A Lady Most Lovely (43 page)

Tom did not move, but neither did he attempt to push her away. Margaret remained pressed against him, clinging to him, savoring the feel of his rough wool coat against her cheek and the strength emanating from him. Moments slipped away, fading into the quiet night, as neither one of them moved. Slowly Margaret’s panic
subsided, and she became aware that his arms were wrapped gently around her, offering comforting warmth. “I cannot allow you to sell the land,” he said again. “If we do that, then where would you and I live?”

She lifted her face now, unable to believe the meaning of his words. “You are not going to Australia?”

He reached up, brushing snow and tears from her cheek as he shook his head. “I’m here only to deliver a letter for Sullivan. I wanted to personally make sure it went on the ship along with the business papers I’m sending him.” A ghost of a chuckle escaped his lips. “I’d really prefer to avoid ships for the foreseeable future.”

“So you are not angry to see me?”

“
Stunned
would perhaps be a better word.” He nodded briefly toward the customshouse. “That letter I just sent to Sullivan explains to him why I have decided to remain here in England. I’d made up my mind I was going to do whatever it took to win my wife back.” He gave her a wry, self-deprecating smile that sent her heart into giddy flips. “I had no idea it would be so easy.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Geoffrey pointed out to me, and rightly so, that my highest duty lay right here. As your husband, I am to love you and cherish you. And in truth—” Margaret saw him swallow hard, choking back his emotions. “In truth, I never wanted to do anything else.”

Despite his best efforts to wipe them away, Margaret’s tears continued to stream down her face as she looked into the eyes of the man she loved with all her heart.

“Cheer up, my love,” Tom said. He gently pulled her toward him, bringing her lips mere inches from his. “Living with me won’t be so bad as all that.”

A laugh—half-strangled with a sob—escaped her. She leaned forward, desperate for his kiss, eager to once more feel his lips on hers. But he pulled back, surprising her. He looked over her shoulder, and she turned to see what had captured his attention.

The cabbie was still standing there, watching and listening to every word of their conversation with complete lack of shame. Grinning at Tom, he said, “Congratulations, govnah!”

Tom laughed, and Margaret thought she had never heard a more satisfying sound. “Mr. Cabman,” Tom said deferentially, removing his top hat, “might I trade with you?”

This brought an even wider grin from the cabbie. He removed his mistletoe-garnished hat and held it out to Tom. “With pleasure, govnah!”

Despite the cabbie’s wide girth, his hat size was smaller than Tom’s. As Tom placed the hat on his head, it perched precariously to one side. He looked ridiculous, and Margaret loved him even more for it. “Oh, look,” Tom said, once more pulling Margaret close. “We seem to have found ourselves under the mistletoe.”

About the Author

The youngest child of a Navy pilot and a journalist, Jennifer acquired a love of adventure and an excitement for learning that continues to this day. She’s lived in three countries and traveled throughout the United States. An avid reader of classics and historical fiction, she also enjoys biographies and histories, which she mines for the vivid details to bring to life the characters and places in her books. She resides with her husband in North Carolina—where, when not writing or dreaming up romantic adventures for her characters, she can be found fantasizing about her next ski trip or European vacation.

You can learn more at:

Twitter, @JenDelamere

http://www.facebook.com/jennifer.delamere

After five years of exile, Lizzie Poole returns home while living under an assumed identity.

But when she falls in love with a handsome clergyman, will her secret cost her true love?

An
H
eiress at Heart

Please turn the page for an excerpt.

London, June 1851

I
f you’ve killed her, Geoffrey, we will never hear the end of it from Lady Thornborough.”

Geoffrey Somerville threw a sharp glance at his companion. The man’s flippancy annoyed him, but he knew James Simpson was never one to take any problem too seriously. Not even the problem of what to do with the young woman they had just accidentally struck down with his carriage.

The girl had been weaving her way across the street, seemingly unaware of their rapid approach until it was too late. The driver had barely succeeded in steering the horses sharply to one side to keep from trampling her under their massive hooves. However, there had not been enough time or space for him to avoid the girl completely, and the front wheel had tossed her onto the walkway as easily as a mislaid wicker basket.

Geoffrey knelt down and raised the woman’s head
gently, smoothing the hair from her forehead. Blood flowed freely from a wound at her left temple, marring her fair features and leaving ugly red streaks in her pale yellow hair.

Her eyes were closed, but Geoffrey saw with relief that she was still breathing. Her chest rose and fell in ragged but unmistakable movements. “She’s not dead,” he said. “But she is badly hurt. We must get help immediately.”

James bounded up the steps and rapped at the door with his cane. “First we have to get her inside. People are beginning to gather, and you know how much my aunt hates a scandal.”

Geoffrey noted that a few people had indeed stopped to stare, although no one offered to help. One richly dressed young lady turned her head and hurried her escort down the street, as though fearful the poor woman bleeding on the pavement had brought the plague to this fashionable Mayfair neighborhood. At one time Geoffrey might have wondered at the lack of Good Samaritans here. But during the six months he’d been in London, he’d seen similar reactions to human suffering every day. Although it was no longer surprising, it still saddened and sickened him.

Only the coachman seemed to show real concern. He stood holding the horses and watching Geoffrey, his face wrinkled with worry. Or perhaps, Geoffrey realized, it was merely guilt. “I never even seen her, my lord,” he said. “She come from out of nowhere.”

“It’s not your fault,” Geoffrey assured him. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to dab the blood that was seeping from the woman’s wound. “Go as quickly as you can to Harley Street and fetch Dr. Layton.”

