Johanna Lindsey (12 page)

There it was, the crux of the problem. She’d walked into the dining room last night looking so incredibly soft and enticing in her peach velvet gown, and his attraction to her had instantly turned into lusty desire. She shouldn’t be able to tempt him like that. Her dislike of him should have been enough to put him off, but instead it was having the opposite effect.

He rapped on her bedroom door. There was light coming from under it, indicating she hadn’t retired yet. It was nearly a minute before she opened the door, though. The fluffy white robe she was clutching close to her throat suggested she’d kept him waiting while she put it on. Her hair floated loosely around it, very dark in the dim lamplight behind her. She was looking too bloody soft again, turning his thoughts in an intimate direction. Was she wearing anything under that robe?

“It’s rather late,” she said. “What do you want, Sebastian?” Her curt, no-nonsense tone got his mind out from under her robe. “We need to discuss tomorrow’

s agenda,” he told her.

“It can’t wait until the morning?”

“No. Waiting led to that unpleasant scene with Courtly today. I gathered from your splendid tirade afterward that you’d rather avoid any more like that.”

She made a tsking sound. “Very well, I’ll meet you in the parlor.”

“Don’t be absurd, Maggie. We’re married. Your servants won’t raise a brow if you invite me into your room. They’ll expect it, actually.”

“I told my housekeeper, Florence, about the marriage so she can turn away any well-wishing visitors tomorrow that we aren’t ready to deal with, but the rest of my servants aren’t aware of our supposed—”

“Yes, they are.”

She glared at him for taking that liberty upon himself but opened the door wider and walked back into her room to put some distance between them. She secured her robe more fully, tying it about her waist. Her hair was longer than he’d realized. Having seen it tossed about on the ship, it had been hard to tell that it reached her hips. Easy enough to see now since she was still giving him her back.

Her room was a surprise. He would have expected someone of Margaret’s gruff temperament to prefer dark, masculine colors to match her aggressive nature, but her walls were papered in pink roses, her vanity draped in white lace, her large bed covered with a lilac spread and fluffy silk pillows. The velvet drapes were a darker, bold shade of pink.

Numerous chairs were scattered about the room, upholstered in the same theme. Her plump reading chair was in purple and pink flowers, the seat of her desk chair in dark purple and red. The carpet was a red and pink floral swirl in a typical motif. The large bookcase that covered half of one wall was overstuffed with books attesting to his suspicion that she was also a bluestocking. All the wood in the furnishings was white oak. And there were flowers everywhere, in large vases on the floor, small vases on the tables, in pots near the covered windows, giving the room a pleasant scent. The woman really did like to garden.

Her desk was a working desk, cluttered with household account books and receipts, a few framed pictures, one of her sister Eleanor, whom he recognized. Sadness swept over him as he thought about her death. She’d been a charming young woman and so happy about her engagement to Giles. It bothered him that Margaret blamed him for her death.

Margaret’s back stiffened perceptibly when she heard him close the door behind him. She turned to face him. The white lace of her nightgown was revealed at the top opening of her robe. He was glad to see it. Imagining her naked under that robe would have kept him awake the rest of the night.

“We seem to be progressing rather rapidly, to have reached this point already,” she commented, her tone still showing her annoyance with him. “Weren’t you going to do some investigating first?” He strolled across the room. He was heading to the comfortable-looking reading chair behind her, but when she scurried so quickly out of his way, he changed his mind and continued in her direction instead.

“A waste of time,” he said, “now that news of your marriage will be making the rounds. And I’ve taken the liberty of sending one of your servants to Edgewood with the news of your return…with a husband.”

“You take far too many liberties,” she replied, still retreating from him.

“You hired me and will be paying a princely sum for my efforts to find out if there’s a plot against my father. Don’t quibble over the way I do my job. Now, in the morning, send a note to my father that you’ll be coming by for a visit with your husband.”

That got her to stop moving. “Am I to warn him who I married?”

“No, let’s get me in the door before he finds out. Otherwise, we might not find him home a’tall.”

