A Lady Most Lovely (21 page)

Margaret studied him warily. His ways were far too unconventional. “You know a gentleman would not ask this of a lady.”

“Just to the edge of the drive,” he pressed. “The grass is still wet from the rain, and we must be mindful of your shoes.”

It was an oblique reference to the dinner party at the Somervilles’, when Tom had ultimately shown himself more than willing to see to her needs. He spoke with such cheerful deference that she found herself grudgingly agreeing to his request.

“What did you wish to say to me?” Margaret asked when they had reached the edge of the gravel drive.

Tom drew her a few steps farther down the drive, until they had stepped out of the light streaming from the mansion windows and were bathed only in moonlight. He took her face in his hands, an intimate gesture that set her pulse racing. She could just make out his features as he gently brushed her cheek. “Your skin is so soft,” he murmured. “So delicate for such a robust and determined lady.”

She tried to think of some retort, but her mind was
stupidly a blank. She was aware only of the lovely sensations he was drawing with his touch.

He drew his thumb gently across her lower lip. “I propose that we should end every night with a good-night kiss,” he murmured. “And that we should begin tonight. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

Margaret’s heart hammered wildly. “Well, I…” She tried to remind herself of his nosy questions, his barely civilized manners, the way he threatened the very foundations of her self-sufficiency. But she could trap none of these things in her mind—they flitted through her brain and were gone, like the moths in the night.

Her mouth went dry. Without thinking, she licked her lips. Taking this as a sign of assent, Tom bent his head and touched his lips to hers. It was not a deep, passionate kiss, but light and gentle, unbearably tender and teasing, making her want more. Breathless with anticipation, she waited for him to pull her close.

Instead, he pulled away, and a small sigh escaped him. “Good night, Maggie.”

He turned to go.

Wait!
she wanted to cry out. But she was speechless, unable to move, the echoing whispers of his kiss still playing across her lips. She stood breathless for quite some time, watching until he was long out of sight.

T
he mutton chop is excellent, is it not?” Margaret said. “I do enjoy coming here.” She knew her voice had an unnatural sprightliness. She was trying to hide her lingering discomfort over what she was about to divulge to her luncheon companion.

Margaret’s unease was lost on Miss Lucinda Cardington, however. She was looking distinctly uncomfortable for reasons of her own. She glanced around the small restaurant, scrutinizing the patrons for what had to be the dozenth time. Joining Margaret for luncheon here at Verey’s restaurant on Hanover Street had been for Lucinda an act of unqualified courage.

“Are you worried that someone will accost us?” Margaret asked. “I assure you it’s perfectly safe. Women are dining without escorts much more than they used to. Soon it will be quite the thing.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s safe. It’s just that Mama is so terribly old-fashioned. If she finds out I’ve come here, she’ll be livid. She thinks I’m shopping on Regent Street.”

“Well, then, everything depends on the loyalty of your footman, doesn’t it?” Margaret nodded toward the window, where they could see Lucinda’s footman standing outside, waiting like a sentry keeping watch.

“Yes, he’s very discreet,” Lucinda confirmed. “He’s had to accompany me on some journeys to the darker parts of London, where I’ve been working to help the poor. Places that would make Mama faint dead away in horror.”

“Well, this is hardly such a place. And since we’re only two steps from Regent Street, you can pick up a new set of gloves or a shawl on your way home, and your alibi will be intact.”

“In fact, it’s the proximity to Regent Street that has me worried,” Lucinda said with another nervous glance out the window. “Someone might recognize my footman and realize I’m inside.”

“
Someone
as in your little sister, perhaps?” Margaret teased.

“Exactly. She’s no longer little, unfortunately. Now that she is fully out in society, she’s had plenty of opportunities to observe my actions. More than once she’s tattled on me for some supposed offense.”

“Then she is still
little,
” Margaret averred. “Infantile.”

“I feel I should not comment on that remark,” Lucinda said sagely, although she brought her napkin to her lips to hide a tiny smile. “However, there is nothing here that Mama could find objectionable. The place is clean and orderly, and the clientele quite respectable. Governesses, and the like. And old maids.” Seeing Margaret’s eyebrows raise, she added hastily, “I’m speaking of myself, of course. Not you. Even though your engagement to
Mr. Denault has ended, you will find someone else. You’re beautiful.”

Lucinda said this with such sincerity that Margaret felt a sting of tears in her eyes. When she came to London, Margaret had been introduced to countless members of society, but she had been careful to keep a formal distance from everyone. There were too many things about her situation that she had to hide. But one night she’d found herself chatting with Lucinda at a dinner party. It hadn’t taken long for Lucinda to win her over with her sensible conversation, so different from the vacuous drivel being spouted by the other society misses.

“It takes more than beauty to find a husband,” Margaret said. “And I don’t believe for a moment that you will end up an old maid. Times are changing, and quite rapidly. Even our visit to this restaurant is proof of that. You’re different from all the other vapid society ladies. Someday, someone will realize what a catch you are and scoop you up and marry you.”

“You must also believe in fairy tales,” Lucinda said robustly. But she gave Margaret a grateful smile and went back to her mutton and potatoes.

This was as good an opening as any. “Actually, Lucinda, the subject of marriage is why I asked you here. I… have some news.”

“Oh?” Lucinda looked up. “Is it good news?”

“I believe so,” Margaret responded hesitantly.

“You’re engaged again—how wonderful!” Lucinda exclaimed, immediately coming to the obvious conclusion. “Who is this most fortunate gentleman?”

Margaret’s smile faded at Lucinda’s use of the word
gentleman.
Tom Poole was so different from the kind of
man she had expected to marry. Was she really making the right decision?

“Don’t tell me it’s Mr. Plimpton,” Lucinda said, misinterpreting Margaret’s uneasiness. “He’s far too old, even if he is rich.”

