After the Kiss (21 page)

He loved her. Not simply, not easily. It wasn’t a friendly, passive emotion. It changed him, this feeling, made him a different man. One who wasn’t certain or sure. One not at all reasonable as much as alive.

There was only one thing to do.

“I want to go home,” she said again from behind him.

He turned and looked at her, almost bemused with the realization of what he was about to do. He couldn’t hold it within, couldn’t restrain himself one second longer. Without his conscious thought, his arm reached out and grabbed the china dog and hurled it against the window. It shattered in an explosion of sound, an odd counterpart to the buoyancy of his own emotions.

Her gaze flew to his, her mouth open in shock.

He smiled at her, feeling an exuberance that was
unlike him. “I will be delighted to take you home, Margaret. Pleased beyond all measure. Happy to do it. This afternoon, in fact. Will that be soon enough?”

She nodded silently, her gaze fixed cautiously on him.

The fissured glass sent faceted shafts of sunlight into the room, illuminating the shards of porcelain littering the floor. Kicking away the larger pieces in his path, he strode to the door.

He turned and surveyed her, thinking that she still looked shocked. Well she might be. And later, what would her reaction be? He began to smile, then chuckle. Gradually, his laughter overcame him, giving life to the jubilance he felt.

Margaret only stared at him as if he were a madman.

Indeed he might be.

A
brief burst of rain had freshened the air earlier leaving the sky a brilliant blue without a hint of clouds. The leaves of the trees in the square were a glossy emerald. Even the cobbles seemed a different color, now a bright and glaring orange.

Michael stepped into the carriage, settling opposite Margaret. Her hands lay folded in her lap, her shoulders squared.

They had not spoken since he’d left the chamber a few hours earlier. But his strange mood seemed to have dissipated. Now Michael seemed intent upon the passing scenery or else captured by his thoughts.

Mayfair offered an illusion of calm. As they traveled further into London, the noise level increased. The clatter of carriage wheels across the cobbles, the
whinny of thousands of horses. The street peddlers, barrow girls, shouts, cries, laughter—they were all part of the cacophony of the city.

The buildings began to change as they traveled further west. Here they were built closer together, blocking out the brightness of the day. Even the air seemed thicker, almost sulphurous. As early as it was, shadows puddled in the streets. Soot covered the bricks and rendered the world monochromatic.

Gray was the color of poverty.

Finally, they were quit of London completely, the landscape appearing as if by magic, unmarred by buildings and the noise of thousands of people.

Michael clenched the gold head of his walking stick so hard his hand must hurt. A muscle flexed in his jaw as he stared out at the view.

She might have been wary of him after the scene in the bedchamber, if other memories had not intruded. Not a man of rage, but one who laughed with her on the floor of the morning room. A diligent man who worked beneath a dawn-painted sky, showed her the echo of a pantheon with the delight of pride. A man who had carried her upstairs after she’d fallen asleep in the bath.

It was true he was obstinate, supremely logical. He sought patterns in numbers and meaning in codes. Yet he had abducted her from her home for a week of passion, laughed with her and been boyish. An inconsistency. A fascination.

I expect a certain order in my life
.

She recalled his words only too well. Yet, he’d not acted rationally, especially this morning. He’d been furious.

The afternoon advanced as they traveled west, but
other than a few questions posed and answered, they barely spoke.

“Would you like to stop at an inn?” he asked at one point.

“No,” she answered as politely. “I’d rather travel straight through.”

An hour later—“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, very.”

She blinked her eyes against the spike of tears, lifted the leather shade with a fingertip, and pretended an interest in the countryside. They were growing closer to Silbury.

In a few moments he would say good-bye to her. Forever.

What happens when something occurs in your well-planned life that you simply do not expect? What do you do then?

She’d asked him that question the day on the river. The answer to it had been remarkably simple, but not particularly easy. He had spent hours in his library, writing to his solicitor, giving him instructions that would set into motion the destruction of his heritage.

Torrent had not been producing well for the last decade, but the land was scenic and the hunting was good. Haversham was less well situated, but the property had potential. Surely both estates could be sold easily.

Although Setton was entailed, the furnishings were not. There were some Chinese bowls and Delft pottery that hadn’t been shattered in his parents’ marriage, along with works of art and some fine pieces of statuary collected by his grandfather. Also, there were a few pieces of jewelry neither wished to wear nor
pass on to his sisters. Rubies were unlucky, she’d always said. Perhaps, in this case, they might bring him some good fortune.

