When We Touch (16 page)

Never in love,
he told himself harshly.

She was a lie, and that was it.

And if he ever saw her look at him again, as she had that night, endless blue eyes naked with sheer honesty and need, he'd call her a liar, a harlot, the worst kind of whore, right to her face.

To hell with her.

And still . . .

Images haunted him.

No.

Pain seemed to tear at his muscles, his limbs . . . his heart.

No.

He'd been a fool. He'd betrayed a man he loved.

Never again.

Never.

Chapter 8

Between Darby and Clayton, they had organized everything Maggie might need and it had been brought to Moorhaven the day before. Justin's clothing, too, for the ceremony, had been brought to the house. All they had to do was ride out to the estate.

Maggie had had no sleep and suffered with a pounding headache. She felt as if she moved about in fog, but when Justin knocked on her door, she smoothed her hair, and opened it with a pretense of well-being.

“Good morning.”

“You don't have to do this.”

She sighed softly. “Justin, we've gone through this so many times. Charles is a really good man. He's embraced the projects that mean so very much to me. He doesn't spend his life moving from his club to the nearest cigar bar. I'm going to be a countess; not a bad lot in life. I'm resigned, now you must be resigned as well.”

He looked away. “Well, you would break his heart if you were to back out now, but, still, Maggie, Lord knows you don't deserve to pay for the things I've done. You know, I've been talking to some American businessmen at my club, and do you know what we could do? Emigrate! Start all over in a new country. Get jobs!” He gave her a pretend shudder. “Seriously, it's a possibility, don't you think?”

She smiled. “And forfeit the title and what little land we have left to Angus?”

“We can go there and get rich, and I'll still be Lord Graham. Then we can come back.”

“Or I can just marry Charles, and make a good man very happy. Go away—let me get ready.”

With a sigh, he turned and left her.

She was quiet most of the trip to Moorhaven. And when she arrived, she asked Darby if he would get Lord Charles so that she could speak with him.

Darby returned. Charles was distressed. It was bad luck to see his bride before the wedding. Maggie sent back the message that she didn't believe in luck; she wanted to talk to him in the chapel where they would be married, and it was important.

Charles came, his concern apparent in the frown that wrinkled his forehead.

She was standing in the aisle, feet from the altar, when he came to her. She turned and he took her hands. “My dear, have you decided that you cannot marry such an old buzzard? If so, I will understand.”

She shook her head. “I want to make sure that you want me, that you know the woman you're marrying.”

“From the first time I saw you, years ago, you were a dream. And when it came to me that such a dream might be realized, I knew all that I needed to know,” he told her.

She shook her head. “But you don't really know me. Not even after this time we've spent together.”

He arched a white brow. “I know, Maggie, that after your husband's death, you spent months in the deepest grief. I know that you heard of a medium who could speak with the dead, and that you attended a séance, and found out that the man was a charlatan, who looked into the history of those he would entertain, and found out little facts and the like to make himself look credible. I know that your brother was worried, and managed to feed the man false information, and that you were hurt and horrified when you discovered the treachery. I knew a year ago when you debunked a Madam Sara; please, dear, it was in the papers, and I believe that you realized then that you'd been foolish to allow your name into the news, because it would hinder your efforts if you tried again to find the truth. I know, and I understand. I know about your forays into Whitechapel, of course—I knew that financial charity was not enough for you, that you had to see how the money was being spent. I know these things, and I admire them. I was not looking for a meek little maid to do as I said, my dear.”

She smiled, touching his face. His very dear face.

“And I know how you have fought for social reform, and that you have always believed that privilege comes with responsibility. I know that you did service in India, that you have lived your years in the most incredibly admirable fashion.”

“Then what is it?”

“Charles, I loved my husband with all my heart.”

“I know.”

“But . . . what if I weren't exactly a pillar of virtue? What if . . . what if there had been someone else . . . since my marriage.”

He lowered his head, then he looked at her, a very small smile on his lips. “Is it over?”

“It never really began.”

“We're not married until we come into this chapel today, and say our vows. Your life before that moment means nothing to me. Naturally, what comes after . . . and there is nothing that you have done that could keep me from wanting to bind my life to yours. Unless you feel that you cannot bear to live with me. I do freely give you the opportunity to escape.”

She shook her head. “I'm trying to give
you
the opportunity to escape.”

“I am hopelessly wrapped in the chains of my own heart, my dear. I could only turn away if you were to say that you couldn't bear the sight of me.” He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly. Something inside her heart shuddered, but there was another place within her where she knew just how truly fine a human being she would wed. She knew, too, from his eyes, from the passion in his voice, that he truly loved her.

And she could not hurt him. Nor, by any sense of right and wrong, could she renege when such arrangements for the welfare of her family had already been made.

She stroked back his rich white hair. “Charles, thank you. If you don't mind, I'd like to make a little peace with God.”

“I will leave you. And when we meet again, rest assured, it will be the fulfillment of my dreams, and I don't care in the least how many men there were before in your life, for we'll begin life anew together.”

He didn't kiss her. He smiled, dropped her hands, turned and left.

When he was gone, Maggie fell to her knees, asking for forgiveness.

And she hated herself because the most vile thoughts still came to mind to haunt her.
Was this right? How could it be? Jamie would still be in her life, he was Charles's great nephew, his heir—unless this marriage brought forth a son, and God help her, but that idea made her shudder. Memories of the night gone by were too vivid in her mind, and she knew that she could never go back, that she would always wonder. . . .

The Christ figure from the crucifix above the altar, carved hundreds of years ago, stared down at her with reproach.

