A Lady Most Lovely (3 page)

As Tom watched her retreating form, he was captivated by a stray curl that had made its way down the back of her long, elegant neck.

And he knew with dangerous certainty that he must see her again.

M
argaret kept her hand on Paul’s arm as they made their way to the corner where the refreshment table was located. They nodded to acquaintances as they passed, but Margaret was glad that Paul seemed as unwilling as she to stop and make conversation. She thought it wise to put as much distance between herself and Tom Poole as possible. She could feel his gaze on her back. That he had been watching her for so much of the evening had not surprised her. Since her arrival in London a few short months ago, she had found it easy to attract men’s attention.

What had surprised her was her reaction to him. Her behavior had bordered on rudeness.

Why had she felt compelled to challenge him? Even now she was at a loss to explain it. She was proud, yes, but she had never thought unkindness to be among her faults. Perhaps the story of his sudden rise to wealth—which had been the topic of conversation
everywhere
these days—had stirred some trace of resentment. Or perhaps
it had been the shocking way he’d roughed up Mr. Carter right here in the duke’s grand ballroom. He’d proven that his pose as a “gentleman” was just a veneer; there was a rougher man hidden—though not very well—beneath that well-dressed surface.

Then he had the audacity to imply that Margaret did not have as much strength and pluck as the women in Australia. She wanted to laugh out loud. He didn’t know the half of it. She might never have hauled her own firewood or cleared brush or whatever it was they did in that wild country, but her survival had required just as much stamina and a lot more intellect.

She was nobody’s fool.

Tonight the duke’s mansion was filled with an astonishing assembly of London’s elite—and they were all gathered in
her
honor. They were here to celebrate her forthcoming nuptials with the highborn, handsome, and very rich Paul Denault. She had made the catch of the season.

Many of her rivals had been as pretty as she was, and most were younger. Margaret herself was nearing the ripe old age of five and twenty. She’d been delayed from entering the marriage market by a father who had been unwilling to let her into society, and then by two years of mourning after his death. But with her age had come wisdom. She knew how to play the game more efficaciously than they did. She had succeeded where they had failed. What those ladies would never know—nor would anyone else, including Tom Poole—was that Margaret had not been merely playing the marriage game. She’d been secretly fighting for her survival, and it had taken every ounce of her intelligence and cunning.

She was publicly acknowledged as one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. When her father had died unexpectedly, the grand estate held by the Vaughns for generations had passed to her as well. What the public did
not
know was that her father had left the family finances in shambles. Most of her inheritance had gone toward paying off his debts from gambling, mismanagement, and failed investments. With the aid of her father’s solicitors, which she had also inherited, Margaret had only just succeeded in keeping her financial status unknown to the prying eyes and ears of society gossips. If anyone had learned the truth, Margaret would have been defenseless against an onslaught of bill collectors and others who would have stolen her home and lands—her very lifeblood—from underneath her. Protecting herself had required hard choices and nerves of steel. Yes, she had far more backbone than Tom Poole could ever guess at.

Paul patted her arm lightly, bringing her out of her thoughts. “Margaret, my dear, will you excuse me for a few moments?”

He flashed his most charming smile, the one that generally reduced the women to putty in his hands. Even now, after he was officially betrothed, they were all simpering and making eyes at him over their hand-painted fans. And while Margaret did not react to him in that way exactly, she had to admit his handsome countenance went a long way toward soothing her irritation over the way he had spoken to her—and
of
her to Tom Poole.

But it would not be wise to show Paul her agitation. There were certain things she must keep hidden for now.
Once they were married, she would make sure he never again spoke to her in such a patronizing way. But for now, she would play the doting fiancée. She returned his smile with nearly genuine sincerity and said she would be more than happy to wait for him.

Paul lifted her hand from his arm and brought it to his mouth for a kiss. It was a move calculated to enchant all those around them. It succeeded. From the corner of her eye, Margaret could see a cluster of debutantes sighing with undisguised envy. She knew they were thinking,
Surely they are both too rich and too handsome. They might have spread this bounty among two families, rather than to keep it all to themselves.

Paul sauntered over to two business associates who were standing a short distance away. He could not put away work even at a social event. His Midas touch in business was, above all of his other qualities, the one Margaret admired the most.

Paul was unaware of Margaret’s financial straits. She had worried he might not marry her if he knew, or else demand that the marriage settlement give him greater control over her estate. But Margaret was not about to cede power over Moreton Hall to anyone. Her very fine lawyers were seeing to that. She told herself that ultimately there would be no harm to her deception. Paul’s fabulous wealth would easily make up the shortfall and with plenty to spare. He would be gaining a beautiful wife with an impeccable pedigree who brought with her the venerable Moreton Hall and all its farmlands. He was, she had decided, getting the better part of the bargain.

She took a moment to savor looking at him, admiring his trim form and tapered waist. She even enjoyed
the view from behind, although she supposed this was very naughty. His backside and strong legs were indeed worthy of admiration. His sandy-blond hair and blue eyes were features so typical of English nobility. He was not actually in line for a title, but this was unimportant to Margaret. She had lands and he had money. That was all that mattered.

