The Seduction (38 page)

Inside, the church was packed with people, and among them she recognized several of her dearest friends—Ann Croft, now the Marchioness of Glaston, Josephine
Farner
, now the Viscountess Athersley, and Eliza Whitmore, now the Countess of Seton.

She glanced at Viscount Athersley as she passed, and remembered how Josephine had come to her just before Christmas, begging for a loan to cover his latest gambling debts because her father had just lost everything in a disastrous business venture. And as for the Earl of Seton—he preferred his hunting lodge in Scotland to the company of his American wife. Ann's husband was absent, and Margaret was one of the few people who knew why. The Marquess of Glaston had syphilis, the inevitable result of his countless adulterous liaisons.

Suddenly, Margaret's serenity shattered. She stumbled in her pearl-encrusted white satin gown and would have fallen if her father had not supported her. She recovered herself immediately, but had her father not been clasping her arm within his so tightly, she would have run then and there.

She forced herself to lift her chin, and when she saw Trevor standing there waiting for her, she knew she could not run away in fear. She loved him, and she could never humiliate him in such a way.
He is not like those men,
she reminded herself.
He is not.

Her father placed her hand in Trevor's, then stepped away. Margaret knew there was no turning back. Her bridegroom gave her a reassuring smile as she moved to stand beside him, but otherwise he remained grave, almost severe. Whenever she took a peek at him, he was staring straight ahead, more handsome and remote than she had ever seen him.

The ceremony lasted only fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, a few promises, and her whole life was changed. As Margaret took Trevor's arm and turned to walk out with him, the enormity of what she had just done nearly smothered her. She wondered with paralyzing panic if any bride, English or American, had ever thrown up in St. Paul's Cathedral. She was very much afraid she was going to be the first, and she knew the cartoonists at
Punch
would have a field day with that one.

Margaret did not throw up, although from the moment she had walked into the church, Trevor had steeled himself to the possibility that she might. Walking down the long aisle, she had looked as pale as her white satin gown. When she had placed her hand in his, he'd felt how she trembled, and her huge brown eyes had reminded him of a frightened deer. He was glad Henry had heeded his advice and arranged for such a quick wedding. A few more days and she probably would have called the whole thing off.

He had no such apprehensions himself, but then, he wasn't the romantic idealist Margaret was, and love had never been a factor in his decision. From the moment of his brother's death, his destiny had been set, and his visit to Ashton Park had only strengthened his resolve to marry Margaret as quickly as possible. Now, he was looking forward to enjoying some of the pleasures of matrimony. His bride, however, was clearly not in the same frame of mind.

In the drawing room of Henry's mansion in Mayfair, he studied her as she sat in one of the chintz wing chairs, talking quietly with three of her American friends. The late afternoon sun through the west windows fell on her, giving her upswept dark hair a gloss that reminded him of melting chocolate. The pearls of her gown gleamed like the iridescent drops of a waterfall. Trevor thought of all the weddings he had attended in his life, and he knew that no bride had ever looked more beautiful than his own. Or less radiant.

His mother moved to stand beside him. With her gaze also fixed on Margaret, she said in a low voice, "I think you have done well, Trevor."

"Thank you, Mother," he answered dryly. "I'm so glad you approve."

"I would have preferred an English girl, naturally."

"Naturally."

"But she's charming enough. For an American." She coughed delicately. "I understand from Lady Lytton that her father is one of the wealthiest men in America. That's excellent. Did you arrange a suitable settlement?"

His mouth tightened into a grim line, and he shot
his mother the cold, icy look he had long ago learned from her. She retired to the other end of the room in a huff, her curiosity unsatisfied, and Trevor returned his attention to his bride.

As if she sensed his scrutiny, Margaret turned to look at him. Her normally expressive face was grave and inscrutable, and Trevor had no idea what she was thinking.

She looked away without so much as a smile. A vague uneasiness stirred inside him, something that might have been guilt. He pushed it aside and turned his attention to Lord Seton, who was expressing great interest in Henry's extensive art collection and asking if he might see it.

"Of course, sir, of course," Henry answered, delighted. "Many of the best paintings are at my villa in Italy, of course, but I do have a fairly comprehensive collection here."

Trevor expressed a wish to accompany them, and the three men left the drawing room together. Henry and Seton walked down the long gallery ahead of him discussing art, which appeared to be a favorite topic for both. Trevor did not participate in their conversation. In fact, he barely heard what they said. He was thoughtful and silent until they reached the end of the gallery, where a set of double doors led into a ballroom. "Fencing equipment in the ballroom?" he inquired, noticing the foils and fencing masks that hung on the wall at the far end of the room.

