Sheri Cobb South (17 page)

Amanda laughed, a musical expression of such joy that it put the violins to shame. “No, silly! I have found an eligible husband right here in Montford. I am betrothed!”

Margaret’s smile froze, and the blood slowly drained from her face.

Amanda, finding her sister less than ecstatic at this announcement, hastened to reassure her. “It may not be a brilliant match, at least not by Society’s standards,” she acknowledged, “but surely no one can fault the tone of his mind, or the nobility of his character, or the sweetness of his temperament.”

It was unlikely that Peregrine could have recognized himself in this glowing description, so it was hardly surprising that Margaret supposed it to refer, not to the squire’s nephew, but to quite another object.

“B-But,” she stammered. “But he—”

“I know this comes as a surprise,” Amanda continued, her radiant smile undimmed. “Truth to tell, it came as something of a surprise to me, also! But I am certain that once you have had time to grow accustomed to the idea, you will come to love him as a brother.”

No, never!
The thought burst upon her consciousness with such startling clarity that for one horrifying moment Margaret feared she had spoken the words aloud. But no, Amanda still stood there beaming at her as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

“But dear, have you thought—”

She got no further, for at that moment Peregrine appeared bearing two crystal flutes, each filled with bubbly champagne.

“Ah, Miss Darrington! Or may I call you Margaret, since you are to be my sister? Surely Amanda has told you she has just made me the happiest of men? My uncle is to make an announcement momentarily.”

As if on cue, Sir Humphrey stepped up onto the raised dais and raised his hands, motioning for silence. “Friends and neighbors,” he intoned, “it appears we are to have a wedding in Montford. Miss Amanda Darrington has consented to marry my rackety nephew Peregrine, who I think we can all agree has done nothing at all to deserve so charming a bride.”

In spite of his disparaging words, Sir Humphrey fairly swelled with pride, while Peregrine and Amanda preened as if they had just invented the institution of matrimony. A murmur of approving voices rose to a buzz, then became a roar that filled Margaret’s head, leaving her dizzy and weak at the knees. Finding a glass of champagne in her hand without quite knowing how it got there, she raised it to her lips and downed it in a single gulp. The roar in her head subsided, but the unsteadiness remained.

“Miss Darrington?” A gentle yet firm hand gripped her elbow, and a soothing voice spoke somewhere over her head. “Are you quite all right?”

She recognized the voice at once. “Mr. Fanshawe! Yes, yes, I am all right, ‘tis only the heat, and the—are you going to drink that?” Without waiting for an answer, she seized his champagne glass and tipped the sparkling liquid down her own throat.

“Perhaps a breath of fresh air is in order,” he suggested, gesturing toward the same French windows through which Peregrine and Amanda had passed only moments earlier.

“No, no! I shall be fine, I assure you.”

It was imperative that she not be alone with him until she had mastered her emotions. For her first thought upon hearing Sir Humphrey’s announcement had not been concern for her family’s future, or regret for the brilliant marriage that would never be, or even anger at Amanda’s improvidence. No, it had been
relief—
overpowering, overwhelming relief that
Mr. Fanshawe was not to be her brother. She needed a quiet moment in which to ponder the significance of this discovery.

She was not to have it, however. Heedless of her protests, James steered her out the door and onto the balcony. Neither one spoke for a long moment, during which Margaret avoided his gaze by staring fixedly at the moonlit garden beyond the parapet.

“I know what you are thinking,” James said at last, breaking a silence that threatened to stretch on indefinitely. “Granted, it is not the brilliant match you had hoped for, but Perry is far from penniless. You may rest easy on that head.”

After all she’d had to say on the subject of Amanda’s marriage prospects, she could hardly admit that at the moment they were the least of her concerns. “They—they have not known one another for very long,” she said.

“Perhaps not. Still, I have seen Perry in the throes of calf-love any number of times over the years, but never to my knowledge did he seriously entertain thoughts of matrimony until he met your sister. I believe he truly cares for her.”

“And she obviously cares for him. How very odd! If anyone had asked me, I should have said she disliked him intensely.”

