A Lady Most Lovely (23 page)

“Tom Poole, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

She felt Tom’s eyes upon her, felt the heat of his gaze. “I will.” He spoke with utter assurance.

“Margaret Vaughn, wilt thou have this man to be thy
wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Obey. Serve. Love.

Margaret had been to many weddings; she had heard these words before. But never had she truly considered their significance. Now she realized how unprepared she was. She’d been raised to see the wedding as a mere ritual to be gotten through so that the real business of marriage—the sharing of wealth, the elevation in society—could begin. But she had heard Tom’s firm answer, and she had had time enough over these few weeks to see his unshakable trust in God. He would not take the wedding vows lightly, and he would expect no less from her. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard, her throat too dry to allow speech.

The silence lengthened. There was a nervous rustling in the congregation, and one or two people coughed. The minister looked at her questioningly. Lucinda gave her a tremulous smile, although her eyes were clouded with concern. But still, Margaret could not speak.

She tried to tell herself that perhaps these
were
mere words. After all, Tom had spoken of their partnership, of the ways this marriage would benefit them both. He had not spoken directly of love—although when he had kissed her, when he had called her Maggie… she gasped as the memory of it lit a fire of need that threatened, even now, to consume her.

I should not be marrying this man,
she thought wildly.
I should not marry someone who can weaken my resolve so easily.
For that was the crux of it—Margaret had lost herself too readily in Tom’s arms. It was above all things what she feared the most. She had always stood alone, dependent upon no one else, for that was the only way to keep the demons and the hurt at bay. To trust others brought only disappointment and bitter sorrow. Hadn’t that been proven to her time and time again?

And yet, she was committed to marry this man, and it was far too late to turn back now. Margaret reached down for the inner strength that had always been her mainstay. She reminded herself that she must save Moreton Hall—save her inheritance and the only home she had ever known. And no matter what happened, she would never, ever let down the guard around her heart. When she finally found her voice, it was clearly audible and unwavering. “I will.”

A collective sigh of relief echoed through the church.

The minister smoothly continued on to the next part, but Margaret was barely conscious of what was happening. She had the sense that she was being pulled across a vast chasm to a place entirely unknown, like the old maps in her father’s library that marked such places
terra incognita.
The minister placed Tom’s right hand in hers, and Tom recited his vows perfectly. Margaret had to rely on soft prompts from the minister, and stumbled more than once over the words.

Her resolve to be strong, to not allow herself to be carried away by emotion, nearly crumbled when Tom placed the gold band upon her finger and said, “With this ring I thee wed.” Something in his voice irresistibly called to her, and at last—at last—she was brave enough to raise her eyes to meet his. “With my body I thee worship,”
he continued, stunning her with the intensity of his gaze. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

She could only stare at him, her heart lodged in her throat.

The minister gently set a hand on their shoulders, indicating for them to kneel. Margaret sank down easily, still reeling. From somewhere above them, the minister said, “Let us pray.”

As the minister prayed aloud, Margaret’s heart filled, uncharacteristically, with a prayer of its own.
Lord, if it’s true that you hear our innermost prayers, I beg that you hear mine. Please let this man be all he says he is. And please, help me…

It was surely not the right thing to pray, but it was the best she could do.

When the prayer was over, Tom helped Margaret to rise, his hand firm and reassuring beneath her elbow. The minister took their right hands, placed them together, and announced, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

Lucinda was crying tears of joy, and even James Simpson seemed moved. Lord Somerville’s expression was more contemplative.

As the minister presented them to the congregation, Margaret looked into a sea of smiling faces. Perhaps the worst was past, she thought with a twinge of hope. But she suddenly felt Tom tense beside her. She followed his gaze to see what had startled him. There, in the back row of the church, stood Paul Denault.

Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. Why had he come? Had morbid curiosity brought him here? Was he wondering what this day would have been like had
he
been standing in the groom’s place? Or was he thanking his lucky stars for his narrow escape?

Tom’s joyous expression had changed to one of near murder. “What is it?” Margaret asked. “Does Paul’s presence here upset you?”

“Denault can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. I’d even give him train fare to go there.”

“Then what—”

Her question was cut short by the minister, who was instructing them to follow him into the church office to sign the wedding registry. With great reluctance, it seemed, Tom turned, preparing to follow him. Margaret, still clinging to his arm, did the same.

“Who is the man standing next to Denault?” Tom hissed under his breath.

Margaret twisted to look back, getting a quick look over her shoulder before her view was cut off by James, Lucinda, and Geoffrey, who were following them to the church office. Now it was her turn to start in surprise. Her cousin, Richard Spencer, was standing next to Paul. Why had she not noticed him before?

Surely it was mere coincidence that they should be standing together. She did not think they could know each other. She managed one more quick glance before they were ushered into the church office and the door closed behind them. Richard was speaking into Paul’s ear, and Paul was listening with a self-satisfied grin.

“Who is that man?” Tom said fiercely.

“It’s Richard Spencer. My cousin.”

“Your cousin!”

He said this with such alarm that the minister paused, lifting his pen.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Tom said, moderating his voice.

The minister proffered the pen to Margaret. “Be sure to sign the register with your maiden name,” he reminded her.

