After the Kiss (22 page)

He stood there silent. Waiting, no doubt, for an answering declaration from her. How strange that she felt almost shy with him at the moment. “The idea of your marrying another woman is most definitely not appealing,” she said, her palms pressed against the fabric of his coat. She smoothed them across his chest to his arms and back again.

How did she tell him that he was like the air she breathed and the sun on her face? Necessary delights of living.

“Jealousy?”

She shook her head.

“I have been given to understand that a woman in these circumstances is not so reticent about her feelings,” he said tautly.

“Are you going to throw something again?”

“Why do you look so delighted at the prospect? Does my momentary insanity please you?”

She stroked his arm. “I should not confess to such a thing, should I? But you’re very attractive when you’re enraged.”

His brow rose even further, his grin thoroughly wicked. “Then is it my manly form, Margaret?”

Until she’d known him she’d never experienced sorcery. Never known what it was like to feel passion. For the sheer blinding alchemy of that she would be forever grateful. But being with him was oddly more. It was the taste of an orange, the smell of a rose, the touch of the first spring raindrop expanded and multiplied and folded over itself. The meaning, perhaps, of joy.

She stood on tiptoe and breathed against his ear. “No, Michael. Love.” The most fervent of avowals gently whispered.

The reward for her honesty was a soft laugh and a long kiss.

M
ichael Hartley Hawthorne, Earl of Montraine, and Margaret Lindlay Esterly, widow, stood before the vicar the next morning in the small stone church in Silbury Village.

The faint sunlight barely lit the one stained glass window over the altar. The air smelled damp, an odor common to the old stone structure. The day itself was one of mist and melancholy, contrasting sharply to Margaret’s dazed delight.

No special arrangements or permissions were required since she had lived in Silbury Village for more than six months. All that was necessary was for Michael to pay for the required license and also the stipend to the clergyman. She did not doubt that Michael had promised an additional generous sum to
the vicar if the ceremony was kept private and short. Consequently, Penelope and Tom were the only guests.

Smytheton had been sent back to London in the wagon, a journey that displeased him almost as much as the abortive one to Silbury Village, if his glower was any indication.

The vicar’s voice droned on, but she paid only half an ear to his opening sermon. From time to time Penelope would glance at her, then at Michael. As if she were as stunned as Margaret at the very fact of this wedding.

“Is he the one?” Penelope had asked this morning, when they were packing her meager possessions into Michael’s valise. “The babe’s father?”

Margaret nodded.

“You’ll be a countess now, Miss Margaret.”

“I know nothing at all about being a countess, Penelope,” she said, not quite able to hide her fear at the thought. “I doubt I’ll do well at it.”

“You’ll do better than well,” her friend said loyally. “So will the babe. Ever since you found those accursed
Journals
, we’ve been plagued with bad luck. Maybe this marriage is a change from that.”

Those accursed
Journals
.

Margaret looked up at the rafters where the strongbox was hidden.

A few moments later, Penelope stood on the table while Margaret held it steady. She reached up to grab the dusty box from the rafter with one hand while she pressed the other against the wall for balance. She handed the box to Margaret, who set it to one side while she helped Penelope scramble down from the table.

“I hope you’ll be taking those books with you,” Pe
nelope said. “I wouldn’t want my Tom to get any ideas.” She leaned close to Margaret, as if they weren’t the only people in the cottage. “There are things in those books, Miss Margaret, that are surely wicked.”

Deliciously so. Margaret quickly stifled that thought. Instead, she reached inside, retrieved the two remaining
Journals
, and placed them in the valise. She left the money inside. Closing the strongbox, she handed it to Penelope.

“I want you to have it,” she said. “The money will give you and Tom a good start on your marriage.”

Penelope looked stunned. “I could not, Miss Margaret.”

“I insist,” she said adamantly. The proceeds from the sale of the first
Journal
would be enough to rent a small cottage of their own. Or perhaps even purchase this one from Squire Tippett.

Penelope had been flabbergasted ever since Margaret’s announcement.

As for herself, she appeared appropriately solemn. She hoped the calm expression on her face was an adequate disguise for her sudden terror.

What was she doing? A thought that repeated itself over and over, an accompaniment to the vicar’s voice. She couldn’t marry this man. He was an earl. What did she know of earls?

