A Lady Most Lovely (25 page)

Margaret paced up and down in the suite of rooms Tom had rented for them in the hotel. She felt trapped
in these unfamiliar surroundings, wishing she had not already closed down the town house. Coming here after the wedding breakfast had been her only option. All of her clothes and immediate necessities had been brought here.

“Shall I find some tea, madam?” Bessie asked. “Perhaps some chamomile to help soothe the nerves?” She was sitting in a corner of the room, working on some darning and keeping Margaret company until Tom arrived.

Where was Tom, anyway? He’d left with the men carrying Richard out of the hall, and he’d arranged to get the man home and under a doctor’s care. Then he had left, saying grimly that he had something else to attend to. But he had not told her what it was. Nor had he offered any apologies. “Tea won’t be necessary,” she told Bessie, ignoring her maid’s concerned expression. Nothing would calm her until she had given Tom a good piece of her mind.

Margaret whirled from the window as the door opened and Tom walked in. Whatever he’d been up to since they had parted, he’d done nothing to repair his disheveled appearance. His cravat was loose, his shirt collar smudged with dirt and blood, his coat sleeve torn. Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw the dried blood crusted along his right eye and hairline. She told herself it was anger she felt. What kind of man fought like this, heedless of danger to himself? “Where have you been?” she demanded.

Tom shot her a look, but didn’t answer. He set down his hat and looked at Bessie. “Leave us, please. I need to change.”

“Then we shall both leave,” Margaret countered,
motioning for Bessie to follow her to the door. “Where is your valet?”

Tom put out a hand to stop her. “My valet has the night off. You will help me.”

“Me?” Margaret said, astounded.

“You are my wife.”

“Precisely. I am your wife, not your valet.”

He took a step toward Margaret, hands outstretched. “I had hoped I could count on my wife to help tend my wounds.”

Margaret took an involuntary step back. What did he think she’d do after the mortification he’d caused her today? Run into his arms? He was a fool if he thought so.

Disappointment crossed his face, but he made no move to close the gap. Instead, he surprised Margaret by walking past her, pulling off his coat as he did so, and tossing it onto a table. He began tugging furiously at his cravat.
Good heavens, he’s serious,
Margaret thought.
He’s going to undress right here in front of me. In front of the maid.

Bessie flushed, turning her eyes away in embarrassment, and Margaret had to take pity on her. This was Margaret’s problem now. She would have to face her husband alone sometime, and the sooner they had things out between them, the better. “That will be all, Bessie. I will send for you if I need you.”

“Yes, madam,” Bessie said with unmistakable relief. She hastened to the door and let herself out.

The cravat came off, and Tom tossed it onto the coat. His shirt fell open, exposing the base of his throat and upper portion of his chest. He slipped the braces off his shoulders.

Margaret stood, unable to move, her anger displaced by the shocking novelty of seeing a man undressing. Her heart began to pound wildly, so much so that she thought he must be able to hear it. She tried to hold on to her resentment at all that had happened today, at how his actions had embarrassed and humiliated her. But it was difficult not to be distracted by the outline of his broad chest under the white shirt, at the way his trousers dropped lower on his hips without the braces to hold them up.

He looked up and caught her looking at him, and Margaret thought she detected a particular glint in his eye. He had promised her he would wait, but here he was, half-undressed, and today he had proven himself a man of uncontrollable passions. What if he decided to take her now, even if she was unwilling?

But he made no move to unbutton his trousers. Instead, he dropped into a chair by the fireplace. He lifted one foot and began to tug at his boot. After a moment he seemed to think better of it and allowed his foot, still shod, to fall back to the floor. He rubbed his hands over his face but then stopped, wincing, as he found a tender spot—a cut that was probably the result of his tumble into the broken glass. With a groan he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “God, I’m tired,” he said.

Seeing that there was no immediate threat to her person, Margaret found her righteous anger returning. She crossed her arms and regarded him coldly. “I should think you would be tired.” Her voice was crusty and hard, as she intended it to be. “It takes a lot of energy to get married and destroy a banquet hall in one day.”