“Yes, my lord.” The coachman’s relief was evident. He scrambled up to the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins. “I’m halfway there already.”

Geoffrey continued to cautiously check the woman for other injuries. He slowly ran his hands along her delicate neck and shoulders and down her slender arms. He tested only as much as he dared of her torso and legs, torn between concern for her well-being and the need for propriety. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be broken.

James rapped once more on the imposing black door. It finally opened, and the gaunt face of Lady Thornborough’s butler peered out.

“Clear the way, Harding,” James said. “There has been an accident.”

Harding’s eyes widened at the sight of a woman bleeding on his mistress’s immaculate steps. He quickly sized up the situation and opened the door wide.

Geoffrey lifted the unconscious girl into his arms. She was far too thin, and he was not surprised to find she was light as a feather. Her golden hair contrasted vividly with his black coat. Where was her hat? Geoffrey scanned the area and noted with chagrin the remains of a straw bonnet lying crushed in the street. Something tugged at his heart as her head fell against his chest. Compassion, he supposed it was. But it was curiously profound.

“She is bleeding profusely,” James pointed out. “Have one of the servants carry her in, or you will ruin your coat.”

“It’s no matter,” Geoffrey replied. He felt oddly protective of the woman in his arms, although he had no idea who she was. His carriage had struck her, after all, even if her own carelessness had brought about the calamity. He was not about to relinquish her, not for any consideration.

He stepped grimly over the red smears her blood had left on the white marble steps and carried her into the front hall, where James was again addressing the butler. “Is Lady Thornborough at home, Harding?”

“No, sir. But we expect her anytime.”

Geoffrey knew from long acquaintance with the Thornborough family that Harding was a practical man who remained calm even in wildly unusual circumstances. The childhood escapades of Lady Thornborough’s granddaughter, Victoria, had developed this ability in him; James’s exploits as an adult had honed it to a fine art.

Sure enough, Harding motioned toward the stairs with cool equanimity, as though it were an everyday occurrence for an injured and unknown woman to be brought into the house. “Might I suggest the sofa in the Rose Parlor, sir?”

“Excellent,” said James.

As they ascended the stairs, Harding called down to a young parlor maid who was still standing in the front hall. “Mary, fetch us some water and a towel. And tell Jane to clean the front steps immediately.” Mary nodded and scurried away.

Another maid met them at the top of the stairs. At Harding’s instructions, she quickly found a blanket to spread out on the sofa to shield the expensive fabric.

Geoffrey set his fragile burden down with care. He seated himself on a low stool next to the woman and once again pressed his handkerchief to the gash below her hairline. The flesh around the wound was beginning to turn purple—she had been struck very hard. Alarm assailed him. “What the devil possessed her to step in front of a moving carriage?”

He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until James answered him. “Language, Geoffrey,” he said with mock prudishness. “There is a lady present.”

Geoffrey looked down at the unconscious woman. “I don’t think she can hear me just now.” He studied her with interest. Her plain black dress fit her too loosely, and the cuffs appeared to have been turned back more than once. Her sturdy leather shoes were of good quality, but showed signs of heavy wear. Was she a servant, wearing her mistress’s cast-off clothing? Or was she a lady in mourning? Was she already sorrowing for the loss of a loved one, only to have this accident add to her woes? “If she is a lady, she has fallen on hard times,” Geoffrey said, feeling once again that curious pull at his heart. He knew only too well the wretchedness of having one’s life waylaid by one tragedy after another.

A parlor maid entered the room, carrying the items Harding had requested. She set the basin on a nearby table. After dipping the cloth in the water, she timidly approached and gave Geoffrey a small curtsy. “With your permission, my lord.”

Something in the way the maid spoke these words chafed at him. He had been entitled to the address of “my lord” for several months, but he could not accustom himself to it. There were plenty who would congratulate him on his recent elevation to the peerage, but for Geoffrey it was a constant reminder of what he had lost. Surely nothing in this world was worth the loss of two brothers. Nor did any position, no matter how lofty, absolve a man from helping another if he could. He held out his hand for the cloth. “Give it to me. I will do it.”

The maid hesitated.

“Do you think that is wise?” James asked. “Surely this is a task for one of the servants.”

“I do have experience in this. I often attended to the ill in my parish.”

“But you were only a clergyman then. Now you are a baron.”

Geoffrey hated the position he had been placed in by the loss of his two elder brothers. But he would use it to his advantage if he had to. And he had every intention of tending to this woman. “Since I am a baron,” he said curtly, motioning again for the cloth, “you must all do as I command.”

James laughed and gave him a small bow. “Touché,
my lord
.”

The maid put the towel into Geoffrey’s hand and gave him another small curtsy. She retreated a few steps, but kept her eyes fastened on him. Geoffrey suspected that her diligence stemmed more from his new social position than from the present circumstances. It had not escaped him that he’d become the recipient of all kinds of extra attention—from parlor maids to duchesses—since he’d become a baron. The years he’d spent as a clergyman in a poor village, extending all his efforts to help others who struggled every day just to eke out a meager living, had apparently not been worth anyone’s notice.

Geoffrey laid a hand to the woman’s forehead. It was too warm against his cool palm. “I’m afraid she may have a fever in addition to her head injury.”

James made a show of pulling out his handkerchief and half covering his nose and mouth. “Oh dear, I do hope she has not brought anything catching into the house. That would be terribly inconvenient.”

Harding entered the room, carrying a dust-covered carpetbag. He held it in front of him, careful not to let it touch any part of his pristine coat. “We found this near the steps outside. I believe it belongs to”—he threw a disparaging look toward the prostrate figure on the sofa—“the lady.”