16. Chapter Sixteen #3
Roger wanted to burst into laughter. He could hardly see Margaret with a rifle. After witnessing her in trouble, he wondered how she’d handle a shooting party.
“Absolutely not!” the older Mrs. Nicholson snapped. “I won’t allow my granddaughter to participate in such unladylike events.”
“Mrs. Nicholson,” Lord Burton said calmly. “In Yorkshire, many women participate in these events. I cannot recall how many times men have been beaten by a woman.”
“Well,” the woman huffed. “If it’s proper in England, I suppose it’s proper here.”
“I didn’t know you could shoot,” Roger said.
Margaret smiled at her father, and he winked back at her. “Come to our party, and you’ll see . . . Unless you’re afraid, Mr. McKinley.” Her smile encouraged Roger. If this was a challenge, it was one he’d be willing to take.
“Do come,” Margaret’s mother begged. “We’d love to see you again.”
Roger could no longer fight back a grin. He couldn’t stop thinking about seeing Margaret again, especially watching her struggle to handle a gun. “I would be honored.”
“Then it’s settled,” Mr. Nicholson declared. “Tomorrow at ten we shall have a picnic and an ole English shooting party.”
After hours of conversation and half an hour of Marjorie singing and playing the piano in the drawing room, Roger believed it was time to take his leave.
But what made his heart leap was Margaret volunteering to walk him out.
She was the rare jewel of the evening. Seeing her again outside of work made his heart nearly burst. She was a lovely woman—so intelligent, so beautiful, so kind and alluring.
Now after seeing her with Lord Burton, each moment with her made Roger grow mad.
Not the angry kind, but the kind where he was going insane.
Insane enough to reject his inner warnings.
“Thank you for coming,” Margaret standing on the porch steps. “My family and I have enjoyed your company.”
She enjoyed my company. Roger fought back a grin. “Thank you for having me,” he said as they descended the stone steps. “And I look forward to beating you at tomorrow’s match.”
Margaret placed her hands on her hips and bunched her face, reminding him of the day she stood her ground after answering the telephone at the office.
He couldn’t deny she was attractive then, but his anger had clouded his actions.
If he could do that day over again, he would.
Margaret had frustrated him, and now he was becoming more frustrated by not having her by his side.
His feelings for her were running wild, so wild they were out of control.
Since when did he feel so protective and attracted to Margaret all at once?
“We’ll see about that, sir.”
“I really wish you’d stop calling me sir,” Roger said.
Her eyes rounded. “But you’re older than me. My mother told me to always say it because it shows respect.”
Roger chuckled. Had she truly thought him old? “Gracious, Miss Nicholson, you make me feel like I’m a middle-aged man.”
Margaret’s eyebrows raised. “Then how old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” Roger answered proudly. He was thankful not to be an old man, much like Lord Burton who seemed to be knocking on the door of thirty. He needed to stay in his age range.
“Nearly five years. You’re not the old grouch I had assumed you to be, Mr. McKinley.”
“And another thing,” Roger added. “Call me Roger. Let me at least enjoy my youth.”
Margaret’s lips curled. “Well then . . . Roger. You must call me Margaret.”
“Margaret,” Roger repeated. It slipped off his tongue so naturally. His heart skipped a beat. He longed to say it again, but it was not the place. They resumed their path to his motorcar.
“This . . . Lord Burton . . . He’s your suitor . . . right?”
Margaret fell silent. Those seconds stretched on, the longest moments of Roger’s life. His heart thudded with anticipation, each beat echoing in his ears. In his mind, he pleaded for it not to be true, desperate to avoid the reality he feared.
“Not exactly.”
Good enough. “Then who is he . . . to you exactly?”
Margaret scratched the back of her head. “He’s just a friend.”
“Do you like him?” Roger pressed. He kept telling himself to stop asking questions, but he couldn’t stop. Seeing them at the dinner table—talking and laughing—drove him wild with jealousy.
“I suppose so,” Margaret answered. “But I’m still trying to navigate through my feelings.”
“You’d make a good marquesia or whatever they are called,” Roger mumbled, but he didn’t expect Margaret to hear.
“It’s a marchioness but thank you.”
Roger walked to the front of his motorcar to crank the engine, then looked back, glancing at Margaret, whose dark hair glowed under the moonlight. He wished he could have a photograph of that moment, so he could keep it forever, but this memory would have to do.
As the engine rumbled, he opened his car door. “Goodnight, Margaret. Until tomorrow.”
He shifted the gear and then proceeded along the long cobblestone driveway. As he looked behind him, he could still see Margaret’s silhouette from the light of the moon. He hated to depart from her, but it was for the best. She needed to have her time with Mr. Marquess.
If Roger were still a religious man, he’d say a prayer, begging God not to let Lord Burton propose tonight. But trusting Margaret and her truth would have to do.