"My daughter and several of her friends like to fence," Henry told him. "In this house, the ballroom is the only room large enough for them to practice. They've made a sort of club of it, in fact." He turned to Lord Seton. "I believe your wife participates, sir, whenever she is in town?"

The earl frowned slightly. "Yes. I confess, it bothers me not a little to know my wife is engaged in such a masculine sport. But it is beneficial exercise and harmless enough, I suppose."

Henry chuckled. "Anything to keep the ladies happy. I know my daughter enjoys the sport enormously. I've even fenced with her a few times myself. I must say, she's not bad at it, for a woman. Not bad at all."

They wandered back to the drawing room and rejoined the party. Throughout the afternoon and evening, Trevor continued to watch his wife out of the corner of his eye, but not once did he see her glance in his direction. He waited for her to smile or laugh or say something outrageous, but she did not. She spent most of the evening in an almost painful silence.

If he did not know her better, he might have thought she was frightened. Young ladies often were scared of their wedding night, but with Margaret, he could hardly credit such a notion. She was no wilting flower, thank God. He'd already given her a taste of lovemaking, and she had not been at all frightened by his passion or her own. But she looked more worried than he had ever seen her before, and, as the evening wore on, her apprehension only seemed to increase.

When the bridal dinner was over, she went upstairs with Cornelia. As if that were some sort of signal, the guests began to depart. His mother, his grandmother, and Elizabeth returned to their hotel, and he adjourned to the study with Edward and Henry for a congratulatory cigar. But though he managed to make casual conversation with the other two men, he could not stop thinking of Margaret's pale face. It was very disquieting to think she might be afraid of him.

With growing impatience, he waited for Cornelia to join them. When she did, Trevor immediately rose to his feet. He paused beside her, and she whispered, "The third door on the right at the top of the stairs."

He nodded, bid them goodnight, and went up. He had no idea what reception he would be given by his bride. He hoped Cornelia had managed to ease her fears, but the moment he entered the bedroom, he knew such a hope was futile.

Dressed in an ivory silk robe and gown, she was seated at her dressing table, brushing her hair. Her hand stilled when he came in, and she turned to glance at him for only a moment before she looked away and resumed her task. Even from the doorway, he could feel the tension.

Trevor glanced around the room. On a table by the window, a bottle of champagne rested in a crystal bowl of ice. He closed the door behind him and walked over to it, thinking a drink would probably be good for both of them.

He took off his wedding jacket, then uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses of champagne. He carried them over to where she sat and placed her glass on the dressing table. Then he sat down behind her in an uncomfortable Queen Anne chair.

She began pulling the brush through her hair with quick, jerky movements, clearly unnerved that he was so close. "It was a, a nice wedding, I think."

"Very nice." Trevor took a sip of champagne, then set down his glass. Reaching over her shoulder, he took the brush out of her hand.

"What—"

"
Ssh
." He gathered the heavy, dark mass of her hair and let it fall down her back. "Drink your champagne," he said and began to brush her hair.

She reached for her glass and gulped half the contents in one swallow, then set the glass back down. Her fingers skimmed restlessly over the edge of the vanity, straightened the perfume bottles, and fiddled with the silver comb while he continued to run the brush through her hair in long, rhythmic strokes. It was soft in his fingers, like threads of silk, and fragrant of the lemon soap she liked. He leaned closer, inhaling the tangy, sweet scent.

"When we were in Italy," he said softly, "I always wanted to do this."

She stopped fidgeting and went utterly still. "You did? Why?"

For an answer, he used the brush to push her hair aside, bent his head, and kissed the back of her neck.

She jumped at the contact as if she'd been burned.

He kissed her again, tasting her with his tongue. She made a tiny sound of agitation and started to stand up.

The brush fell from his hand, and he put his hands on her shoulders to keep her still as her hair fell against his cheek. "Maggie," he murmured against her skin, "don't be afraid of me."

"I'm not."

But he could feel her apprehension in the taut tendons of her neck and the rigid set of her shoulders, and he gave her a searching look in the mirror.

"Well, perhaps I am," she confessed and lowered her eyes. "A little."

A hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Always so honest," he murmured and drew a shaky breath, feeling rather ill at ease himself. His desire for her had been making him insane for weeks, but now, when he could have her without seductions or games, he found himself holding back again, waiting. Waiting for her to want him.

The realization made him want to laugh. God, he'd made love to more women than he could possibly remember, he thought, and he was getting himself all desperate about making love to his own wife.
His wife.

He pushed her hair aside and kissed her ear, letting his hands glide up and down her arms.