Marjorie Farrell (2 page)

Margaret was only more convinced that she loved him as the days went on. She
had
to love him, for she wanted to kiss him so much it could only be love. She wanted him to touch her, as if by accident, she wanted his eyes to meet hers in that special way, she wanted him to… She didn’t know quite what, but she knew she wanted something else from him too.

One morning, on one of her early rides across the moors, she spied the bay gelding that Breen rode grazing aimlessly, and feared his rider had been thrown. As she kicked her mare into a gallop, she realized she would literally die if anything had happened to him. As she drew closer, she saw a blond head lifting up, and threw herself recklessly off her horse and started running.

“Don’t move, Dillon,” she cried, and knelt down beside him, placing his head gently in her lap. “Oh, my dear, where are you hurt?”

Breen did look disoriented, his eyes unfocused. But this was understandable, for he had fallen asleep in the warm sun and had just been awakened by the sound of Margaret’s horse. It took him a few lovely moments in her lap before he realized what must have happened. Here he was, with Margaret dropping little kisses on his forehead and murmuring incoherent endearments. He could feel laughter rising, but knew how cruel it would be to release it. So he lay still with great difficulty, trying not to smile at the lovely absurdity of the scene.

“Margaret…” he finally said, rising on one elbow.

“You can speak?”

“Yes, my dear,” he said gently, and pulled himself up to face her. “I am afraid,” he continued, smiling affectionately, “you came upon me not after a fall, but in the middle of a nap!”

Margaret sat stock-still, a blush rising to the top of her head from her very core. She was appalled at how completely she had revealed herself.

“My dear, don’t look like that. I felt I had awakened in paradise.”

“Don’t laugh at me, sir. I might have made myself ridiculous, but I am fully aware of it myself, and don’t need taunts from you.”

Breen took her by the shoulders and pushed her chin up so that she was looking at him
—yet not, since her long black eyelashes were brushing her cheeks. He bent his head and lightly kissed her lips. Her eyes flew open in wonderment, and then closed again, as he gave her another kiss, this one longer and deeper. The combination of innocence and her unconscious passion acted on him like no coquetry could ever have done. He pulled her down on the rough grass and traced her eyebrows and the planes of her face tenderly, and when he reached her mouth, it was half-open, waiting for his tongue.

Margaret uttered one low moan, and both were lost. Neither heard the horses’ teeth crunching the moor grass, nor the cries of the rooks sailing above them. It was only a few minutes later, as Margaret lay back against his arm, still fully clothed (although she hardly knew how she could be, since she had been shamelessly ready for anything he may have wanted from her), that full awareness returned. A fat bumblebee, seeking clover, buzzed by them. The clouds were high and wispy, scudding across the sky like dandelion clocks. And she was lying on her beloved’s arm and could lie like this forever.

“Sweetheart, we can’t be alone like this again, or I do not trust myself,” whispered Breen in her ear.

Margaret nodded. “But when we are married, then this can go on forever,” she replied dreamily, not really aware that she had spoken a private thought aloud. Breen hesitated only a moment. After all, why not? She was lovely, hot, the daughter of a marquess, and probably he did love her. Certainly he had never felt quite this tender and protective toward any woman, so it must be love.

“I must speak to your father immediately,” he said, breaking the spell.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to… I just spoke without thinking…you mustn’t if you don’t want to,” Margaret stammered. “Now you must think me one of those women who compromise themselves only to trap some man into marrying them.”

“You don’t have a devious bone in your body. That is why I love you. No, it is something I have been thinking of myself. Will you be my wife, Margaret?”

Margaret could only nod her head yes. She knew this moment would stay with her forever: the sun, the smell of the earth, Breen’s fingers pushing her hair back from her face, the feeling of being wanted and cherished. She had not felt appreciated for so long.

Breen got up suddenly. “Come, my dear, we must go.” He pulled her to her feet and started brushing the grass from her habit. “I will ride over this afternoon. Will your father be in? Should you prepare him, do you think?”

“Why would I need to? Surely he could have no objections. He has never played tyrant with me, and he has so little time for me lately that I would think he would be happy to have me out of the way.”

Breen was not as certain as Margaret. The marquess might have been neglectful lately, but he was a father, and would want to know that his daughter was well-provided-for. How he would view an untitled Irishman with little to offer but his affection was another question. I
am
, after all, a gentleman, Breen reassured himself. And with her portion, which should be generous, and one of the smaller family estates, we would do very well, so I will have to convince him.

They pulled their horses together as they came in sight of Moorview for one last embrace, and Margaret felt like she was saying good-bye to her very life.

“I will be there at three o’clock sharp,” promised Breen as he finally pulled himself away and rode off. Margaret rode slowly, unwilling to lose that languorous, floating feeling. All of her had turned into a slow river that moved in the sunlight like poured honey.

* * * *

Unfortunately for the lovers, the marquess had a been a bit more attentive to Margaret’s state of mind than they thought. Admittedly, it had taken Lady Evelyn’s prompting to wake him to it, but he respected her opinion, for women knew about these things. He had made a few discreet inquiries of Whitmarke, and found nothing particular to object to in Breen. Neither did he find much that would make him desirable as a match for his daughter. Breen sounded innocuous, but not very serious. He was from a good family, but so removed by circumstances of birth from any fortune that he would have to make his way through the law or the military. The fact that he had not yet chosen any path was the only negative thing one could say about his character. But it said enough to the marquess. At three-and-twenty, the young man should have had some sense of direction. Had Breen chosen a career for himself, perhaps he might have looked more appealing. But the young man seemed to have found no direction, so when Breen arrived promptly at three, he faced the not particularly friendly marquess and had some of the most uncomfortable minutes of his life as Margaret’s father grilled him about his background and his prospects.

