A Lady Most Lovely (30 page)

“Yes, sir,” Kevin said, giving Tom a grin that said he’d caught an innuendo in that remark. Tom hadn’t intended one, but he smiled anyway. He was happy for the company of someone lighthearted just now. Kevin gave the reins a good shake and the carriage lurched forward.

Soon their small procession was leaving the brightly lit train station behind. Tom stifled a yawn, glad the journey was nearly over. The events at the station had probably given Margaret something new to be angry about, but Tom had good reasons for his actions. He wanted the staff to know he was not afraid of hard work. “How long have you been at Moreton Hall, Kevin?” he asked.

Kevin glanced at him, not hiding his surprise at being addressed. “Ten years, sir. I started as a stable lad. Since then I’ve had all sorts of duties. Now I work at the main house, and I also run errands for Miss Vaughn—er, Mrs. Poole.”

“She must place great trust in you,” Tom said.

“I hope I’ve earned it, sir,” Kevin replied modestly. “I always try my best.”

Kevin did indeed seem capable; Tom was impressed at the way he handled the team he was now driving.
“Perhaps, since you are so knowledgeable, I can count on your help as I settle in to Moreton Hall?”

“
My
help, sir?”

“You can help me get acquainted with the land and the house. Help me find my way around, so to speak.”

Kevin looked genuinely pleased. “Yes, sir, any way I can. It would be a privilege, sir.”

As the evening settled into night, mist rose gently from the fields all around them. The slow pace of the horse-drawn vehicles was jarring after a day on the trains. It seemed an age before Moreton Hall finally came into view. The place was somber and subdued, with lights in only a few of the windows. Torches sparsely scattered along the drive provided such limited light that Tom supposed the horses must be finding their way by memory.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the servants were at the ready. They gathered near the front steps to meet the carriage as it drove up. There were about a dozen of them, from the grounds and stable men to the butler and the housekeeper. It seemed a small number for such a large place. There had been at least this many at the Somerville home. Several of the indoor servants he had met already, on the night he’d proposed to Margaret. “Great heavens,” he heard one of the maids exclaim. “Mr. Poole’s ridin’ outside with Kevin.”

Tom jumped down and helped Margaret out of the carriage. “Welcome home,” he said softly in her ear. She turned tired eyes up to his, searching his face, but made no reply.

When they were facing the little group of servants, Margaret announced, “This is Mr. Poole.”

“Welcome, sir,” they said in unison.

Their expressions were inquisitive but friendly. Unlike Williams, they seemed glad to have a new master in the house. They must have heard, or at least suspected, that Margaret’s marriage would bring an influx of cash to the estate. Perhaps they’d all been hanging on, loyally working as Kevin had done, and waited for the time when she could make good on the back wages that she owed them.

“Thank you for the welcome,” Tom said. “I won’t keep you long, because I’m sure you all have very full days and need your rest. But I want you to know that I also intend to work very hard, right along with you.”

This brought a ripple of delight from the servants, but beside him he could almost feel Margaret’s disapproval. She probably thought the place would dissolve into chaos if he did not show them who was in charge. That was a complaint he’d heard from many wealthy people in London. And so for Margaret’s sake he added, “Do not misunderstand me; I shall take my duties as master of the house quite seriously. If any of you has a concern about how things are handled here, I encourage you to speak to me directly.”

This remark only brought on a worried glance between the butler and the housekeeper, and so Tom had to qualify his statement yet again. “I do not intend to belittle the confidence that has been placed in the butler and housekeeper by Mrs. Poole. I do expect you all to follow their directions.” This seemed to appease them.

“I’m sure we hope to live up to your trust, sir,” the housekeeper said, in a manner that was perfectly correct and diffident.

“Thank you for that, Mrs. Walker,” Tom said. “And now I have a question to place to you.”

“Yes, sir?” she replied, startled.

“Is there perchance a supper prepared? I am starving.”

“Indeed there is, sir,” the cook chimed in, without waiting to be asked.

“Excellent,” said Tom. “That will be all.”

The servants began to disperse, with a few staying behind to help unload the luggage.

Tom waved Williams over. “Would you be so good as to meet me here tomorrow after breakfast?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Margaret looked quizzically at him, but he merely took her arm and said, “Shall we?”

He was showing more confidence than he actually felt. It was disconcerting to be walking through these doors as if he owned the place—which, in a manner of speaking, he did. He was a country gentleman now, he supposed.

“Why are you meeting with Williams?” Margaret asked as they handed their hats to the servants.

“The harvest is under way, and I want to learn all I can.” Before she could ask anything more, he added, “Now where is that supper?”

The cook had laid out a tasty supper of cold chicken, boiled eggs, bread, cheeses, and fruit, and Tom was glad to finally get a proper meal. Nothing they’d found on the journey had even come close. Margaret, however, ate little and spoke less. All her fire from earlier in the day now seemed muted by fatigue. She toyed with her wineglass, and seemed to grow more disquieted as the meal progressed. Tom was pretty sure he knew why. They
were both thinking of the moment when he would take her upstairs.

Well, it would do neither of them any good to remain in suspense. Tom tossed his napkin onto the table and said, “Shall we retire?”

As he escorted her up the stairs, Tom could feel how tense she was. It was a sad state of affairs, Tom thought, that they should be embarking on their second night as man and wife, and yet still this unease simmered between them.

“This way,” she said, turning to the left when they reached the landing.

