A Lady Most Lovely (24 page)

She would not thank him for it, he knew. They were in an open carriage in bright daylight, and there was a certain level of propriety to uphold. He contented himself by once more kissing her hand, inhaling the soft scent of her skin. “At last we are alone, and I can tell you how lovely you look today,” he said. He turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist. “And tonight, when we are truly alone, I plan to shower you with many more compliments.”

To his surprise, his words had the opposite effect of what he’d intended. Margaret stiffened, and the gaiety he had seen in her face just moments ago faded. She reached up to adjust her veil, which had been displaced by the breeze. “I have Bessie to thank for the fine job she did with my dress and hair. And how amazing that
she thought to throw a shoe for good luck! She really is invaluable. You know, it’s so difficult to find good help, someone who is both loyal and talented.”

She spoke in a rush, her voice oddly high-pitched. Tom guessed what was going on. For all of her bravado and the capable way she’d handled business affairs, there were many things she had not yet done, areas of life in which she was completely inexperienced. “Are you afraid?” he asked gently.

“Afraid?” she repeated. She licked her lips. “However do you mean?”

“I think you know.” He took hold of her hand once again, this time entwining his fingers through hers. He found this thrilled him in a way that made the simple gesture seem far more intimate. She sucked in a breath. Seeing she really was afraid, he hastened to reassure her. “I won’t… that is, we won’t…” He stumbled over the words. “What I mean is, I can wait until you are ready.”

Margaret’s green eyes were unfathomable, like the ocean itself. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Her words sent a bolt of disappointment through him. He’d been hoping against hope that waiting would not be necessary, that she would come to him tonight, without hesitation. But that was not likely to be the case.
You had best cool your ardor,
he told himself.
You may have a longer wait than you realize.

Margaret cleared her throat, and Tom saw with a pang of regret that her usual cool self-possession was returning. “What was going on back there with you and Richard?” she asked. “Have you two met before?”

Tom leaned back and sighed, running a hand through his hair. There was no escaping the fact that Spencer had
thrown a pall over what should have been a much happier day. “We met once. It was years ago, before I left for Australia. He was friends with a man I knew. Freddie Hightower.” Despite his best efforts, he spoke the name with a bitterness that Margaret did not miss.

“Hightower? The man who died at the Thornborough estate last year?”

“Yes—how did you know about that?”

“The gossip mill. It was one of many pieces of information I picked up after I came to London and began to make my way in society.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Does this animosity between you and Richard have something to do with Mr. Hightower’s death?”

“It’s a long story, and we are almost at the banquet hall. We’ll talk more this evening.” In truth, Tom needed more time to think through what he would tell Margaret. How could he explain his connection with Spencer and yet still keep Lizzie’s secret? He would have to use care. Tom gave a sigh of resignation. Of all the things he had hoped to do on his wedding night, discussing Spencer had certainly not been on the list.

*

Tom sorely wished they’d opted for a traditional wedding breakfast at home, with only close friends and family attending. Instead, they’d rented this large banquet hall for an ostentatious feast. Margaret had insisted that this was the newest trend, and Tom had seen no reason to argue. He knew that suffering through an interminable wedding feast would be a trial, but he figured it was a small price to pay to make Margaret happy.

Two hours had passed since the guests had arrived
and been served. Somehow Tom had made it through dozens of toasts and the many assurances (from people who barely knew them) that theirs was bound to be a long and felicitous marriage.

Throughout it all, Tom had done his best
not
to think about Spencer. He was glad now that Lizzie’s delicate condition had prevented her from attending the wedding. He did not want Spencer anywhere near her until Tom had been able to warn her and Geoffrey about the hazard he presented.

Champagne was flowing freely although it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, and everyone had eaten their fill of beef, chicken, sweetbreads, and puddings. Tom did not mind the expense, but he marveled at how much a hundred people could consume, especially when someone else was paying for it. At last, the food having been devoured and the wedding cake served, most of the guests rose from their tables and began milling about, greeting one another with champagne-induced friendliness, making sure they were seeing and being seen by every other attendee, the mark of their social status that they had been invited to this grand event.

“Will you excuse me?” Margaret murmured after she and Tom had finished greeting yet another in the endless stream of well-wishers. “I must go find the ladies’ retiring room.”

“Shall I escort you?” Tom asked. For the first time he noticed small circles under her eyes, signs of fatigue that she had been doing her best to hide. The strain of the day was beginning to wear on her.

“That won’t be necessary.” She disengaged herself from his arm. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Tom watched her thread her way through the crowd. He could not help but be reminded of the night he had met her, how he’d watched her much as he was doing now. How much had changed since then. The best change was that Margaret was no longer on another man’s arm. She was his now, in name at least. He was determined to do all he could to capture her heart as well, even if it took the rest of his life to do it.

A dozen conversations buzzed around him. Tom’s hearing was excellent, having been well honed during his time in the Australian wilderness, where he’d learned to pick out the sounds of animals and bird calls. Many times being alert that a dangerous animal was nearby had saved his life. This luxurious banquet hall was far different, but Tom had the sense that plenty of dangers lurked here, too.

He had no sooner had this thought than he heard a voice say quietly, “Tom Poole. How fortunate that we should meet again.”

Tom turned to see Spencer leaning nonchalantly against the wall near a potted plant. “Were you invited?” he said coldly.

Spencer held up his hands. “Shockingly bad taste, I know, to turn up where one isn’t invited. But of course, you’d know all about that.” He paused to let his insult sink in. “However, I only wanted to offer my personal good wishes to my cousin Margaret. She did tell you that we are cousins, didn’t she?”

