Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (27 page)

“Ladies.” Ben addressed three of the prettiest women he’d ever seen in one location. “Your sister has some news.”

“Do tell, Mags.” The little blonde dragged Maggie away from Ben’s side. “You never have any news, except for when your dog died.”

Ben remained standing while Maggie was ensconced on a wicker settee, a sister on each side. The blonde took a chair at an angle to the couch and waved a hand at Ben. “You must sit, Mr. Hazlit. We seldom have Maggie to ourselves, as only Mama’s summons can pry Mags loose from her ledgers. Give us your news, my dear. I am literally sitting on the edge of my seat.” She scooted a little forward and grinned at her sister.

“Mr. Hazlit has asked… that is, I’ve agreed… we are engaged.”

The squealing was deafening, and the hugging went on for an eternity. Ben had never, not in any role or in his own life, been subjected to so many fragrant female embraces or kisses to his cheek, or teary good wishes.

It was… daunting, and made him realize something as he watched Maggie being swarmed by her sisters again and again:
These
people
loved
her.
She was not an awkward relation recognized out of grudging decency; she wasn’t an embarrassment to her family. She was treasured and held dear. Her happiness concerned these people mightily.

And if she did jilt him, she would be disappointing them mightily, as well.

As Ben escorted Maggie to his coach more than an hour and two bottles of champagne later, he had to wonder what would motivate her to risk disappointing people who seemed only to care for her happiness and well-being.

***

“Tired?”

As he asked the question, Benjamin’s arm came around Maggie’s shoulders. In the space of a few hours, he’d created a bodily sort of intimacy that had little to do with what had happened on that blanket earlier in the day.

Nothing, and everything, in fact.

“A little tired.” As if they were really engaged, Maggie let her head rest on his shoulder when the coachman gave the horses the signal to walk on. The illusion that they were a couple was painful and sweet, but it was only an illusion.

“I realized something about you today.”

He’d seen her cry, or nearly cry. Maybe he was realizing she wasn’t countess material.

“I realized you are shy.” He kissed her temple, and Maggie hadn’t the fortitude to make him stop. Now that they were engaged—what a peculiar word,
engaged
—he was forever getting his lips on her—her cheek, her forehead, her hair, her hands.

She liked it, which was only going to add to her eventual sorrow. “How does one hide shyness?”

“One gathers great quantities of dignity and propriety about one, until one’s true nature is disguised. Your sisters love you.”

“Isn’t that what sisters do?” She wanted to raise her head to peer at him in the waning light, but she was comfortable tucked under his arm, and this wasn’t like any conversation she’d had with him before.

“I suspect they do. Do you suppose my sisters have been waiting for me to get married?”

He sounded unhappy with the possibility.

“One hopes sisters wouldn’t be so foolish.” Except… hers were being that foolish. Amid all their congratulations and teasing, Maggie had detected a current of relief swirling between them, too, relief that perhaps more sisters were going to follow brothers into holy matrimony, as if she and Sophie were the bellwethers… bell ewes?

“I realized something else today, too.”

“You were quite busy with all these realizations, Mr. Hazlit.”

“Benjamin.” She felt his hand sweeping her hair back from her face, a lovely, soothing caress with nothing of the erotic about it. “When you were upset today, you called me Benjamin. It’s nice to hear you say my name.”

She’d called him Benjamin when she’d been flat on her back with him on that blanket, too, but he wasn’t referring to that. Her intended—her temporary intended—was a gentleman.

Maggie nuzzled the soft wool of his coat, which bore a trace of his spicy, masculine scent. “We are to comport ourselves as if we are affianced. Your name is not that hard to remember.”

“Good.” He kissed her hair. “You’re rattling your swords, maneuvering your cannon into position. I was worried about you, Maggie mine.”

“I am not your Maggie. What was your other great insight today?”

He hitched her a little closer. “I saw the four of you carrying on and laughing and having great good fun together—and it only got worse when Westhaven showed up—and I realized I have allowed someone to steal that from my family. All the while I’ve been climbing in windows and lurking in doorways to retrieve billets-doux and errant fiancées for others, I’ve allowed my own family to be robbed of joy and even simple togetherness by something that happened more than a decade ago.”

That he was perceptive was not news. Maggie had hired him because he was perceptive and intelligent and observant. That he’d share his insight with her like this, and about something so personal to his history… It had her turning her face into the warmth of his shoulder, hurting for him, and even for these sisters of his in their obscure and lonely lives.

“You should write to your sisters. Tell them what you just told me.”

“Believe I shall. Go to sleep. I told John to take us home through the park, and the horses are too tired to do more than walk.”

She did not go to sleep, but she closed her eyes and let him think she might be dozing off. Instead she thought about what he’d said, about allowing someone to steal all the joy and companionship from her life, and not even questioning their right to do so.

***

After less than two hours as an engaged man, Ben decided it was an improvement in his dealings with his intended. She would be back on her mettle soon, a day, two at most, but for the space of one slow carriage ride, she was willing to allow him all manner of proximity.

It… soothed him to hold her, to breathe in her floral and spice scent, to feel the silky warmth of her hair sliding beneath his palm.

“When will you know?”

She’d been feigning sleep against his side but opened her eyes at his question.

“Two weeks, though this time of year, I sometimes have reprieves.”

He mentally translated: She didn’t bleed regularly in spring.

“Then I’m going to ask for at least six weeks of an engagement, Maggie. The longer we wait, the more certain you’ll be of the necessity of marriage, if you’re carrying.”

“Women miscarry. Her Grace miscarried several times after Evie arrived.”

