she had felt against her cheeks just moments ago. She ought to step away, tell him to leave at once. And yet her feet refused to move, even as her eyes refused to quit his gaze. “What can possibly be logical about this?” she said, her voice a small gasp. Even now, she was embarrassed at her reactions to his kiss, and how easily she had lost control.

“It’s simple, really,” Tom said. “You are in need of money. I have money.”

“Money is not the only issue,” she protested.

“I realize that,” he said doggedly. “You are concerned
about your family honor. You think I am beneath you, perhaps. I don’t have some lofty lineage that goes back to William the Conqueror.” There was an edge to his voice now. “But allow me to remind you of one very important fact, Maggie: you were about to marry into such a family, but you would have been forever bound to a man who is a liar and a cheat.”

Tom’s words struck home. His unvarnished honesty sliced through her objections like a knife, but they cut her bitterly in the process. Margaret looked away, chafing at his words but unable to refute them.

“Now let’s talk about my family,” Tom continued. “Lord Somerville is one of the most respected men in the House of Lords. Lizzie is the kindest and truest soul, and the venerable Thornboroughs have accepted her without hesitation. You could do far worse than to marry into such a family.”

Margaret still did not answer. She refused to accept the rosy picture that Tom was painting. There had been no bastards in Paul’s family tree—no scandal at all, only staid respectability. If only he had lived up to his honorable heritage! Then Margaret would not be forced to stand here, alone in this cottage, having a soul-baring conversation with a man who would not leave her in peace.

When at last she spared him a glance, she saw that he was watching her intently. “Have you thought beyond your own lifetime?” he asked. “You fight to keep your inheritance intact, but who will inherit if you don’t have children?”

“Enough!” she cried, pushed to her limit by his unrelenting arguments. “It is no reason to rush into marriage. I am young; I have time.”

“I would not delay even a year,” he said. “The land won’t wait.”

His insistent urging kept pushing her to places she didn’t want to go. “What can you possibly know about it?” she accused. “What makes you such an expert?”

“Was Paul an expert?” he shot back.

Margaret gasped. “Paul was a
gentleman!
” she sputtered. “Naturally he would leave the day-to-day management to a land steward, but—”

“I
know
farming,” Tom cut in. “I’m also an expert with the care and training of horses, and—unlike some men—I’ve proved I can properly handle great sums of money.” It was a dig at Paul, and by implication everything Margaret had tried to do on her own. He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was calm and gentle. “But there’s something even more important than all of those things, Maggie. I will be a good husband to you. And how much is that worth?”

Margret trembled as he ran a light hand across her cheek, sending shock waves of unwanted pleasure through her. The vision he painted was so enticing. How easy it would be to give in, to believe he could make good on all his promises. But she had already learned the hard way that when something sounded too good to be true, it was. She fought to clear her mind of the fog that seemed to envelop it. She couldn’t think straight when he was near. He threw every one of her emotions into disarray. Did she really want to place herself under the power of such a man?
No.
She was on the verge of losing all she held dear; she could not add the risk of losing the deepest part of her heart as well.

If he would not accept her refusal, then she would
simply have to get him to rescind his offer. “Very well, Mr. Poole.”

Her abrupt change in tactic seemed to take him momentarily by surprise. “Very well?” he repeated with a questioning lilt. “Are you accepting my proposal, then?”

Margaret allowed herself a crisp nod of her head. “A fortunate choice of words. For it is a proposal, is it not? A
business
proposal. If I marry you, I gain financial security and some advantage in society. If you marry me, you gain important real estate.”

“If you wish to discuss marriage as a profit-and-loss statement, allow me to add an item. I would also gain a wife whom I find very appealing. So far, I see only advantages.” He gave her a look filled with admiration and, more unnervingly, desire. Heat consumed her face once again. Before she met Tom Poole she could have counted on one hand the times she had truly blushed. Now that he had awakened this ability in her, her body seemed to be attempting to make up for lost time.

“Yes, well…,” she stammered. With great effort, she regained her breath. She could not allow emotion to cloud her reason. She could not afford to lose her control. “I should point out that if I were to marry you, there would be an important caveat.”

He blinked.

“That means there are conditions,” she clarified.

“I know what it means,” Tom said brusquely. “You do not have to condescend to me.” He crossed his arms and gave her a wary look. “Suppose you tell me exactly what those conditions would be.”

“I have been running the affairs of this estate from the
time I was eighteen. That was about the time that my grandfather died and my father became too fond of his liquor.”

There,
she thought.
Now it is out in the open.
He would know that her father was not only a wastrel but also an unrepentant drunkard. Perhaps that would be enough to scare away Tom Poole. Everyone knew alcoholism ran in families, after all. Would he want to risk it? She watched his face for his reaction. His eyebrows lifted, but he did not look at all shocked, which was why she could not resist adding, “I do hope you have not fallen prey to this vice after years of living among convicts.”

This got a reaction out of him. He lifted his hands, and Margaret took an involuntary step back, wondering if he was going to hit her. Surely he wouldn’t? But his hands froze in midair, then rose again as Tom ran them through his hair as though that had been his intention all along. Or perhaps he was trying to calm his frustration. “You seem to be deliberately trying to goad me,” he said. “Why don’t you just save yourself the trouble and tell me your
caveat.
”