You’re just as good as anyone, Margaret
. Her Gran’s voice echoed in her mind. Her Gran would have been pleased by this marriage. But her grandmother had been a governess, a woman familiar with the dealings of the rich. She knew how to comport herself in the homes of nobles. Her only experience had been a week of passion. She knew nothing of dances, and dinners, and morning calls.

Michael turned his head and studied her, his gaze uncomfortably direct. Then he smiled as if he’d heard her fears and wished to ease her mind.

In that moment she knew. It came not in a rush of awareness, but in a whisper. The true meaning of love was not simply gentleness and sharing, but also the violence of surrender, the relinquishing of pride and fear. And the faith of stepping into a blackened abyss lit only by one faint star.

He reached out and took her hand and she held it tight, reassured.

A very large orange colored cat sauntered into the church and sat on the stone floor beside the vicar. His tail whipped around, his eyes fixed on Margaret as if to question her presence in a house set aside for worship. She had no doubt it was the clergyman’s cat, what with that look of condemnation in his feline eyes.

The vows performed, the prayer lingered on. The diatribe on sin and redemption was halted by Michael’s frown, a particularly quelling look that had the cleric stammering to a halt.

She stepped away from the altar, turned to Penelope, bewildered at the speed with which her life had changed.

“Well, if you had to do something so foolish, Miss Margaret,” Penelope whispered, looking at Michael, “at least you chose a handsome nob.”

“He is quite agreeable, isn’t he?” she said, smiling.

“Does he always frown so?” Penelope asked.

“Always.” Margaret’s smile broadened as Michael’s scowl deepened.

“That might take some getting used to,” Penelope said. “Do you think the babe will look like him?”

“I sincerely hope he does not frown as much,” Margaret said.

“Are you quite finished discussing me?” Michael asked sardonically.

He looked so aristocratic standing there, so desperately out of place in this tiny church. Utterly handsome. Hers.

She reached up and brushed a kiss on his cheek. He looked startled for a moment, then his arm reached out and encompassed her waist. He escorted her to the front of the church where they signed the parish register, signaling an official end to the wedding ceremony. She was now Margaret Hawthorne, wife of Michael, Earl of Montraine. Or as Penelope might say in one of her more vulgar moments, cor, she was a bleedin’ countess.

Michael had dreaded his wedding day for years. In all his thoughts of it, he’d never believed that he might be experiencing what he was at this moment. Happiness, a tinge of fear, and an almost visceral possessiveness coupled with another, less discernable feeling. Triumph. She was his.

An entirely confusing range of emotions.

Then again, he’d never thought that he would have to convince a woman to wed him with the assiduousness he had Margaret Esterly. Correction. Margaret Esterly Hawthorne, Countess of Montraine. A role that seemed, oddly enough, to suit her, if that regal little tilt to her chin was any indication. Nor had he thought that he might have to beggar himself to gain a bride. He should perhaps have felt something about that development, but the fact was that he was too happy to care.

He placed his hand on the small of Margaret’s back
and escorted her from the church. He had paid the vicar well, not only to execute the marriage ceremony without delay, but to ensure some measure of privacy and to protect Margaret from gossip.

As they left the church, he realized that while the marriage might have been intimate, the speculation had already begun. Standing on the street before them were a group of women, each holding tight to the hand of a girl. At their appearance in the doorway, the assembled mothers began to mutter. Not unlike, he thought, a gaggle of disapproving geese.

A tall, angular woman with a long face stepped forward. She glanced curiously at Michael and then away, as if dismissing him.

“I’ve come to tell you, Mrs. Esterly, that you’ll not be teaching my Dorothy again,” she said. “I don’t want her near the likes of you.”

“It seems as if your Abigail wasted no time in circulating her tale,” he said in an aside to Margaret.

She nodded.

“Nor I,” said another woman. Her face was round, her eyes narrowed with an expression of repugnance “Harlot.”

He felt Margaret wince beside him.

He didn’t give a flying farthing what the world thought of him. His experience was that society would talk about him whether or not he participated in their discussions. But he had no intention of standing here and listening to them revile Margaret. Perhaps the two of them had been unwise, but they had not sinned against these women who had set themselves up as moral jurists.

He stepped forward, in front of Margaret.