“You really think he’d just leave, so he doesn’t have to deal with seeing you again?”

“Either that, or he will simply inform you that while you are still welcome, your husband isn’t, which will defeat the purpose of this farce.”

She sighed. “Very well. So once we arrive, what exactly do we tell them? How did we meet?

Where did we marry?”

“In which country did you stay the longest during your travels?”

“My visits to Germany and Italy were about equal in length.”

“I spend a good deal of time in Italy, so that will do. We were staying at the same hotel. You recognized me and refreshed my memory of who you are. I was immediately charmed and began a whirlwind courtship that swept you off your feet, and we were married two weeks later.”

“Oh, my, that soon?”

“My plan was to not give you enough time to recall all the reasons why you probably shouldn’t marry me.”

“Smart man,” she rejoined with a nod. “But I prefer the simplicity of love conquers all obstacles, so that wouldn’t have been an issue. At least, that’s what I will tell your father.”

“It may not be necessary to say anything to him a’tall.”

“Why not?”

“Because he probably won’t stay in a room with me longer than it takes him to see me.”

“You really think he’ll walk away without saying a single word to you?”

“You think he won’t, after what he said to Timothy?” he rejoined.

Her expression changed. Good God, was that sympathy for him that she was exhibiting? When she despised him? No, that would be too much of a contradiction. Of course, his situation was pathetic.

Anyone with a soft heart might pity him.

“Careful, Maggie,” he warned. “You don’t want to start liking me.” She scowled at him and pointed a finger toward the door “You’ve apprised me of the course you have set in motion, now you can leave. I won’t tolerate any more of your insults.” He didn’t move. “How the deuce do you perceive an insult in what I just said?”

“To imply that I could like you after everything you have done is an insult to me.”

“All that rubbish you’ve laid at my door, eh?” he replied sardonically. “Half of which I decline responsibility for. But that reminds me, do you still have those two letters from your sister?” She blinked at the change in subject. “Why?”

“I’d like to look them over,” he said. “Do you still have them?”

“Yes, actually.” She moved to the writing desk set up in a corner of the room, opened a drawer, and retrieved the letters. “I’m not sure why I kept the first one,” she remarked as she returned and handed the letters to him. “It really isn’t legible it’s so tearstained. Why do you want to see these?”

“I find it odd, the manner in which she left. Three years after Giles’s death. Three years was ample time to recover from her grief. To up and leave without telling anyone implies a new reason for doing so, not the one you assumed.”

“The second letter doesn’t suggest that.”

“No, but the first might.”

She shook her head at him. “Look at it. There’s nothing to see.” He did. Practically every word on the page had been smudged or washed away, as if Eleanor had cried buckets while writing it. But as he’d hoped, there were a few letters intact, not many, but he might be able to decipher a word or two if he tried.

“I’ll keep these for a bit if you don’t mind, to study them.”

“If you must. Just remember to return them. Now if you don’t mind, the hour is late.”

“You know, Maggie,” he said, brushing a lock of hair back from her cheek, “you’re going to have to pretend to adore me when others are around. You did marry me, after all. Do you need me to help you practice?”

She sputtered, jumping back out of his reach and pointing a finger toward her door again. “I’ll manage—somehow. Now get out!”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind—”

“Out!”

He obliged, though his inclination was to push her a little harder. He wasn’t sure what it was about Maggie, but he was surprised to find he enjoyed riling her.

M
ARGARET HAD BEEN FORCED to turn her callers away that day, and there had been a slew of them.

Even the dowager duchess had come by for a look at her new husband. The news had traveled fast through the neighborhood, and, according to Florence, everyone was asking who was Henry Raven, where was he from, and how had he won an earl’s daughter’s hand in marriage? But she refused to lie any more than she had to.

It had stormed through the night and briefly at midmorning. There was a new bank of storm clouds on the horizon late that afternoon. There was no telling which way they’d blow, but she hoped they’d blow back out to sea before reaching shore. Visiting in the rain wasn’t just unpleasant, it was in bad taste, putting one’s host on the spot to offer accomodations until the weather cleared.