Tom followed her willingly. Tonight, he would allow her to lead. Tomorrow he would explore every room so that he knew the place as well as she did. This was his home now. He had bought it at a very great price. He intended to learn every part of it and give it the best possible care. And he would do the same with his wife. Tonight, Tom had no plans to sleep on the floor. He would never force himself on her by any means, but he called to mind the times he had held her, the few precious moments when she seemed to have remained willingly in his arms. Surely he could find a way to coax such a response from her again—especially if they were in the same bed, with no barriers—

Margaret threw open a large oak door. “I thought this arrangement would work well for us.”

Arrangement?

Tom followed her through the door and found himself in a sitting room fitted up with comfortable furnishings and a large fireplace. But no bed. There were doors that opened off either side of the room.

Margaret pointed to the door on the left. “That is your bedchamber.” Indicating the door on the right, she said, “That one is mine.”

“You arranged for us to sleep in separate rooms?” he said, staring at her in disbelief.

She took a step back in surprise. “The husband and wife always have separate bedrooms,” she said. “That is how it is done.”

“Dear Lord,” Tom said, exasperated. “How is it that there are any of the upper classes left at all?”

She colored. “I do not say that the husband and wife never share the same bed. Although in our case, you did say that we would wait…” Her voice trailed off, but in her eyes he saw a renewal of the stubborn defiance that had plagued him all day.

Tom cursed himself for this promise he’d made. How could he win her if he couldn’t even get near her? “Fine,” he said, struggling to restrain his disappointment. “We shall wait.”

“There is much to be said for having separate rooms,” Margaret pointed out. “Especially in the mornings. I could not dress in the same room if your valet was assisting you.”

There was logic in that, even though Tom thought the real problem was the convoluted rituals involved just to get dressed. “All right, Margaret. If having two rooms is what you deem proper, we shall have it that way.”

He opened the door to his bedchamber and looked in. The room was large and airy, handsomely furnished, the wardrobe and washstand gleaming with fresh polish. Stephens had already been here, unpacking his trunk, setting out items he would need.

He turned back to find that Margaret had not moved from the center of the sitting room. “I would like to take a bath,” she said. “That is, I will be calling Bessie to help me bathe, if you don’t need me anymore this evening.”

Need her? Tom needed every part of her. They were alone at last and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms. He closed the distance between them so quickly that her eyes opened wide in alarm. Remembering his promise, he checked himself with great effort and settled for taking hold of her hands. They felt silky and cool. “There is one more thing I need,” he said softly. “It’s that good-night kiss.” That had been
her
promise to
him,
and by God he was going to take it.

“All right.” Her breathing quickened, but still she looked maddeningly resigned.

He cupped her face in his hands. Her eyes warily searched his. He felt a small tremor run through her. Was it fear? Exhaustion? He wanted to kiss both of them away. Gently, he touched his lips to hers.

Her response was stiff, but not unyielding. Her lips were soft and delicious, and he kept on kissing her, seeking some spark of warmth, some reaction that said she was as thrilled and breathless as he was. He wrapped his arms around her and she placed her hands against his chest, not actively trying to push him away, but he sensed that she wanted to. She was keeping her part of the bargain, and that was all. Was this heady rush entirely on his side only?

He pulled back. For the briefest of moments her lips seemed to follow his. She opened her eyes and he would swear that for an instant he saw the same fire, the same passion. She blinked, then reached her hands up as
though to rearrange her hair, although he had not touched it and every lock was still firmly in place.

“Thank you,” he murmured, although he felt like a fool for saying it.

She gave a sort of dazed nod, then turned and walked into her room. As the door closed softly behind her, Tom couldn’t help but wonder whether she’d locked it.

A
fter a fitful night’s sleep, Margaret did not welcome the coming of day. But the sun was up, and she knew she must rouse herself. She stepped out of bed and pulled on her cotton wrapper. At the bedroom door she hesitated, wondering whether Tom was on the other side. She steeled herself and opened the door.

The sitting room was empty. Seeing that the door to Tom’s room stood ajar, Margaret went over to it. “Tom?” she called softly.

No answer.

She peeked in. The room was empty, although evidence of Tom’s presence was everywhere. The bed was rumpled, and his clothes from yesterday were draped across a chair. His comb, brush, and other toilette items were scattered on the dressing table, as though they’d been used and set down in haste. He had evidently not called his valet for help.

The large wardrobe stood open, now filled with Tom’s clothing. Stephens would have unpacked them last night
while she and Tom were at dinner, as Bessie had done with Margaret’s clothes. She fingered one of the shirts, and ran her hands along a wool jacket. Everything was so sturdy, so strong. Very different from her collection of silks and satin, and even her cotton walking dresses. Everything was clean and pressed, exuding some kind of sharp, crisp scent—sandalwood, perhaps?—that was utterly lacking in her own wardrobe. She lifted a shirt-sleeve and placed it against her cheek, breathing in deeply. The scent brought her back vividly to the moment she’d been pressed against his chest, her thoughts jumbled by his nearness, the urge to push him away warring with the need to pull him closer. In the end she’d done neither but had stood, frozen by conflicting sensations, until he’d let her go.

She let the sleeve drop and turned away. She found herself staring at the bed, looking at the sheets Tom had tossed aside and the depression in the feather pillow where his head had lain. True to his word, he had done no more than kiss her good night. But she had seen his desire clearly enough. Sooner or later, he would surely come to her. Would he ask permission first, or would he simply slide into her bed some night, unannounced? He could take her by force—as a husband, it was his due. And yet each time he kissed her, such a thing was harder and harder to imagine. Every kiss held unmistakable passion and a tender insistence that she open up to him. His touch, his taste, were so intensely pleasing that she responded without hesitation. Last night, if he had not stopped, she could easily have succumbed completely. She might have invited him to continue, might even have begged for it—