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Mr. Gabriel Ssss Morgan smiled. “I’m afraid I cannot allow my good friend to take all the responsibility. I know you requested an earlier meeting, but it has been quite a chaotic week for me. But, as you say, we’re all here now…”
Margaret dutifully proffered her hand, and Mr. Morgan clasped it within his own. His gentle touch sent a delicious shiver down her spine, and Margaret withdrew it quickly, for fear that he might actually dare to kiss it. Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes... thank you.” And then, she forgot what else she was going to say…
Mr. Morgan’s lips curved into a singularly beautiful smile, and Margaret was flustered to find that her gaze focused unnecessarily on his mouth.
Good Lord, what was the matter with her?
She forced her gaze to lift to his eyes, feeling quarrelsome, though it wasn’t like her.
“You are… as lovely as they say,” Mr. Morgan said too pleasantly.
“Who… says?”
“I did,” Mr. Goodman confessed a little nervously.
“Thank you,” she said, uncomfortably, and her fiancé’s eyes twinkled with barely suppressed mirth. Margaret refused to allow herself the discomfiture of embarrassment. His eyes, upclose, so vivid a blue, remained focused on her, and she had the strangest sensation of having looked into them before—a trick of the imagination, no doubt, as she would have remembered Mr. Gabriel Sssss. Morgan.
“You are quite welcome,” he said pleasantly, and a shiver raced down Margaret’s spine at the timbre of his voice. Rich and low, it seemed to whisper straight to her heart, because the beat of it quickened unexpectedly.
Calm down, she commanded herself.Calm down.None of this is anyone’s fault.If she was angry, who should be the recipient? How could she have ever expected Mr. Goodman to know who she might find appealing? “I—yes, well… it is my pleasure tofinallymake your acquaintance. However, now that we have made introductions, perhaps we should make haste?”
Mr. Goodman cleared his throat. “As to that, Lady Margaret... I am afraid I won’t be going along,” he announced.
Margaret tore her gaze away from Mr. Morgan. “Why not?”
Philip Goodman fidgeted nervously. “Something has...” He peered up at Mr. Morgan uneasily. “Pardon me, Lady Margaret, but something’s come up—bedlam as I said.”
“Something?” Panic gripped Margaret at the prospect of sharing a carriage with Mr. Morgan.Alone. All the way to Gretna Green. “Something like what?”
“Lady Margaret, I promise to remain a perfect gentleman,” Mr. Morgan interjected, reassuring her. “And Ialwayskeep my word. But we’ll soon be husband and wife, and therefore, we should have no need of a chaperone, don’t you agree?”
Margaret’s brows twitched. “Yes, well… of course,” she allowed, but she swallowed with difficulty. Certainly, if she could trust him enough to wed him, she should trust him enough to ride in a carriage with him. Alone. But that wasn’t really what concerned her. No, it was the prospect of being alone with thoseconfounding blue eyes. It wasn’t until he winked at her she realized she was staring. Again.
“Unless, of course,youfeel we require a chaperon?” he suggested with a devastating smile.
Margaret’s cheeks warmed. “No! Of course not.” She waved a hand dismissively, turning to Mr. Goodman. “We should manage fine without you, of course.”
“Jolly good,” said Mr. Goodman. “I believe I hear the carriage coming about as we speak.” He extended a hand to Mr. Morgan. “Gabriel,” he said. “Be well, my friend.” And then he turned to Margaret. “The next time we meet, Lady Margaret, I expect you shall be Mrs. Gabriel Sssss...” With a slight brush of Mr. Morgan’s shoulder, Mr. Goodman’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he shook his head, looking annoyed with himself, as he finished, “Morgan! Demme!” he said as he popped his hat back upon his head. “Felicitations to the both of you,” he offered, turning away. “If you’ll excuse me, I will be out of your way.”
He hastened to take his leave, and Margaret blinked as she watched him go, afraid that he was developing a stutter.Poor man.He was working too hard, and that was partly her fault. “Well, now,” she said to her intended. “Shall we go?”
He smiled again—that devastating smile, and said, “Ready when you are, my lady.” And for some reason, his agreement sounded too suggestive. However, before she could say anything at all, her heretofore unseen fiancé moved to open the door for her. “After you,” he insisted, and Margaret had the sudden, most goatish thought that if she must stare perforce at another face across the breakfast table, it might as well be one so pleasing to the eye.
She refused to feel guilty for entertaining such shallow-minded thoughts. Men were quite salacious and superficial all the time.
Even so, her nerve nearly failed her. Resisting the urge to run screaming up the stairwell—to lock herself away for the rest of her natural life—she smiled as she retrieved her shawl from the banister and took a deep, fortifying breath, preceding her new fiancé out the door. Only belatedly, she wondered why he had agreed to her proposal, and she decided that, perhaps, he was a spendthrift, anticipating an endless source of funds. And if that were true, he would be sorely disappointed, as Margaret was quite frugal with her finances, and she wasn’t about to hand him an open bank draft to spend on his vices.£4,000.That was all he was getting from her, once each year.
Or perhaps he was a womanizer who’d found a commitment-free marriage desirable.Fine, then.She couldn’t expect any man to remain faithful when she never intended to share his bed—her face burned over the very prospect. And, no matter, it was too late to turn back now. Marrying Gabriel S. Morgan was all there was left to do.
4
She didn’t recognize him.
Gabriel hadn’t truly expected her to after so long. After all, it had been thirteen long years, during which they’d both gone through a metamorphosis from child to adult. Margaret hadn’t seen him even once since the day they’d parted, and the fact that man and boy shared the same given name shouldn’t be enough to give him away. Gabriel was a common enough appellation, and he’d made certain to use his mother’s surname.
At any rate, the notion of true love for a twelve- and thirteen-year-old was ludicrous. They had but experienced a whisper of what might have been.
Nor was love a matter of sexual satisfaction. If that were true, he’d had enoughsatisfactionthroughout his lifetime to know that sort of gratification was just that: gratification. Not once since reaching his sexual maturation had he longed to sit about conversing afterward. Not once since leaving Margaret Willingham had he longed for hours upon hours hidden away behind an unpleasant nest of thorns, with earth-damp bottoms, and a plethora of scuffs and scrapes. Indeed, not once had hewished for a sunny day to drag his lover onto the slopes, only to hear her giggle. And now, simply because she still wrote his father occasionally, was no proof of her continuing affection. She had known his father longer than she’d known him, and for all Gabriel knew, she had by now forgotten him entirely. Even so, he’d anticipated some glimmer of recognition in her eyes when they met again.