But he was adamant about retaining the London houses. He would not live with his mother and sisters, and he could not banish them to Setton. At least not until his sisters had a chance at a season. The expenses for that would be paid by the sale of a bibelot or two—a silk screen his grandmother had fancied, or a gold snuffbox dating back a few decades.

Nor would he have to touch their dowries if he was careful. They would then all be able to make advantageous marriages even if word of his financial reversals got out.

He tallied up his possessions like a man standing before the judge at debtor’s gaol. The complete sum was not an enormous amount, even considering that he might receive a fair price for Torrent and Haversham. But it would be enough to live quietly, if economically, for the rest of his life. A subdued existence, one that pleased him to contemplate.

The greatest change would be to send word to his creditors that he would no longer pay for any of his mother’s extravagant shopping sprees. In addition, he was going to cut down on her staff, and establish a great many other economies not previously instituted. The days of profligacy while waiting for an heiress to be wed was over.

His mind whirred with possibilities.

The one true regret he had was being forced to sell the few parcels of land in Scotland left to him by his maternal grandmother. He’d always thought it would be a legacy he, himself, could pass down to his child independent of the entail.

In a way, he thought, glancing at Margaret, perhaps it was.

The coach slowed and turned into the lane before the cottage.

The day had grown overcast, but the clouds could not render this moment more somber. The carriage stopped in front of the cottage, rolled a few feet, and finally remained still.

They looked at each other. A last honest glance, perhaps. What did he see? A woman teetering on the edge of acquiescence? One who clutched her pride and her dignity around her as if it was a tattered cloak and prayed that she would not cry?

He preceded her, kicked down the steps himself and jumped to the gravel path. He turned and held his hand out for her, his glance as inscrutable as before. She stepped down from the carriage silently.

She had half expected him to add weight to his earlier argument. To convince her to stay with cajolery and promises. But it seemed as if she’d rendered him silent. Or his rage had burned out any further protestations he might make. Perhaps he had simply realized that there were times when words were simply not enough.

The seconds ticked by as if they were hours. There was so much she wanted to say to him and nothing that was safe. How, for example, did a woman thank a man for passion? For teaching her the meaning of desire? For treating her with delicacy and joy?

He walked her to the door in silence. She steeled herself for his departure, hoping that he did not delay the moment of their parting.

Please. Leave me now
. She heard the words so loudly in her mind that it was as if she’d spoken them. She turned, placed her hand on his chest. A wordless plea
for his kindness.
Leave me
. She did not want him to see her cry.

He placed his fingers beneath her chin and raised her face. She expected a kiss. A last, poignant embrace to be forever remembered.

Instead, he studied her face, traced the line of her bottom lip with his thumb. Drawing out the moment until time was so thin she could almost see through it.

“Marry me,” he said softly.

She stared at him, stunned. “What?” The word emerged as a croak.

“I can’t marry you,” she said.

“Why not?” His tender smile was muted somewhat by his irritated frown.

“You’re only asking because of the child,” she said breathlessly.

“If it makes you feel better to think that, then by all means, do so.”

She blinked up at him.

“Is there another reason?” Her heart stilled, waiting.

“I find myself excessively emotional around you,” he said, raising one eyebrow at her.

Margaret found it difficult to breathe. His blue eyes were direct, without a hint of humor.

“Marry me,” he said again.

She glanced over her shoulder at the carriage. The coachman looked entirely too interested in their conversation. She turned, hooked her thumb in the latch, pushed open the door.

He followed her, looked around. “It is,” he said, “exactly as I had pictured it.”

She waited for the criticisms, but instead he began
to pace, a restless movement from doorway to wall, shooting her a fierce look as he passed.

She watched him. “Are you going to throw something again?”

“I might,” he said unrepentedly. “I’m in the mood for it.” He stopped, stared down at the floor once, then continued. “You are not going to make this easy, are you?”

He most definitely was not acting himself. But then he had not since he’d thrown the porcelain dog at the window. He’d looked almost pleased then. Now the light of battle was in his eyes.

He walked to the door and lifted his arm toward the coach. She followed him, watched as the driver nodded and climbed down from the seat, a valise in hand.

“What is that?”

“A few belongings,” he said calmly. “I knew this might be a long siege. After all, you’ve made your feelings about the nobility all too clear.”