Breen had not assumed an easy acceptance of his suit, so he was prepared to attempt a convincing response.

“I admit that I have concentrated too much on my ‘expectations.’ When I was twenty, I had no focus nor motive save my own support. But my feelings for your daughter have made me realize it is time to settle down.”

“I am happy for you if Margaret has had that effect,” the marquess said. “But it is not clear to me where you will concentrate these efforts.”

“I had thought…perhaps…that is…” Even Breen could not easily say. “…that there must be a small estate in Margaret’s family that we could settle on. I do have some talent and experience in managing the land.” As he finally got this out, Breen had the grace to blush.

“Tell me, Mr. Breen, if you were a father, would you give your daughter to someone who might only be after her inheri
tance?”

Breen looked up and said, with some dignity, “No, I would
not.”

“Why, then, should I?”

“Because you value your daughter’s happiness and because
that happiness depends on me.”

“You rate yourself very highly, young man!”

“Forgive me, sir, but my feelings for your daughter are strong
enough that I needed to say that, however immodest it may
sound.”

“I have no real reason to doubt your sincerity,” the marquess
answered, “but neither have I reason, as yet, to trust your
commitment. I would reconsider your suit in a few years if
Margaret is still unattached. But until you have made your way
in the world, I cannot permit an engagement.”

Breen could feel the implacability behind this statement, and
decided to waste no time pleading. He thanked the marquess
for his time and bowed himself out of the room. Margaret was
waiting for him by the door and he could tell from her eager expression that she had no inkling of her father’s disapproval.
When she saw his set face, however, she became concerned.

“He said yes, didn’t he?”

Breen took her hands in his. “I am afraid not. In a way, I
cannot blame him, for I am not what the world would consider
an ideal suitor.”

“What do I care what the world thinks!
Why
did he refuse?”

“Because we would have nothing to live on.”

“But we could live at Grantwood.”

“Even as I mentioned that, I realized that makes me sound
a fortune-hunter.”

“How could he think that, when we love each other? What
difference does it make whose money we live on, if there is
some money there?”

“To a concerned father, it makes a difference.”

“Concerned!’’ All of Margaret’s anger and hurt from the last
year surfaced. “He hasn’t looked at me or at anyone but his
new wife for almost a year. He left me to myself from the minute
my mother died. And now that there is someone who does care
about me, he would separate us…”

“Margaret, we cannot stand here like this. Your father may
be out in a minute. I must go. Let us meet tomorrow… He
did not rule out an engagement forever. He said that if, in a
few years, I prove myself—”

“A few years. That is forever,” she groaned.

“It may seem that way now—”

Margaret interrupted. “Do you know where the old grave
yard is?”

“Yes. By the church.”

“Well, I often go there to tend my mother’s grave. Can you
meet me there tomorrow morning?”

Breen was willing to agree to anything to calm her down and
give himself some time to think. He was torn between his desire
for her and his own inability to think beyond the present. He
had no great hopes his situation would change in the next few years. And he could not begin to imagine himself as soberly
industrious as
…
as what? A secretary to some nobleman?
No, what he was good at, what he needed, was the opportunity
to work the land. He had no other way but marriage to gain
the opportunity. Marriage or cards, he thought, and I promised my aunt I would give up the cards, so it must be marriage. He
kissed Margaret gently on the cheek and whispered: “Until
tomorrow, love.”

Had her mother still been alive, Margaret would have gone
to her to plead with the marquess, or even confronted her father
herself. But she had felt so abandoned by him that even her anger
would not carry her in. When he came down from the library
and asked her if she had seen Breen on the way out, she
answered quite coolly:

“Yes, Father, and he tells me that you have denied his suit.’’

“I had to, my dear. He seems a pleasant enough young man,
but with little substance. He has nothing to offer you right
now?”

Nothing? thought Margaret. Only the fact that he loves me.

“I hope,” continued the marquess a little stiffly, for he was
uncomfortable dealing with emotion and had left that work to
his wife, “your affections were not deeply involved. I have not forbidden him your company, and, indeed, I told him he could
return if his situation changed. Though I must say, Margaret,
I do not think he is the sort of man who has much depth. I would
not count on him to work that faithfully toward a goal, even if the goal be you.”

“Do not worry about me, Father. I will not go into a decline over this,” replied Margaret. Because I will elope with him before I will let him go, she thought wildly.

The marquess was relieved that she shed no heartbroken tears and made no pleas. He would have hated to make her suffer, and was inarticulate and helpless in such situations. He had no inkling as to the true state of her heart, for having no gift for intimacy with anyone other than his wife, he had let his daughter slip further away from him, and though he loved her, he did not know her.

“I am glad to find you so sensible,” said the marquess, and watched Margaret as she smiled and walked upstairs to her own room. Breen had exaggerated her feeling for him, of course, he thought, and dismissed all his uncomfortable musings. He went up to meet his wife for tea, a ritual she had initiated so that he had a break from estate business.

* * * *

Breen found Margaret in the little churchyard the next morning. She was kneeling in front of her mother’s grave. At first he thought she was praying, and then he saw that she was clearing weeds from around the stone. He came up behind her and read “Lady Honora Margaret Ashton, beloved wife and mother…” That is a lovely name.”

“She was a lovely woman. It is my name too.” Margaret smiled. “Neither of us used Honora.”