He turned and caught Margaret looking at him. She blushed, not from any real embarrassment, but because she saw the glint of pleasure in his eyes when she did so. Happily, Paul had been as determined as she was to arrange a quick marriage. Margaret flattered herself that the reason for his haste was the one usual to the male sex. He was in love with her, or, at the very least, he lusted after her. She had allowed him a good many personal attentions in order to pique his interest—kisses in darkened corners, intimate caresses. But she was, quite properly, holding back the best for their wedding night. There were times, such as this, when Margaret did feel a tiny spark of attraction to him. In her position she had known she might not be able to marry for love, but at least she had been spared from settling for someone who was old or odious. Marriage to this man could be very agreeable, and although in other circumstances she might have wished for more, she could not regret her choice.

“Miss Vaughn, how do you do?”

Margaret turned to see the crusty old face of Mr. Hawthorne, her primary solicitor and chief keeper of secrets. She was mildly surprised to see him here. Although he was generally invited to participate at such gatherings, she had seldom known him to do so. A widower of many years, he generally kept to himself, preferring, as he put
it, “a quiet room, a glass of brandy, and a pipe” over the intrigues of society. This was the precise reason why he had been her most trusted adviser during the two years since her father had departed this earthly realm.

Margaret offered her hand, and he made a deferential bow over it. “Everything is proceeding according to plan, I trust?” Margaret was growing irritated at the amount of time it had taken to finalize the details of the marriage settlement. Lawyers for both sides seemed to be dragging their feet. She supposed this was the normal way they justified their exorbitant fees.

On the other hand, there was a need for the utmost discretion as they blended her properties with his money. Mr. Hawthorne’s job was to arrange matters so that Paul would not know the full state of her financial affairs until
after
they were married. They soon discovered, however, that Paul had a team of solicitors that were just as loyal to his interests. She had the impression that there had been quite a lot of legal maneuvering going on during the past few weeks.

A shadow passed over Hawthorne’s face. “I’m afraid there have been a few, ah, ruts in the road that we may not have anticipated. The carriage might not travel forward as smoothly as one might have desired.”

Margaret generally took a secret delight in Hawthorne’s tendency to speak in code, as though he were still back in his glory days as a young spy for Wellington’s army. Tonight, however, there was something in his tone that did not bode well. “How much do they suspect?” she asked, dropping her voice. She continued to scan the crowd as she spoke, keeping a pleasant smile on her face so as not to betray the seriousness of their conversation to any casual onlooker.

Almost without effort, her eye found Tom Poole. He was a tall man, and his deeply tanned face stood out among the sea of pale gentlemen. He had the physique of a working man, his broad shoulders filling out his coat impressively. He had no need for the vain padding she had seen other men use.

His eyes met hers, and held. Now that they had been introduced, he did not even try to hide his bold interest in her. Her breath caught in a gasp as she recalled the way his warm hands had sent a bolt of electricity through her. How was it that even now, from this distance, he was having the same unsettling effect?

Mr. Hawthorne cleared his throat, in what may have been an effort to regain Margaret’s attention. “I’m afraid, Miss Vaughn, that it’s not so much a question of what
they
have found, as it is what
we
have discovered.”

She gave herself a mental shake, tearing her attention away from Tom Poole and settling it on the wrinkled countenance of Mr. Hawthorne. “What
you
have discovered? Why—what have you found?”

Hawthorne ran a hand through his silvery hair, which was still thick despite his advanced age. “It’s not something I would care to discuss here,” he said. “Perhaps I may call upon you in the morning?”

“That would be most inconvenient,” Margaret answered, still trying to push Tom Poole from her mind. “I have a dress fitting in the morning, and then a meeting with the owner of the banqueting hall, who is almost beside himself with arranging such a feast on short notice.”

“I apologize for the intrusion into your schedule,” Hawthorne said. “However, it is of vital importance.”

The somberness of his expression could not be
ignored. Margaret recognized this look; it was usually the harbinger of bad news. She said with resignation, “Will half past eleven do?”

He nodded. “Very good, Miss Vaughn.” He bowed and left her, quietly slipping away and leaving her to ruminate on his ominous words. Whatever the problem was, she would overcome it, as she had everything else. The important thing was not to delay. She would not wait any longer to have a settlement to her affairs that had been in a surreptitious upheaval for more than two years. There was far too much at stake.

What man could ever comprehend the pressures a woman faced who was at risk of losing everything? She had heard all about Tom Poole’s story, how he’d risen from a poor shop clerk to a man of wealth and business. Having begun poor and worked his way up, he could have no idea what it would be like to find oneself on the brink of losing lands and properties that had been part of her heritage for hundreds of years. Paul, too, being born with a good family name but little money, had the advantage of a man in being able to go off and earn his fortune. A man could grasp hold of any occupation and strike it rich, while a woman had to rely upon her wiles.

Margaret had spent most of her life in the company of men. Her mother had died when Margaret was just twelve. She had been a dutiful wife, and seemed to have no greater ambition than to live for her husband’s pleasure. But Margaret had been raised to a greater purpose. Upon her mother’s death, her grandfather had taken on the task of Margaret’s education. He had seen to it that the entail on the estate was broken so that she would be able to inherit it. He had drilled into her that this was a
sacred trust, and that he had every confidence she would carry out her duties.

Her father had been of a different mind. More than once, when he was deep in his cups, he had told her point-blank she would probably lose everything within a generation. The devils that drove him to drink and gambling must have been determined to make it so. But she would prove him wrong. She would recover Moreton Hall from debt and return it to its former glory. No matter what it took to do it.