Edgewood wasn’t on the cliffs, but it was close enough that the sea could be seen from its upper floors with an unobstructed view. Margaret had enjoyed those views while she lived there, especially in the early morning when she could watch the sun rise on the water. White Oaks was farther inland, with no view of the coast at all.

Margaret sighed, sitting on the seat across from Sebastian in the coach. “All this subterfuge is quite distasteful,” she remarked. “There’s still time to reconsider and simply make a clean breast of it.”

“The truth isn’t always successful. In this case it won’t wash a’tall. You said it yourself, Maggie, that my father considers his accidents just that, accidents. If you try to tell him his life is in danger, he’ll laugh at you. If he hears it from me, he’ll see it as an excuse for me to get back in his good graces. I’m not about to be accused of that, when it bloody well isn’t true.” She winced at his new tone, detecting the underlying bitterness in it. She’d heard it before. He usually concealed it, but occasionally it slipped out. Did he really see himself as the condemned innocent in the tragedy he’d set in motion? Or did he despise himself for the chain reaction that followed his dalliance with Juliette?

A crack of thunder accompanied their arrival. Margaret frowned and glanced at the sky as Sebastian helped her from the coach. “We should beg off, come back tomorrow. It’s really bad form to call when it’s raining.”

He raised a brow. “Getting cold feet, Maggie?”

“No,” she said with a huff. “But I don’t want to muck up their entryway, or have them feel obliged to ask us to stay over due to the weather.”

“Your shoes aren’t muddy, and you do want an invitation to stay. Kindly keep in mind why you dragged me back to England. I need more than a brief visit to observe what’s going on in there and determine if your suspicions are accurate. The weather we’ve been experiencing these last two days couldn’t have been more ideal if I’d ordered it.”

Before she could reply, the front door opened. Henry Hobbs, Edgewood’s butler, stood there.

Oh, dear, another Henry. And Mr. Hobbs wasn’t new, he’d been the Edgewood butler for more than thirty years. He was a tall man with a beaked nose and sharp gray eyes. He recognized Sebastian immediately, no doubt about it.

Which was why Margaret quickly announced, “Mr. Hobbs, I believe you know my husband, Sebastian Townshend.”

“Husband?” Mr. Hobbs said incredulously, and then he cracked a slight grin. “Very well, we’re due for a new storm.”

He opened the door wide. Margaret chose to ignore the storm remark as if she didn’t know what it implied and asked as she entered, “Is Abigail receiving today?”

“She’s in the music room. Lord love her, she thinks she still knows how to play the pianoforte, when she can’t see the keys anymore.”

The music could be heard now, and indeed it was quite a discordant racket. “And Lord Townshend?”

“Not back from his afternoon ride yet, rather late, actually. I wasn’t informed of any detours he had intended to make, but he was aware you were stopping by, so I expect him soon.”

“We’ll visit with Abbie, then, until Douglas returns.”

“Tea, Lady Margaret?”

“That would be pleasant, thank you.”

Margaret moved on toward the music room. Sebastian hadn’t said a single word yet, but he didn’t follow her immediately. Hobbs hadn’t walked away to order the tea, either.

Sebastian said quietly, “It’s good to see you again, Hobbs.”

“And it’s very good to see you as well, my lord.”

“Bring some brandy with that tea. I have a feeling I’m going to need a stiff drink this afternoon.”
Chapter 16

M
ARGARET WAITED UNTIL THE LAST DISCORDANT NOTE was played and Abigail put her hands in her lap. Carefully, so she didn’t startle her, she said, “Abbie, I’ve finally returned home. I hope you haven

’t missed me too much.”

It took a moment for Abigail to locate her, standing by the door. She was looking well. Her snow-white hair was worn in a high piled style from the last century, but it went very well with her old-fashioned clothes from the same century. The clothes weren’t old, just the style. Many old dames like Abigail scoffed at the new trends that were more suited for young women.