“No, it’s not Mr. Plimpton,” Margaret said, unable to repress a shiver at the thought. A widower twice over, despite his riches, Mr. Plimpton was considered one of London’s most
in
eligible bachelors—by the ladies, at least. Even if their grasping mothers did not agree.

“Thank heaven. Well, then, who is it?” Lucinda prompted.

Margaret hesitated, taking a deep breath and another sip of ale. This was the first time she would be telling this to anyone, apart from her solicitors. “I’m going to marry Mr. Tom Poole.”

“Truly?” Lucinda’s eyes danced with happy astonishment. “How brilliant!”

“Do you really think so?” Margaret said in surprise. “So you know him?”

“Of course. His brother-in-law is Lord Somerville—such an excellent man.” She sighed, and her face reddened.

“I’m sorry—is this a painful subject?” Margaret said apologetically. She had heard that at one time many people thought Lord Somerville was going to marry Lucinda.

“No, no.” Lucinda waved away Margaret’s worry. “There was never any actual understanding between Lord Somerville and me. He would have been too honorable to break off an official engagement.”

“What sort of man is he, really?” Margaret asked. “Mr. Poole, I mean.”

“He’s handsome and rich. What more do you need?” Lucinda giggled, an uncharacteristic sound for her. “Oh dear, I sound like Emily now, don’t I?” She gave Margaret a reassuring smile. “I have had occasion to speak with Mr. Poole several times. Our family even dined at their home, although my mother—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

“Go on,” Margaret said. “What about your mother?” Most probably the lofty Lady Cardington did not approve of this nouveau riche man among the more rarefied folk.

“Well, never mind about that,” Lucinda said. “The point is that Mr. Poole seems a most honest and kind gentleman. I think at times he feels awkward at society events, but I do not consider that a fatal flaw.”

“Some say he lacks manners because of his humble origins,” Margaret pointed out. “They say he will never fit in.”

“Are you really so concerned about fitting in?” Lucinda asked with a chiding grin. “I think you’re too intelligent for that. And besides, I’ve been born and bred in society, and I don’t feel comfortable at formal gatherings, either. I’m always making some faux pas or other and driving my mother to her wits’ end.”

“What a diplomat you would make,” Margaret said, amused by Lucinda’s unique way of looking at problems. “If only women were allowed to hold such positions.”

Lucinda smiled at this remark, but merely said, “I think Mr. Poole is a man of principle. Surely that’s what’s important, isn’t it?”

Again, with the soul of a diplomat, Lucinda had discerned the heart of the matter. Lucinda had blamed Paul’s lack of scruples for the broken engagement, even
though Margaret had never been able to tell her the whole story. Margaret was painfully aware of her own role in the near disaster, but she was grateful for Lucinda’s fierce loyalty.

“I suppose you will want me to act as your bridesmaid,” Lucinda said with resignation. “Even though I am terrified about standing up in front of all those people. Who will be standing up with Mr. Poole?”

“I believe he is going to ask Mr. James Simpson to be the best man.”

“Mr. Simpson!”

Another flush turned Lucinda’s face to a fiery red. Margaret thought she couldn’t look any more dismayed. “Are you embarrassed to stand up in church with him? I know he has a reputation for being somewhat of a rogue—”

“It’s fine,” Lucinda broke in. “It just seems odd to picture him as a groomsman. Especially since he is always saying he will never get married himself.” She hastily finished the last of her ale. “Shall we settle the bill? It’s getting late and Mama really will suspect something if I don’t return soon.”

As they walked out into the street a few minutes later, Lucinda said, “I confess I will miss having another single lady to commiserate with. I’ve enjoyed our brief time together. On the other hand, perhaps I might now accompany you when you are out and about. Married ladies have so much more freedom.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Margaret cautioned. Although she had a legal document giving her joint power over her estate, Margaret still had concerns. Was a person really free when they were yoked to another? What if her heart truly became entwined with this man?
If her heart gave up its independence, surely the rest would follow all too easily.

*

“You’re doing
what?
” Lizzie exclaimed.

Tom stood in the parlor, patiently awash in the astounded exclamations of his sister and brother-in-law. He had expected this, of course. It was one of the reasons he’d put off telling them. That, plus he wanted to make sure the marriage was actually going to happen.

“I’m going to marry Miss Vaughn,” he repeated. The papers had been signed, and he and Margaret had come to an agreement on how the land should be settled. The lawyers had been amazed, of course. That Mr. Hawthorne, especially. But he’d nearly managed to hide it under the usual sanguine expression that was the stock in trade for solicitors.

Lizzie’s reaction was much more vibrant. “Oh, my dear brother!” She held out her arms and he obligingly knelt down by the chair so she could hug him. “I thought some plan was on your mind when you brought her to dinner.” She grinned and pinched his cheek. “I saw the way you looked at her. I had no doubt you were smitten.”

“Was it really that evident?” Tom said, smiling.

“Oh, I shall be so happy to have a sister-in-law!” Lizzie continued brightly. “And I’m ecstatic because it means you’ll be staying in England. Just think—you’ll be a proper member of the gentry! When is the wedding? Next spring?”

“In fact, we have planned it for three weeks from tomorrow.”

“Oh! So soon!” Lizzie’s face fell. “That means I won’t be able to attend, I’m afraid.”

Tom hated to see regret dampening her excitement. He adjusted one of the cushions in her chair. “I know how badly you wanted to see me get married. You’ve been telling me so for years,” he teased. “I’m sorry you won’t be there, but I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

“Marriage is an awfully big step,” Geoffrey said. “Why the rush?”

“Well, there is a need for haste.”

Geoffrey’s eyebrows rose. Lizzie fanned herself. “Merciful heavens,” she giggled.