James joined her at the parapet, folding his long frame forward until his elbows rested on the railing, from which vantage point he might have an unobstructed view of her profile. “Perhaps she mistook her own heart,” he suggested. “I believe it happens sometimes. One forms a certain image of the sort of person one might conceive an attachment for, only to fall deeply in love with someone who bears no resemblance to that image at all. ‘The heart has its reasons’ and all that, you know.”

Margaret’s chin came up in a brave little show of humor. “One might suppose you to speak from experience, Mr. Fanshawe.”

He neither confirmed nor denied the charge, but smiled at her in such a way that she was forced to turn her attention back to the moon-drenched gardens.

“And so Amanda is to be married,” she said, determinedly returning the conversation to its original, and far less disturbing, subject. “I have been scraping and saving for her Season so long, it seems very strange to think it has all been in vain.”

“Perhaps the funds might be used to send Philip to school instead.”

“You would deny me my brother’s company as well as my sister’s? I should hardly know what to do with myself.”

“In that case,” he said thoughtfully, “perhaps it is time you stopped thinking of your family and thought for a moment about yourself. Is there nothing that
you
want to do? Something just for yourself, with no thought for the consequences?”

Margaret was never quite certain afterwards what possessed her. Perhaps it was the silvery moonlight bathing the garden below, or the candlelight streaming through the French windows that lit James’s golden hair like a halo, or— it must be said—the quantity of champagne that she had consumed far too quickly. Whatever the reason, she gazed up at James and knew, without a doubt, what it was that she most wanted to do. Slowly, deliberately, she clutched the lapels of his shiny, too-short evening coat and leaned toward him, rising up on tiptoe until her lips met his.

She was in his arms in an instant, not the decorous clasp of the waltz, but a passionate embrace which molded their bodies together and bent her head back at an angle which should have been extremely uncomfortable, yet was somehow just right. Bride clothes, dowries, marriage settlements—they would all be there tomorrow, waiting, demanding her attention. Tonight there was only Mr. Fanshawe, his lips on hers and his arms holding her as if he would never let her go.

Like all good things, however, it had to come to an end. Sanity eventually reasserted itself, and she stepped backward out of his embrace.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered. “Pray forgive me. I should not have—”

“Miss Darrington—Margaret—”

He reached for her hand, but even as he captured it, the French window opened and a broad swath of light illuminated them like a beacon.

“There
you are!” Aunt Hattie puffed. “I’ve been searching everywhere. Oh, Margaret, is it not too delightful? Dear Mr. Palmer’s aunt—not Lady Palmer, but his
other
aunt, Lady Windhurst, his mama’s sister, you know— has offered to bring out our Amanda this autumn during the Little Season, and will even sponsor her presentation at Court! And best of all—though perhaps I should not say such a thing, but you will know what I mean!—she intends to pay all the expenses as a betrothal gift! Oh, my love, it is almost like a miracle, is it not?”

“Yes,” Margaret said softly, avoiding James’s too-penetrating gaze. “Almost.”

Chapter 12

It was, indeed, almost like a miracle—almost, but not quite. Surely miracles did not make one toss and turn in one’s bed all night, tormented by thoughts of what might have been. Now, too late, Margaret realized why she had so strenuously objected to the idea of Mr. Fanshawe’s making overtures toward her sister. Amanda must not marry Mr. Fanshawe because, Margaret now knew, Mr. Fanshawe must marry no one but herself. She had made a point of telling herself (and, indeed, anyone else who would listen) that she was only acting in her family’s best interests, when all the while she was motivated by petty jealousy of the basest sort—that which seeks its own self-interests, all the while purporting to be for its object’s Own Good.

Alas, honesty and self-awareness did not erase the fact that Mr. Fanshawe was as ineligible a husband for Margaret as ever he had been for Amanda. Worse, in fact, for now that Amanda had made her choice, it would be wicked to expect Mr. Palmer to support not only his bride, but her improvident sister and that sister’s impoverished husband as well.