A cold skein of dread slithered through his vitals. “You aren’t planning to
miscarry
, are you?”

“I am not.”

“That’s… good. I would not want harm to befall you on my account, Maggie. Not on any account.”

She sat up and frowned at him. “This is a sham engagement, Benjamin. You needn’t affect all manner of protectiveness. I manage quite nicely on my own.”

“For the space of a few weeks, my dear,
we
will manage quite nicely on
our
own.”

She regarded him in the gathering gloom of the carriage as she started rummaging in her reticule. “I was considering a two-week engagement. I ought to know in two weeks.”

“If you know for a certainty you are not pregnant, I can’t stop you from crying off at any time, but you must promise me something.” He took her hand in his before she could put her gloves on. “You will not cry off until you do know for certain. We would only have to become engaged again, and that will create a great deal of talk indeed.”

“But I told you…”

He put a finger to her lips. “We’re both exhausted; the day has been trying. We can argue as enthusiastically as you like tomorrow, for I will be calling on you regularly, Maggie, and escorting you to Her Grace’s teas and comporting myself in every fashion like a man both besotted and engaged.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Yes, my dear, it is.”

He escorted her to her own front door to emphasize his point, bowed very properly over her hand, and lingered for a moment on the stoop with her, giving all and sundry a glimpse of Benjamin Hazlit wooing his intended. She tolerated it, probably because she was too tired to remonstrate with him further, then squared her shoulders and disappeared into her house.

Ben waved the coach on and decided to use the last of the light to walk home. Realizations—revelations, more like—such as those he’d had today required further thought. When he got home it was full dark, and the thought of a hot bath and a cold drink loomed like paradise.

He’d just shucked out of his riding attire when Archer came sauntering into his dressing room in evening formal wear.

“I’m getting tired of chasing Abby Norcross.” Archer subsided onto a dressing stool. “When they say women have more stamina than men, they aren’t just talking about copulation.”

“When do you ever speak of anything else?”

“When I actually am copulating, I speak of the lady’s eyes, her hair, her gorgeous—”

“Hand me the soap.” Ben lowered himself into the steaming tub, grateful in his bones for the luxury of a hot bath. “Where are you off to tonight?”

“Some damned musicale, then a soiree, then the Peasedicks’ ball in time for the supper buffet. I have it on good authority Lady Abby will grace at least one of those gatherings with her adulterous presence.”

Ben began to scrub at himself, feet, then arms, chest, and armpits. “What if she’s not committing adultery?”

“She as good as told his lordship any damned body was more capable of giving her pleasure than he was, and she felt sorry for his mistress.”

“Ouch. No wonder he wants her in the country. I have some news you need to be aware of, though I doubt it’s making the rounds yet.” He dunked, came up, and started lathering his hair.

Archer shot his cuffs. “Gossip is always juiciest when it’s fresh, rather like—”

“Are those emerald cuff links, Cousin?”

“Poor quality emeralds, but yes. They bring out the soulful luminosity of my eyes.” He batted his eyes then rose and went to poke at the fire. “What is this news you have? I’ve likely already come across it, because I wasn’t avoiding work all day like some people.”

Ben watched as Archer managed to look elegant performing a task usually undertaken by the servants. “I’m engaged to marry Lady Maggie Windham.”

Archer rose, iron poker still in his hand. “You’re what? I’m not sure I heard you correctly, as I tend not to pay attention when you’re in the mood to lecture and pontificate. Did I hear you aright? You’re engaged?”

“To Maggie Windham.”

Ben dunked his head again. When he came up, Archer was very carefully putting the poker back with the matching set of implements to the side of the hearth. It appeared his heir wasn’t going to comment, so Ben ducked to rinse again, then came up.

Archer passed him a dry flannel. “You’re engaged to marry Lady Maggie. Well, well, well.”

Ben glanced over a little warily. Archer could be a merciless tease, but there was no humor in his eyes.

“The engagement might not last. We were not observing the proprieties as closely as we ought when Lady Dandridge came stumping along. I expect the announcement will show up the day after tomorrow, but Maggie is not convinced we’ll suit.”

Archer resumed his seat on the dressing stool, his expression hard to read. “Maggie Windham is a woman with troubles, Benjamin. You don’t need to marry her to resolve those troubles.”

“I’m thinking I do. Her reticule has been returned to her, and she said no money had been taken.”

“Which leaves you wondering what
was
stolen that meant more to Maggie than money?”

“Precisely, and by whom, and how are they exploiting it? If it was letters, they weren’t from one of Maggie’s former lovers.”

Archer crossed his arms. “They weren’t?”

Ben pitched the damp flannel at him. “They were not, though for Maggie’s sake I almost wish they were. I could just call the blighter out, wing him, and leave him to convalesce for a few decades on the Continent.”

“Oh, of course. Scandal always makes a lady see her intended in the most favorable light. You’re marrying a Windham, Benjamin. Do you know how much fun the gossips would have with any excuse to bruit that family’s business about?”

“Yes, Archer, I do. Rinse me off, would you?”

Archer obliged by dumping two large ewers of tepid water over Ben’s head, then passing him a bath sheet. “When is the wedding?”

“We have not set a date.”

Silence while Ben extricated himself from the tub and dried off. Archer waited until Ben was in a dressing gown and dragging a brush through his hair, before he ambled over to stare at the fire.

“You ought to set a date.”

“It is usually the lady’s prerogative. Did you steal my best wool socks again?”

“Me, steal? From my own cousin? Under our very roof?” He turned and rested one elbow on the mantel. “They are ever so warm, and a man gets chilly running around Town all night. Why isn’t the lady setting a date?”