“You are speaking of my wife, madam,” he said sharply, “the Countess of Montraine. And as her hus
band,” he warned them, “I am not disposed to hear your insults.”

The announcement had the effect of a bolt of lightning. They silenced as one, utterly transfixed.

Penelope and Tom moved to his side. “I’ll have you know, Anne Coving,” Penelope said, in a voice that carried well, “that Miss Margaret was married this morning. And I’ll not allow you to ruin this moment with your vicious tongue.”

He guided Margaret from the steps, the women falling back as they walked through the group to the carriage. An oddly silent crowd now.

He turned as Margaret bid farewell to her friend, then waited as she entered the carriage. He frowned at the assembled group, smiled his thanks to Penelope and her still silent husband and entered the carriage, sitting beside his wife.

Margaret glanced at him, a small smile curving her lips.

“Well, what did you expect?” he said, still irritated at the group of harpies outside the church. “For me to tolerate their insults to you?”

“I was only thinking,” she said, “that this is the first time I have seen your arrogance directed at another. On the whole, I prefer not being the recipient of it.”

“You’re well quit of this place, Margaret,” he said, still annoyed. “Little minds in little places.”

“London will be better?” Her quizzical look chided him.

“Very well, it’s true. We’ve fueled the gossip mills well. I do not doubt that there will be nothing but rumor and innuendo for months to come.”

“Do you mind?”

He sat back, tossed his walking stick to the opposite seat.

“Not one whit,” he said, honestly.

He had his share of friends who were his rank, but his closest association was with Robert, a man without a title. In addition, he labored beside men in the Black Chamber who were measured not by their rank, but by their abilities and intelligence. Was that why he saw the boundaries of his society as more fluid than most? Because he admired men not for what they had inherited, but for their reasoning? Or for their ability to dwell in an abstract world few people understood?

Perhaps. But he was well aware that there were those who would find great pleasure in ensuring that Margaret’s entry into society was difficult. By keeping the walls high and the moat deep, the inbred xenophobic
ton
kept itself pure and unsullied.

He would have to protect her from the more vindictive members of society, his mother included.

I
t seemed to Michael that he and Margaret had spent an inordinate amount of time in a carriage together. Night had fallen by the time they entered the outskirts of London. His carriage was well sprung, a vehicle built for uncertain roads. The London cobbles could barely be felt. Margaret had long since succumbed to sleep.

He should have done the same. He had not slept well the night before, having taken shelter at Malverne House. He would not have insinuated himself into the squire’s good graces had Silbury Village boasted an inn. A concession to Margaret’s reputation. He would have sacrificed far more than being nipped and barked at for half the night by Squire Tippett’s six terriers.

His wife lay against him, a small unearthly smile
wreathing her lips even in sleep. He wanted to kiss it gently from her lips.

Only a sign, then, of how half-witted he was becoming. To find the one woman in the entire world who could render him idiotic. Then to turn his world upside down to marry her.

Another indication of his foolishness. He was a rutting beast. A man clearly out of his element. Even in sleep she aroused him.

They halted, finally, before his home. Michael thought the sudden cessation of movement would wake her, but Margaret slept on, so deeply that he thought it a pity to disturb her.

He leaned forward and placed his hand against her cheek. Margaret’s eyes flew open as if he had called her name.

“We are home, Margaret.”

She nodded drowsily and sat up. His hand dropped away as she straightened her skirt and checked to see if her hair was orderly. It occurred to him that he had never before seen a woman perform such gestures so matter-of-factly. There was no cry of distress, no fumbling for a mirror, no lamentations as to fatigue or the tedium of the journey. Simply a pat and a smooth of hand, and that was all.

He descended from the carriage and held his hand out for her, a role better suited to footman than earl, but he was concerned for her footing. It had evidently rained earlier from the sheen on the cobbles.

He took Margaret’s valise from the coachman. It seemed a foolish thing to summon Smytheton at this late hour. Especially since the man was still irritated at him for making him travel to Silbury. He hefted it with a grunt and glanced at her.

“What have you packed in here, Margaret? Bricks?”

“Just my things,” she said, covering her yawning mouth with both hands. “Oh, and the
Journals
.”

“I will have to read them one day,” he said.

She said nothing in response to his remark, only smiled slightly. He left the valise on the table, watched as she walked slowly up the stairs. It would be better to allow her to rest. Certainly he could restrain himself for a little while. One night, after all, was not
that
many hours.

