Page 199 of Dukes for Dessert

“I do,” she replied fiercely.

“I only wonder what you’re afraid of?”

It was a gauntlet cast at her feet. One Margaret couldn’t ignore. Truth be told, she had never considered herself so fetching that any man should long to kiss her. The simple fact that he did, appealed to her, despite her mortification. And, really, he wasn’t any sort of toad. She smiled, though her composure had not returned, and said with more aplomb than she felt, “Mr. Morgan…”

“Gabriel.”

“Mr. Morgan,” she persisted. “I am most assuredly not afraid of a kiss.”

“Of course not,” he said. “But, please, do call me Gabriel,” he suggested. “After all, we are soon to be wed. What will the parson think if he should hear you speak to me so formally? After all, if we are not wedding for love—as must be the only case for a midnight wedding—mightn’t he wonder if you come to him compromised?”

Margaret furrowed her brow. “Compromised?”

“In other words, with child,” he explained more crudely.

Margaret frowned. Why did she feel he was baiting her? There was no mistaking the glitter of amusement in his bright blue eyes, and her flush crept higher with that realization. She was doubly unsettled to find her gaze returning to his lips…

Just a kiss, he’d claimed.

As it was, it would seem they were eloping—and why would anyone do so, unless they were… well, as he’d said, compromised? So often these weddings in Gretna Green were just the opposite case as hers. They were oft times compromised, as he’d so brashly claimed, and more often than not, they flew into such a union at the detriment of their good fortunes. However, Mr. Morgan himself had tightened the language in their contract to be sure that she was insulated from gossip, although she really did not care what anyone thought. If she did, she might never have issued such a contract in the first place, and it was perhaps the talk of the ton already. But after all was said and done, she couldn’t seem to help herself; why should she say no? Indeed, what was she afraid of? He was going to be her husband, as he’d said—what harm could come from a simple kiss?

At any rate, it wasn’t as though she needed to be in love with a man simply to kiss him, she reasoned. And she wasn’t. Of course, she wasn’t. How could she be? In fact, Maggie wasn’t even sure she believed in love. If one couldn’t touch it, or smell it, or see it, then one couldn’t be sure it even existed. “Very well,” Margaret relented. “One kiss... no more... after we’re wed—for the sake of the parson.”

“For the sake of the parson,” he said.

“Indeed,” Margaret agreed, and his lips curved into a slow grin, looking too much like the little boy who’d coaxed the mouse from the cat’s jaws, and she suddenly wanted to take it all back.

She wouldn’t, however.

For better, or worse, she owed the cad a kiss, and with their business concluded, she lapsed into silence for the rest of the journey, wondering how it was that he’d managed to make her agree to such a scandalous proposal.

5

As far as Margaret could tell, Gretna Green was overrated. The municipality was dingy and small. The first township over the border, you had to cross a little bridge over the Sark River, and thereafter, they were instructed to see the resident toll-keeper in the First House in order to arrange their marriage.

She was well over twenty-one, but that didn’t mean she was free to wed at will. English law required that marriages take place in a church and that their bans be posted. Scottish law was different. You could marry on the spot, in a marriage by declaration, with two witnesses and assurances from the couple that they were free to wed.

Margaret should have been elated to have the deal done, but she couldn’t stop thinking about their recent bargain, and by the time they arrived, her mood was pettish, her bottom numb from travel, and her companion too high-spirited for her liking.

As for Gretna Green, tales would have had the village be some great sanctuary for lovers, with parades to greet runaway sweethearts and loud huzzahs for their mad, courageous dash over the border. As it was, the sleepy little village was no more than a handful of clay houses with carefully thatched roofs. The streets were abandoned, except for a single barking dog, one stray mule wandering about, and a drunkard swilling his whiskey outside the town’s only hall.

It did not impress Margaret.

Then again, neither was she some starry-eyed bride. She was here to do business, and if a kiss was all her groom wished of her, she should count herself fortunate.

They arrived with little time to spare. Mr. Morgan—Gabriel—she wrinkled her nose at the awkwardness of using his given name, even in her thoughts—descended before her. Her legs numb from the jouncing ride, Margaret stumbled out from the carriage, into his arms.

“Oh!” she said in surprise and was helpless to do anything but allow him to steady her on her feet. He grasped her at her waist, his fingers strong, lean and firm. Margaret tried not to construe anything into the way they slid upward along the sides of her ribs... and lingered an instant too long. There was nothing truly improper about his assistance, merely a fancy of her overwrought imagination, because she half expected that he would lift her into his arms, pull her close, and take that promised kiss right now. But she refused to be caught up in the fantasy of this elopement, refused to consider it could be a lover’s clasp. It was no more than a friendly assist, and the look in his eyes as she peered up to acknowledge his help was nothing more than a trick of her mind.

No. No. No. He wasn’t staring at her as though he were waiting for her to confess her undying gratitude and love.

Nor was he considering the prospect of that shocking kiss he’d finagled from her. It was her own wicked mind that imagined he’d restrained himself from lowering his head to hers… only but a fraction... to brush his lips ever so gently against her own. A frisson raced down her spine over the thought.

What is wrong with you? Margaret admonished herself. It wasn’t at all like her to be so fanciful. It was simply that kiss she’d been contemplating for most of their journey. But also, it was her wedding night—business arrangement though it was—so perhaps it was only natural she suffer a few soppy notions? She was fatigued from the journey and ready to rest—but not in the same bed.

“We’ll have done with this soon enough,” he promised, as though he’d read her mind. “And then we’ll procure a room at the inn.”

A room at the inn? Why did that sound so scandalous?