He merely opened one eye and looked at her. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

“What would you have me do?”

“For God’s sake, Margaret,” he said with bitter irritation. “Do you plan to fight me on everything? Please, sit down.”

Margaret took the other chair, watching him warily. At the moment there was no sign of that animal brutality with which he’d attacked Richard. He simply looked exhausted. He sat with his head against the back of the chair, unmoving, his eyes shut, one cheekbone tinged with purple. Clearly, he’d received as good as he’d given. Margaret had no idea her cousin could fight that way. It had been no easy matter for Tom to best him. Tom shifted in the chair, but winced at the pain this movement caused him. He might be more injured than Margaret had initially realized. He was probably suffering from a bruised rib or two.

“Are you all right?” she found herself asking.

He opened his eyes, studying her as intently as she’d been studying him. It made her uneasy, but she did not look away. “A wet towel would be nice.” He indicated the cut above his eye. “It hurts like the devil.”

“I’ll get you something.” Margaret went into the bedchamber that adjoined the sitting room. She skirted the bed, steadfastly avoiding looking at it. Reaching the washstand, she poured water from the pitcher into the bowl and moistened a small towel. Tom was still in the chair when she returned. “Here,” she said, and began to carefully wipe away the dried blood.

He winced at the first contact, but relaxed once the
area around the cut was clean. His hand reached up and covered hers. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

An unexpected pang shot through Margaret’s heart, unsettling her. She slipped her hand away and returned to the chair.

“Maggie,” Tom said, “I’m very sorry for what happened today.”

“What did happen, exactly? How could you possibly feel justified in attacking him?”

“I don’t.” He held up a hand. “Wait. Yes, I do.” He sighed. “I’m not saying I believe the fight was a good thing. But he was threatening you. Threatening
us.
That I could not allow.”

The fight was to protect her? It didn’t seem possible. Margaret fingered the gold band on her left hand. It still felt strange there. Uncomfortably heavy. “I don’t understand. How is Richard a threat?”

“That is what I need to find out. First, I need you to tell me what caused the rift in your family. Why was your grandfather so determined to keep Moreton Hall away from the Spencers?”

“Does it really matter?” Margaret asked, irritated.

“Yes,” Tom insisted, returning her defiant look. “It matters very much.”

Margaret sighed. If it was true that Richard posed some kind of threat, perhaps Tom did have a need to know—even if it meant revealing things her family had never discussed with anyone. “All right, I will tell you. My grandfather and Richard’s grandfather were brothers. The trouble started when my uncle—my father’s younger brother—died in 1815, in France.”

“He was a soldier?”

Margaret shook her head. “He worked for the war office. He may even have been a spy. We are not really sure what he did, nor even exactly how he died. What we do know is that Richard’s father was also out of the country at the same time. He claimed he was in Holland, but he may have been in France. My grandfather was convinced that he was actually a counterspy, working for Napoleon, and that some piece of intelligence that he’d passed on to the French led to my uncle’s death.”

“Why would he do such a traitorous thing? Why would he work for the enemy and cause his own cousin’s death?”

“What motivates anyone?” Margaret answered caustically. “Money, of course. His wife was descended from the French nobility. Perhaps Napoleon promised to return money or lands they had lost during the Revolution.”

Tom took a moment to consider this. “That would certainly be a powerful reason to cut Richard’s family out of the inheritance. But if it’s true that Richard’s father was a traitor, surely under the laws of England he’d not be eligible to inherit anyway?”

“Nothing was ever proven. Richard has always asserted his father’s innocence. He said his father was blackmailed, that he was forced to agree to break the entail or else be hung as a traitor. But I have no doubt of their guilt. They are all traitors, murderers, and liars.”

“I see.” Tom tossed aside the cloth and leaned back once more in the chair.

“I’ve answered your questions,” Margaret pointed out. “Now I expect the same in return. Why was Richard able to goad you into a fight so quickly? What does he know about
your
past?”