“You can’t stay here, Montraine!” She stared at him, horrified.

“And you wouldn’t stay with me,” he said agreeably.

The sound of another vehicle approaching the cottage drew her attention. Wide-eyed she stared at the wagon. It was piled high with furniture, pillows, a mattress or two. If she wasn’t mistaken there were even a few pots tied to the top. But the greatest surprise was Smytheton perched stiffly on the wagon seat beside the driver, his white hair askew, his black suit dusty, and an expression of extreme annoyance on his face.

“Smytheton?” she asked weakly.

Michael nodded. “He’ll act as your duenna if you
will. Hardly a proper chaperone, I agree, but it’s better than remaining in London.” He turned and fixed her with a fierce look. “Isn’t it?”

She waved both hands in the air, backed up as if to forestall everything he was saying. And doing.

“I have no intention of allowing you to remain here, Margaret,” he announced. He surveyed the cottage, the paucity of furniture, the lone west window. “It’s small, but I don’t doubt that Smytheton can make something of it. I hope the old boy doesn’t snore. Unless, of course, you have a lean-to where he can sleep?”

She found herself nodding. “For the chickens,” she said, then realized what she was saying. She shook her head, stepped back.

“Or you can simply marry me,” he said.

“You can’t be serious.” It was too preposterous. Earls did not marry poor widows.

He came closer, put his hands on her shoulders and drew her closer.

One hand tipped her chin back, the other threaded through the hair at the nape of her neck. “Oh, but I am. We can live here or we can live in London.”

“You can’t marry me,” she countered, breathless and absurdly hopeful. “You need an heiress.”

“I’ve already arranged to sell almost everything I own,” he said. “We’ll have to economize, but we should survive.”

“I’m a commoner,” she said, almost desperately.

His smile was quick, amused. “I’m not royalty, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Your mother will be displeased.”

“Now
there’s
a reason,” he said, wryly, pulling her slowly closer.

“I’m a tradesman’s widow. I don’t know anything
about being a countess.” She felt a frisson of horror at the thought. “I only know about books and sales and inventory. Or teaching. I know that,” she said, fumbling with her thoughts and her words.

One eyebrow arched. “Which only proves you’re intelligent,” he said. “You know how to read and reason. A decided advantage to most females of my acquaintance.”

“Montraine…”

He gave her shoulders a quick, impatient squeeze. “I’m declaring my love,” he said, “and you’re arguing with me. Why did I know this would happen?”

“You are?” she said, blinking up at him.

“I am,” he said somberly.

“Oh.” She was left completely without a response. Even if she had thought of something to say, she doubted she would have been able to utter it. The air had been pulled from her lungs and her heart had stopped beating.

“Be quiet, Margaret,” he whispered against her lips, and kissed her.

Long, exquisite, delighted moments later, a gasp made her pull back. Margaret blinked, dazed not only by Michael’s words, but by the passion of their kiss.

She turned her head, saw Smytheton in the doorway. In front of him stood a few of her students. Dorothy had a bouquet of wildflowers clutched tightly in her hand. Little Mary stood with her hands behind her back. Both of them looked surprised. No, shocked. Abigail, however, wore an expression of unholy glee. Before Margaret could speak, all of them melted away.

“Who was that?” Michael asked. “Your students?”

Both her hands were still clutching Michael’s coat. With great precision, she released them, smoothed the
wrinkles on the fabric. She found herself patting him, as if she wished to reassure herself that he was real.

“Margaret?”

She looked up at him. “Yes,” she said, sighing. “Abigail is the daughter of the village gossip and will fill her mother’s shoes quite adequately one day.”

He arched one brow and smiled down at her. “Your reputation is sealed, then.”

“You needn’t look so pleased,” she said.

“You are plunged into ruination,” he announced. “Even if you move, the gossip is sure to follow you. You’re a fallen woman. Irretrievably compromised.”

She closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against his chest, feeling his arms surround her. It was such a pleasant place to be, here in his arms.

“Will you marry me, Margaret?” he softly asked.

Their worlds occasionally collided but rarely merged. The truth was, however, that she loved him. Simply. Completely. Absolutely. Totally.

“Yes,” she murmured, capitulating.

“To protect your reputation?” he asked softly. She pulled back, studied his sudden frown. Clearly the idea did not please him.

“No,” she admitted.