“She doesn’t want you here.”

“Neither do you, I’ll wager.” He moved away from the wall. “You have played this game well, Tom Poole. Now you have married her, and gained Moreton Hall in the bargain.”

Tom took a warning step forward, his hands clenching
to fists. “What happens to Moreton Hall will never be any business of yours.”

Spencer leveled a hateful glare. “That property should have come to me, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you keep your filthy murderous hands on it.”

“You don’t have any say in the matter.”

“Don’t I? Suppose I notify the authorities about a certain illegal action you were involved in back in forty-five? Suppose I get you brought before a tribunal for attempted murder?”

Spencer’s large and menacing physique was at odds with his university-educated speech. He looked like one of those brute beasts who guard the doors to gambling dens, throwing troublemakers out on their ears. But Tom had faced down worse men, and he wasn’t about to cower now. He took another step forward. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Spencer laughed. “You’re more cagey than you used to be, aren’t you? You used to be all boldness and bluster, barging in like a bull in a china shop. You act so fine and genteel now. But I’ll wager it wouldn’t take much for your criminal nature to reveal itself.”

Rage was rising inside Tom—too familiar, too hard to stop once it broke free. But Tom would not allow it. He had to keep it at bay. For Margaret’s sake, he had to avoid an altercation here if at all possible. “If you have something to say, then say it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Then get out.”

He expected Spencer to say more about the duel. Instead, Spencer said, “Your sister is married to Lord Somerville, isn’t she? How in the world did
she
manage to marry a man who is an ordained clergyman?”

Tom fought for self-control. He could not allow this man to manipulate him. “Do not speak ill of my sister,” he ordered. “She is a good woman.”

“Oh, she’s a model of virtue,” Spencer replied sarcastically. “But perhaps you heard about the incident that happened last year at the Thornborough estate in Kent? A man died there. A mutual acquaintance of ours. His name was Freddie Hightower.”

At the sound of Hightower’s name, the murmur of nearby conversations ceased. These people were nothing if not excellent eavesdroppers. Tom had to keep the conversation away from dangerous territory. “Hightower died of natural causes. It’s in the coroner’s report. It’s public knowledge.”

Spencer made a scoffing noise. “When has there ever been any correlation between an official report and the truth? Hightower was there for a little assignation with Lizzie—”

Tom grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. “She is Lady Somerville to you,” he ground out.

Spencer delivered a swift, surprising blow to Tom’s gut, forcing him to take a step back, gasping. “You are the last person to tell me what to do,” he said. “In fact, you’d better heed
my
instructions, unless you want certain information about your sister to get out.”

Tom straightened, finding his breath. “If you say anything to slander Lizzie, I will make sure you regret it.”

“What will you do? Attack me?” He looked Tom up and down with disdain. “I’d like to see you try.”

The last of Tom’s resolve snapped, rage twisting his soul and rising so quickly that he was barely conscious of what happened next. His fist connected with Spencer’s
jaw, sending him backward, knocking over a potted plant as he tried to regain his balance. He recovered quickly, though, in a move that was surprisingly agile. He lunged at Tom, tackling him and sending them both colliding into a nearby table. It collapsed amid the crash of silverware and breaking glass, the force of the fall making him temporarily breathless. But he didn’t stop to think. He pushed Spencer off of him and rolled him over on his back against the remnants of the table, hitting Spencer’s mouth repeatedly, this time drawing blood.

After that, it was a complete blur. There was nothing except Spencer, the man who threatened everything Tom held dear—the man he wanted to pummel into extinction right here in this banquet hall. All his anger over Hightower’s treatment of Lizzie came pouring out into each satisfying punch. But Spencer was a tough foe and he knew how to fight, landing vicious blows of his own.

Through the haze of the fighting he heard Margaret’s voice. “Stop! Tom! What are you doing!” But Tom was not about to stop. He was gaining the upper hand; he could see Spencer’s strength was flagging. He pulled Spencer to his feet and gave him one last, final shove, sending him over another table and crashing to the floor along with its contents—plates, glasses, and an enormous silver urn. Tom stepped around the pile of debris and looked down to assure himself that Spencer was not going to get up for more. He was out cold, bloody from the fighting and from landing face-first in shards of glass.

The roaring that had filled Tom’s ears during the fight was now replaced by an eerie silence. As he stared down at what was left of Spencer, Tom felt, rather than saw, the shocked expressions of everyone in the room.

“Tom Poole!” Margaret’s voice broke the silence. She rushed forward and bent down over Spencer, then looked up at Tom with anger. “What have you done?”

Tom clenched his fists, trying to rebottle his rage, trying to regain his equilibrium along with his breath. A quick glance confirmed that their fight had made a shambles of the banqueting hall. But he’d be damned if he was going to show any remorse. “He came here uninvited,” he said, as though that explained everything.

T
hree hours.

Three hours it had taken to sort out the mess, to clear the guests from the hall as graciously as she could, and to settle with the owner for the damage. It would take far longer to recover from the blow to her good name. Tom Poole had humiliated her publicly. He had shown the world that he was nothing but an ill-bred, lower-class hooligan with no regard for common decency. He had turned their wedding breakfast into a brawl.

It had taken four men to carry Richard out of the hall. Tom had beaten him so viciously it was a miracle he’d not been killed. Even now, the memory of the look on Tom’s face during the fight sent chills down Margaret’s spine. Even though she had seen him threaten a man before, she had not fully comprehended how dangerously volatile he was. Now that she was his wife, how was she to deal with this dark aspect of his nature?