“My past?” Tom said defensively. “What could he know about my past?”

“You said you’d met him before. And there are rumors…”

He tensed. “What kind of rumors?”

“Some say you killed a man. With your bare hands.” After today’s spectacle, Margaret could believe it.

Tom grimaced. “Like any rumor, it comes nowhere near the truth.”

“I disagree. A rumor is usually based on
some
shred of truth. Does this have anything to do with Freddie Hightower?”

He lifted his head sharply. “Who told you that?”

“Your argument was overheard by at least a dozen people. Someone told me afterward that you were talking about Hightower. Did you have something to do with his death?”

“How could I?” Tom exploded. “I was in Australia when it happened!”

“But you
were
talking about Mr. Hightower, weren’t you?” Margaret pressed. “Why?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “It involves other people, innocent people who were unjustly harmed. There are certain events that they understandably wish to keep private.”

“Do you not trust me? And if it involves Richard, don’t I have a right to know? He is my cousin, after all. And you are my—” She stopped herself.

“Yes?” he challenged.

She lifted her chin. “Husband.” The word lingered in the air, suspended in a thick silence.

“I’m glad you are willing to acknowledge it.” Tom
stood up, taking in a painful breath as he straightened. He walked to the window and leaned heavily on the sill, looking out at the growing dusk. “I don’t doubt you, Margaret. It’s just that the secret is not mine to tell. I would be breaking a promise I gave to someone else.”

Someone else.
Someone he evidently believed was more important than she was. “It’s about the Thornboroughs, isn’t it? After all, Mr. Hightower died at their home, didn’t he?” Tom grimaced again, and this time Margaret was sure it had nothing to do with his injuries. She had hit the heart of the matter. “You have no problem protecting your family. But what about me? Don’t I have a stake in this?”

He slammed a hand on the windowsill. “Margaret, I just need time. Time to sort out what all this means and figure out what to do.”

“Do about
what?
” Margaret exclaimed, rising from her chair. “You have told me nothing. From where I stand, it seems the problem is not with Richard but with
you
.” She could see her words hurt him, but she continued on. “Your actions today demonstrated how far you are from being a true gentleman. A well-bred man would never lose control like that.”

Tom turned from the window and came to her in two strides, taking her by the arms. “Do
not
accuse me of lack of control,” he said roughly. “Trust me, Margaret: self-control was the only thing that kept me from killing that man.”

His voice was sharp as a knife, sending a stab of fear through her. “Will you attack me, too?” she accused, covering her fright with a show of strength. “Is that always how you show your anger?”

Tom’s grip loosened. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “At times my anger still gets the better of me, and that’s wrong—no matter what the circumstances. I have already gone to the Lord tonight in penance.” He slid his hands down her arms, caressing her. “But you do not need to fear me, Maggie. I am your husband. To
cherish
, remember?”

He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. It was a tender, comforting hug, but it sent powerful sensations through her. She told herself she ought to withdraw, but her legs refused to move. “I…” she murmured against his chest. Words died in her throat.

“I’m sorry for the pain I caused you today, Maggie. It’s not the way I envisioned the start of our lives as man and wife. The Bible says we are to be as one flesh.” His hand lightly caressed her hair. “I can’t tell you how much I want that.”

His touch was exquisitely tender, coaxing from deep within her a need so powerful it terrified her. How could this be the same man who had been fighting so viciously just hours ago? She could not reconcile it. She tensed. “Please,” she whispered. “I can’t—”

He loosed her so that he could look into her face. “I was speaking of the figurative meaning, Maggie. I hate that there are things I cannot tell you. I’m asking you to trust me.”

The appeal in his eyes was so strong, she could only nod her assent. Her heart was beating swiftly, but everything else had frozen, as though her legs had been caught in a trap. He brought his lips close to hers and said softly, “Tonight, I ask only for what you promised me on the day we became engaged. A good-night kiss.”

His lips brushed hers, and Margaret found herself
leaning into him. When his lips settled on hers for a proper kiss, he filled her senses so completely that everything else faded.