Page 200 of Dukes for Dessert

The images that came to mind made her chasten herself for a fool. And still her heartbeat quickened over the vision of the two of them ensconced in some private chamber, embracing for a kiss. Heaven help her. He was an exquisite specimen of a man. Would she dare to enjoy it? After all this time, he’d yet to release her, and Margaret could scarcely find her voice to ask him to do so. “But, of course, we’ll have to have separate rooms,” she felt inclined to point out.

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“Of course,” he agreed amiably, and finally released her, then proceeded to give the driver further instruction, seemingly at ease with his new role as lord and master. Once he was through, he placed his hand on her elbow and guided Margaret toward the single street occupant whom, Margaret presumed, might direct them to the marrying house.

“What if they refuse to perform a ceremony so late?” she worried, her legs feeling unsubstantial. “We should have departed Blackwood long before we did.” She wavered a little on her feet, feeling as though she might swoon.

It must be a consequence of the tedious journey, no more.

“He won’t refuse,” he said, and his easy manner reassured her.

“How can you be certain?”

Her husband to be peered down at her, his blue eyes veiled by the darkness, and yet the intensity there was more than apparent. “My lady, I dare say, no one could refuse you anything,” he said with certainty, and the declaration left Margaret feeling heady.

But then she perseverated. Was he suggesting that she held some sway over him? Margaret furrowed her brow, trying to read his expression.

Perchance he meant because she was too bold? But if he thought as much, she didn’t care. It was the only way Margaret knew to accomplish anything at all in this man’s world. And, nevertheless, his gaze didn’t seem so reproachful. He was, in fact, peering down at her strangely—even fondly...

“Money talks,” he pointed out, and her emotions dove into the pit of her stomach.

But why? Why did his answer make her feel so disheartened? He couldn’t possibly have intended the remark to be doting. “Perhaps,” Margaret agreed. “But what if we cannot get the laggards to stir from their beds?”

“They’ll smell your gold in their dreams,” he said, and gave her a sidelong glance and a disarming grin. “If not, you have my word: I will drag them from their beds. Have no fear.”

The wind tugged gently at her bonnet, and Margaret reached up to tuck the hat more securely upon her head, telling herself that it was the chill Scots wind that made her tremble. It certainly wasn’t the prospect of having this man’s guardianship. She didn’t need anyone to speak for her, and she had every intention of taking charge here herself. Even as they approached the building, the man seated by the stoop didn’t stir from his seat beside the door, rather he watched them, looking mystified by their presence. Margaret felt a surge of irritation, eager as she was to be done with this task. It wasn’t fair that she should be forced to give her life into the hands of a man simply because she was a woman, but such was the case, and she was prepared to make the most of it.

“I will speak to him,” Gabriel suggested.

“No, I will do it,” Margaret said at once, her expression mutinous.

* * *

Gabriel knew better than to laugh at her ready defiance, endearing though it might be. “As you wish,” he said, but he couldn’t quite wipe the smirk from his face as she spun to address the drunkard.

“How do you do, sir?” she asked the man.

“Fine as a fiddle,” he said, lifting his flask of whiskey for her perusal. “Hoozyersel’ hinnie?”

“Well enough,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “Better yet if you could help me. Perhaps you would be so kind as to direct us to the marrying house?” she said, dispensing with idle chatter.

“The marryin’ h-house?” the man hiccupped.

“Yes, sir, the marrying house.”

The drunk took another swig of his sour-smelling whiskey before bothering to reply. “I dinna ken why everyone’s lookin’ for that damned m-marrying house. Ye’re better off keeping to yourself.”

“Well… I’m quite certain I don’t know why either, sir. Alas, we’re in a terrible rush. Do you know where it is?”

The man frowned. “Everyone ish in a hurry,” the man admonished, slurring his words. “Do y’ no’ see what rushin’ tae the altar did tae me? I’m a drinkin’ me whiskey in the cauld whilst the wife is snug in our bed.”

“I am terribly sorry, sir,” she relented. “Perhaps you might wish to join her... after you direct us to the parsonage?”

The man waved a hand, dismissing the notion. “Och, nay,” he said. “Even if that lady’s tongue wadna lash me back out the door, I canna well walk through walls. She’s locked me out.” He took another hearty swig from his flask, mumbling something to the effect that women were all born with tempers, and Gabriel sensed Margaret’s hackles rising over the disparaging remark. He wanted to remind her she was conversing with a drunkard, but decided, instead, to keep his gob shut.

“I see,” she said. “So she’s locked you out?”

“Thass what I said, lass.” The drunk took another swig of his whiskey, and said, “Stubborn fashious wench!”