“I will be a good wife to Charles, I swear it. I will be all that he wants!” she said, and she knew that she was pleading, seeking redemption for her sins. She suddenly felt that they had been many.

At last, she crossed herself, rose, and left the chapel. It was time to dress for her wedding.

As she left the chapel, she reflected that she might have told Charles that his daughter despised her, as well.

To hell with both Arianna and Jamie. She would be a good wife.

* * *

Despite the fact that the chapel was a small distance from the house, Justin could hear the music as he adjusted his cravat. He was late; his fingers kept tangling with themselves. He was to give his sister away.

He shook his head, annoyed with himself, afraid that even now, in the midst of the ceremony, he would suddenly rise and scream. He would protest. It would be horrible. He'd shout out that Sir Charles was an old, old man and his sister was young and good and beautiful and it was simply disgusting and wrong.

No, no. Lord Charles would have apoplexy from the horror. Maggie would probably drop dead on the spot with shame. She had sworn again and again that she wasn't just resigned to her marriage, she wanted it. And maybe it was true that the youth and desire once in her heart had died along with Nathan, and that her passions in life, with which Lord Charles could help her, were now of utmost importance to her.

Swearing, he started out to the hall, still trying to tie the cravat.

“Hell's fire and dog's balls!” he swore, quite certain that he was alone.

But a soft giggle alerted him to the fact that someone was near.

“Here! Let me help you, sir!”

A girl stepped out from the archway. She was dressed in a poor woolen cap, a servant's bonnet on her head. She must have been watching the pageantry below from the safety of the archway at the top of the landing.

“Can you help me?” he said. “And forgive my slip of the tongue.”

“If only that were the only thing to forgive today!” she muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, nothing!” she murmured.

“Will you help me?”

She stepped closer, leaving the shadows of the archway behind. His breath seemed to catch in his throat. He'd never seen skin so delicate, so pure, an ivory, almost as fine and white as snow. Her eyes were the darkest he'd ever seen. Her hair . . . a pure symphony in black velvet.

She paused, looking up at him. Her eyes widened as she surveyed him. She moistened her lips suddenly.

“I . . . I . . .” she stammered.

“I'm so sorry to ask your assistance,” Justin said. He couldn't draw his eyes from hers. It seemed that he breathed her now. And what he inhaled was youth and beauty and purity. It was intoxicating.

He heard the damnable music again.

“I'm desperate!” he whispered.

“Yes, yes, let me help you.”

She came closer to tie the cravat. Their faces, oh, God, just a whisper of a breath, and he'd be kissing her. A servant girl. Ah, imagine the scandal! The sister, marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather. The brother, taking up with a serving wench.

What the hell did he care? What had Maggie told him? Marry anyone, noblewoman or commoner, just so long as she was young and . . .

This incredible sweet beauty was young.

He felt the expulsion of her breath against his lower jaw, his lips. And he couldn't help himself. “You're . . . incredible,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “It's not tied quite properly.”

He smiled very slowly. She hadn't really moved away. He saw her eyes widen again, and the way that she looked at him, and he suddenly understood what all the poets meant when they said that their hearts sang.
Yes,
she felt it too, this wonder, amazement, sensation, incredulous belief that the entire world would be right, if only they were together.

He took hold of her shoulders suddenly, telling her, “Wait for me, please? Wait for me, until after the ceremony. I have to know you. And no, please, nothing, nothing . . . there is nothing not perfectly right in this, really. I'll . . . I'll explain.”

The music rose high with a thudding urgency.

“I'll be back!”

Justin raced on down the stairs. Maggie was waiting for him in a little antechamber. The wedding itself was down a few steps from the grand salon, in the family chapel.

“Justin!” She was anxious and nervous, near to tears.

“Maggie!”

He stepped back, breathless again, amazed at the sight of his own sister.

She hadn't worn white. She was marrying for a second time. Neither had she chosen a beige or off-white. She had gone for a soft, aqua-toned blue.

And she was a vision, shattering, awe-inspiring. Her hair was free, her veil was attached to a small, pearled crown, one proper for the wife of a viscount. The veil was sheer, floating behind her. With her reddish-gold hair falling in waves behind her, she looked like a fairy queen, an ice queen perhaps, perfect in her face and form.

He took her hand.

“Please, Justin, we've kept them waiting.”

They started across the salon.

He balked suddenly, almost weeping. “I can't do it, Maggie. I can't.”

“Justin! I'm going with or without you!” she warned, and her voice threatened tears as well. “Please, please, please, don't do this to me now!”

“Maggie!”

He hugged her tightly.

“Go!” she whispered.

He nodded miserably and took a deep breath.

Then, with tremendous dignity, they started for the chapel.

* * *

The bride was late. Standing at Charles's side, Jamie wondered if that meant she was having difficulty going through with the wedding. For several moments, his sense of bitterness was tempered with hope.

Except that he shouldn't feel that way. One look at Charles, and he knew that the man was living for this dream.
And why not? He would have a lifetime of magic.

Charles had confided in Jamie that he'd met Maggie earlier, here, in the chapel, that she had been near tears, that she had tried to make all kinds of confessions.

Jamie wondered then if he should make a confession of his own. Then, he thought, no. He could not. Because if the bride had decided to go through with it, he didn't have the right.

Bitterness filled him again.
She had been nothing less than fantasy and magic, as sensual as the earth, and something far above. Thinking of last night made his blood pound against his veins, and his cravat seem far too tight at his throat.

But there she was, on Justin's arm, coming into the chapel. And she was a vision. God, yes, her hair was loose, brushed to a high gloss, shining like a halo around her. Her eyes were as deep a blue as the ocean at its depths, her stature, her walk, her every movement, supple, graceful . . .