“Margaret,” he said, stepping forward. His hand was on the banister, his gaze intent on her.

She smiled, tenderly. An expression that should not have made his heart thud in his chest. She held out her hand to him, answering his unspoken question.

He reached her quickly, his breath coming in a piercing rush as he kissed her.

The journey up the remaining steps was easily made, but not quickly executed. Twice he stopped and kissed her until their breaths came shallow and fast. Twice, he thought that the chamber was too far away and the stairs, although uncomfortable, would make an adequate trysting place.

It was his wedding night. An occasion that called for some restraint. He managed to reach their room before he lost his senses. Again. Forever.

Once in their chamber, Michael turned to her. His fingers flew over fastenings and buttons, removing her dress, his coat, her chemise, his cravat, her stockings, his trousers. She began to laugh as he threw each piece into the air to land where it would.

“Wait,” she said, before he pulled her to the bed. “Stand there, Michael, just for a moment.”

“Why?” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes seemed to glitter.

Her hand flattened against his naked chest, moved slowly up until her thumb rested in the well at the base of his throat, fascinated at the rapid beat of his pulse there.

“I have to warn you, Margaret,” he said tightly. “I am decidedly impatient at the moment.”

He had always spoken of his regimented life, the order he craved. Yet she’d never witnessed the control he claimed ruled his world.

“There is a certain value in waiting, Michael.” Her fingers moved slowly to his shoulder as if giving him time to protest the exploratory touch. Her palm curved around the ball of his shoulder measuring it.

“Not tonight there isn’t,” he said, reaching for her.

She smiled, amused.

“You should have modeled for the statues in your pantheon. You are so utterly beautiful.”

For a moment he seemed at a loss for words, but he quickly recovered from his surprise. “Shall I make you pay for my favors, then?” he asked, as he led her to their bed.

“I hope not,” she said, watching him. He moved to the bed, lay down upon it, and stretched out his hand for her, seemingly impervious to his nakedness.

He lay there, pasha-like, a feast for her eyes. Lit by the candlelight and shadowed by night. A man blessed with a physical attractiveness that lured her and a mind that fascinated her. A man who made her smile even as he seduced her.

Yet this was not seduction. It was, perhaps, an alchemy of the spirit. A sharing that occurred whenever they came together. Something rare and extraordinary, as if God himself had given him to her.
For your grief and your tears, I give you something wondrous. Some
thing to be treasured for the rest of your life. Guard it well, you’ll not see a love like this again.

“I doubt I could afford you,” she said, a smile curving her lips. “You look as if you would be worth your weight in gold. All the richest women in the world might wish to purchase you for their pleasure.”

“There are commodities other than money, Margaret,” he said, his teasing smile a match to hers.

She lay on the bed, turned to face him.

Heat was in the center of her, spreading outward until even the tips of her fingers felt on fire. “Truly?”

He reached out a hand and pressed it against her hip, slid his palm across her stomach.

“When will your body begin to change?” he asked.

The question surprised her. “Soon. I think.”

He drew a circle around a nipple. “Your breasts will grow larger,” he said.

She nodded. His gaze lowered; he traced a line from the middle of her breasts to her navel.

“I find you eminently worthwhile,” he said, his smile soft and alluring. A gentle smile with only the barest touch of wickedness to it.

“No payment necessary to enjoy you?”

“A kiss?”

He rolled onto his back and reached out for her. She leaned over him, placed her hand on his cheek. His skin was hot beneath her touch. She traced his lips with her fingers before lowering her mouth to his. Something opened up inside her. A sweetness, a poignancy, not unlike the moment just before tears.

She could not remember a moment as exquisitely beautiful as this one. The room around them was hollowed out by shadows, the only spot of illumination the single candle. Its flickering light made the rain-streaked windows appear diamond encrusted.

Could time itself be halted? If so, she would wish to savor this instant when she lifted her head and his gaze held hers.

His face seemed to change. His hand reached up, cupped her face, his fingers threading through her hair. Teasing desire had been replaced by tenderness. Heady and sweet, passion filled, it promised more than simple fulfillment.

She felt spellbound.

This man was her husband. Bound to her by ritual and God. He was the man who had fathered her child, who had promised to protect her and shield her and worship her with his body.