As she accepted the pen, Tom said softly, “Let me get this clear. The man in the gray coat and waistcoat, the one on Denault’s left, that is your cousin?”

Margaret’s hands were unaccountably shaky as she dipped the pen into the inkwell. “Yes, he is my cousin, but we are… well, estranged.” She signed her name,
Margaret Louise Vaughn,
for one last time. She looked at it and sighed, but there was no time to dwell on it. She was Mrs. Tom Poole, and the sooner she got used to it the better. She straightened and handed the pen to Tom.

“Estranged?” Tom repeated, his voice sharp although he was keeping it low.

“Yes, I told you before. Our families had a falling out some years ago, and we’ve had little to do with one another since.”

Tom’s face darkened. “Do you mean to tell me that is the man who thinks he should own Moreton Hall?”

“Yes.”

Tom gripped the pen with grim determination as he bent down to sign his name with sure, quick strokes and said, “I have a very bad feeling we’ll be seeing much more of him in the future.”

I
s everything all right?” James asked Tom.

James and Lucinda had finished adding their names to the register as witnesses, and they were all filing out of the church office. The congregation would be waiting to cheer their exit, throwing rice and shouting well wishes.

“Nothing to concern yourself over,” Tom said tersely. Tom had not recognized Spencer when he’d briefly run into him at the tavern after meeting with Denault. But today as he saw him in the church, Tom realized who he was, and a whole host of bad memories rushed to the forefront of his mind. Spencer had been present when Tom shot Freddie Hightower seven years ago. He’d acted as an impromptu second when Tom had pulled Hightower from a tavern and challenged him then and there to a duel. Tom could still hear Spencer’s shouts as he’d gripped his bleeding friend, promising retribution.

Tom had not known his name at the time, but he did now. What was worse, he had just married into the man’s
family. Judging from the way Spencer was looking at him, he had recognized Tom, too. It wouldn’t take long for him to figure out that Lizzie was the woman Hightower had seduced and abandoned all those years ago. Lizzie was a respectable married woman now, but if Spencer began to spread word about her past, her reputation would be ruined. Tom had to find a way to stop that from happening. He had a grim foreboding that it wasn’t going to be easy.

“If nothing is wrong, you might want to stop glowering,” James admonished. “You’ve just gotten married, you know. You’re supposed to look happy. Lord knows I’d be wearing your look if
I
had just gotten married, but that’s a different matter.”

“Do you know Richard?” Margaret asked worriedly.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Tom said harshly.

She started back as though she’d been stung, and Tom immediately regretted his tone. He did not want to hurt her, no matter what he was going through. He brought her hand up to kiss it. “Right now, I have a date at a wedding breakfast with my beautiful bride.”

This seemed to appease her. She gave him a tiny smile that wavered a little, the first crack he’d seen today in her normally impenetrable exterior. Tom caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I love it when you smile like that,” he said gently. “Perhaps in the future we can find more of them.” Certainly he had wanted nothing more than to give her reasons to smile. Spencer, however, worried him.

Ahead of them, the minister addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Tom Poole.”

There were cheers and applause as Tom and Margaret made their way down the aisle. They were nearly to the door when Tom saw Denault and Spencer again.

“Welcome to the family,” Spencer said drily.

The way the man looked at him—practically sneering—made Tom want to punch him right then and there. Only the pressure of the crowd behind them, who were now in a great hurry to leave the church, kept him from saying more than, “We must talk.”

“Oh, we’ll talk,” Spencer replied. “You can be sure of that.” He looked to Margaret and added, “My heartiest felicitations to you, dear cousin.”

“Hello, Richard.” Her voice was cool.

Margaret squeezed Tom’s arm gently. Clearly she did not wish to linger, and neither did he. This was neither the time nor the place to settle old scores. That would have to wait. Tom leveled a flat, unfriendly smile at Spencer, then led Margaret out the door. Later he would find out exactly what had transpired between the Vaughns and the Spencers. He was beginning to understand why Margaret had been so vehement that the Spencers would never own Moreton Hall.

The open carriage awaited them just outside the church door, gaily festooned with flowers and ribbons. The sight of it brought Tom once more back to the reason he was here. Pushing aside his worries about Spencer, Tom shielded Margaret as they hurried through a pelting rain of rice. They were both breathless when they reached the carriage. Tom helped her in and was about to signal to the driver to move forward when an object came hurtling into the carriage. It fell with a
thunk
at their feet. He bent down to pick it up. “A shoe?” he asked, bewildered.

“For good luck,” Margaret said, taking the shoe. “Who threw it, I wonder?” She turned to look back at the crowd. Her lady’s maid, Bessie, was standing some distance away, well behind the upper-crust well-wishers but within throwing distance of the carriage. She waved vigorously, a broad grin on her face. Margaret gave her a tiny wave of acknowledgment. “I should have known it would be Bessie. She never forgets any of those old country customs.”

Soon they were traveling at a brisk pace down the street, leaving the crowd behind. Tom savored the joy of having Margaret—his wife—next to him. She was his now,
to have and to hold
. He could not deny that he was looking forward to holding her. He wanted to do that right now, in fact. He wanted to kiss her thoroughly right here in the carriage, so anxious was he to taste her soft lips again and to feel her body pressed against his.