Amanda had made her choice . . . Was it possible that Margaret now faced the choice that would forever change her life? Could there have been something in the old gypsy woman’s predictions after all? No, for if that were the case, Mr. Fanshawe would be the happy possessor of a fortune. It would be foolhardy in the extreme to set so much store by the ramblings of a gypsy soothsayer that one married a poor man for love, only to spend the rest of one’s life waiting for a fortune that never materialized.

With the coming of dawn, she knew what she had to do. Abandoning all attempts at sleep, she dressed quickly in a drab gray gown that matched her mood, then went downstairs to the study, where she busied herself with a series of sums as the sun crept over the horizon and spilled across the windowsill. A soft sound made her look up, blinking in the unexpectedly bright morning light.

“I had a feeling I would find you here,” James said, smiling as he entered the room.

The pen slipped from her hand, spattering tiny drops of ink over her calculations. “Mr. Fanshawe! Do come in. Sit—sit down.”

He advanced farther into the room, but did not sit. “Miss Darrington, I—”

“I—I have good news—at least, I trust you will find it so,” she plunged hastily into speech, her hands very busy among the papers littering the desk. “Philip is to go to school, just as you suggested. He is to begin at the start of the Michaelmas term. As for yourself, you need not fear for your own future, for you will have two weeks’ wages as well as a letter of the very highest recommendation. I hope it will be useful to you in—in seeking employment elsewhere. You will no doubt wish to reach the Pig and Whistle in time to catch the early stage, so I shall have Philip drive you there in the trap immediately after breakfast.”

James’s smile faded. “You’re sending me away.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Surely you must agree that your services would be superfluous. You knew this would be the case when you urged me to send him to school.”

“Yes, and you steadfastly resisted my entreaties. Forgive me, Miss Darrington, but it seems very odd that you should decide to take my advice today, of all days. If your decision has anything to do with what happened between us last night, let me assure you—”

She raised a hand to forestall him. “About last night, Mr. Fanshawe, surely the less said, the better. Suffice it to say that it was a momentous occasion, with emotions running very close to the surface, and that my aunt’s ratafia and mild claret cup were neither one of them sufficient to prepare me for the potency of Sir Humphrey’s champagne.”

James clasped his hands lightly behind his back and slowly began to pace the floor, just as if he were delivering a lecture on Latin or Greek. “There is an expression, Miss Darrington, which we find in Plato. Perhaps you are familiar with it:
in vino veritas.
Simply put, it means that when one is under the influence of alcohol, one is likely to say or do the things one wishes but hasn’t the courage to do when sober.”

“I am indeed familiar with the expression, Mr. Fanshawe, but I fear Mr. Plato and I are doomed to disagree on this point. In my experience—limited though it is—one is more likely to do things that would never even occur to one without, er, liquid stimulant.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” James said, although the blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles looked anything but remorseful. “For I had been wanting to kiss you, too— wanting it for quite some time, as a matter of fact.”

“Really, Mr. Fanshawe, this conversation is most improper—”

“Not at all. You have just given me notice, so I am no longer in your employ. I am merely a private gentleman asking a lady if she will do me the honor of—”

Margaret clapped her hands over her ears, shutting out the question she knew she must refuse. “I beg you, sir, say no more! I daresay you feel an obligation to offer for me after our—indiscretion—of last night, but—”

“Surely you cannot think I would make you an offer for such a reason as that!” exclaimed James, suddenly serious. “As a matter of fact, Miss Darrington, I find an uncommon delight in your company, and flattered myself that my feelings were reciprocated.”

“You must know that the idea of any marriage between us is quite impossible!”

“Am I to understand, then, that you do
not
feel for me that degree of—of affection which I feel for you?”

She smiled sadly. “I fear our feelings have very little to say to the matter. Love in a cottage may sound very well in novels, but it has nothing to do with real life. You are in no position to support a wife, and I cannot—
will
not!—be dependent upon my sister and Mr. Palmer.”

“Tell me, Miss Darrington, would my suit be as objectionable to you if I were the duke of Montford?”

She blinked at him. “What sort of question is that?”

He shook his head, waving away the words he had not meant to say. “Never mind. You have given your answer, and there is nothing more to be said. I suppose, then, that this must be goodbye.”