He turned her and raised himself over her, entered her slowly, as if he knew that she was ready for him. Needed him. There was hollowness inside her, an emptiness only he could fill.

His eyes remained open, watching her. She reached up with both hands and curled her fingers within his. Was this aching delight she felt shared by him?

She could see herself reflected in his eyes. If she looked deeper, would she see the man he truly was? Overpoweringly male. An earl who laughed with abandon and loved with intensity. A man of arrogance, dedication, pride. A noble who loved his country, honored his family. Loved her.

The candle sputtered, the seconds lengthened as they gazed at each other. The rhythm of their breathing slowed until they breathed in tandem. His fingers loosened, then tightened on hers.

It was a strange and disconcerting experience she had at that moment. As though she surrendered herself completely to him. He filled the void, becoming part of her in a way she did not fully understand.

Perhaps the boundaries of self, rank, world had simply disappeared.

The moment was timeless and trembling.

Unable to bear it a moment more, she closed her eyes. A tear slipped from beneath her closed lids, fell to the pillow. He bent his head and kissed its path.

She reached up, placed her lips on his, sighed inwardly as he deepened the kiss. A feeling began in the core of her, as if all the disparate parts, once cohesive and complete, were being separated from the person she knew herself to be. And he gathered up the pieces and held them safe.

Slowly, he pulled out of her. She closed her eyes and waited an eternity for him to enter her again. Her body bowed in joy when he did.

She began to anticipate his movement, her body arching toward his. A dreamy, achingly slow possession, unhurried and exquisitely timed, their bodies in rhythmic tandem. The feeling washed over her in waves, becoming stronger with each prolonged stroke of his body in hers.

It was too much. It was too intense, too much to endure. She arched beneath him, lost in bliss. Margaret clung to him, her breath captured in a startled scream. The rest of the world dropped away until there was only him.

All that she needed.

Michael propped his head on his palm and studied her. Margaret lay on her side, facing him.

Dawn was making an appearance on the horizon. The sky was growing lighter; its midnight blue fading reluctantly like a reveler not ready for his bed. Across the horizon streaks of pink, a hue to match the
color of Margaret’s cheek, warned of the sun’s approach.

His fingers gently traced the curve of her jaw, then traveled upward to her mouth, nose. One fingertip dusted across her eyelids, marked the thick line of her lashes, then returned to trace the shape of her mouth.

“You are not asleep,” he whispered. “Else you would not be smiling.”

“I am,” she said firmly. “It’s only that you’re tickling me.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder, traced a path to her hand. Her fingers were long and slender; the nails gently rounded and clean. But there were calluses at the end of her fingertips. Until he’d seen her cottage, he’d not thought of the way she lived, had not considered that she had been on the edge of penury. Yet she had refused to take from him. Neither money nor security. A woman of independence and pride.

His wife.

“Margaret.” They lay so close that the speaking of her name was no more than a breath on her cheek.

Her hair was the color of autumn; her mouth curved easily into a smile and bestowed kisses with the flavor of eternity. The words were not his usual ones; they were almost poetic.

He’d thought he understood desire. Had experienced it, shared it with women in his past. He had tucked it into his mind along with other necessary emotions. Something to be understood and accepted. But Michael was beginning to recognize the depth of his ignorance.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her expression made him smile. Irritation, and sleepiness. She didn’t rouse easily.

The words must be said before another moment passed, before another second clicked upon the clock.

“I accept you, Margaret,” he said, looking at her beloved face. “Unconditionally. Madly.”

Margaret looked startled at his declaration, but then it seemed she remembered their earlier conversation. “I accept you, too, Michael,” she murmured, her smile luminous. “Unconditionally. Madly.”

A realization occurred to the Earl of Montraine in that moment. He had not entirely believed in love, but it was all too evident that it truly did exist. He had never understood, however, that love flowed outward, from the soul of one person to another. Until this moment, he had never realized that it was an all-encompassing thing, an emotion that blessed both the recipient and the giver.

Not at all a sensible thing, love.

She cuddled against him. He wrapped his arms around her as she buried her head against his shoulder, nuzzling his neck with her lips. A moment later her breathing was rhythmic, soft. She’d fallen asleep again. He smiled and held her there safely in his arms.