Chapter 3
Margaret tried not to pace but couldn’t stop.
The clock struck five, and they’d yet to arrive—Philip Goodman and her “spouse to be”—whoever he should be.
Her stomach fluttered over the import of what she was about to do: wed a stranger. But it couldn’t be helped. There was no use fretting over it now. She only wished Mr. Goodman hadn’t waited until the eleventh hour to introduce this man; so much could go wrong!
Goodman was supposed to have conducted the initial interviews, and then allowed Margaret to interview thereafter.
And it had gone precisely so with the first three candidates, and then suddenly, Mr. Goodman had come into her house with an exclamation of glee, and he’d informed her that her search was over. Wonderful, she’d thought. Wonderful!
But, of course, she was supposed to have interviewed him thereafter. Then, one mishap after another ensued—most notably, a delay in his arrival from London—and now she didn’t even know what he looked like.
Pacing the hand-tufted fine-wool Persian carpet, she tried to recall everything Mr. Goodman had said of him—considering the circumstances, not much.
Perhaps if she knew more, she wouldn’t be so ill at ease, but as it was, she only knew his name—Gabriel S.
Morgan—and that he and Goodman were personal friends, acquaintances since their days at Eton.
She also knew he was an attorney. That he was kind, if not precisely warm.
He did not aspire to having children—one of her prerequisites—and neither did he spend time at White’s.
He wasn’t old. He’d made himself a small fortune and would be quite satisfied with the sum she had offered.
More than anything, he craved the distinction of her name.
But she didn’t know much else about him.
Evidently, Mr. Goodman went to Mr. Morgan for some counsel and left his office with the perfect spousal candidate—Mr. Morgan himself.
In fact, Mr. Morgan had helped to draw up the necessary papers to ensure Margaret’s position in this conjugal union, and he had given her every concession and more.
Margaret was not unfamiliar with legalese and there was nothing in the contract that gave her pause.
Still, she might have doubted the arrangement, only because of who it was, except that she trusted Mr. Goodman’s judgement to the utmost degree and, well…
she had a nose for such things. Moreover, she would never be so witless as to take a man’s word in this matter; she’d also had the papers looked over by an objective party, and despite that they’d been found to be in perfect order, she’d attached her own addendum.
If he misrepresented himself in any way he would forfeit all monies.
Therefore, once everything was settled, there had been no need to continue the search. Gabriel S. Morgan came highly recommended.
Even so, Margaret would feel so much better had she at least been able to interview the candidate herself. And now here they were, and she had yet to set her eyes upon her “betrothed.”
Perhaps the man was a horrid little troll? Short, squat, with a florid face and a bulbous nose?
Indeed, perhaps he was afraid that, if she saw him, the prospect of marrying him would repel Margaret?
Well, she would have set his mind at ease; she didn’t have any intentions of carrying on with him as though they were man and wife.
She was wedding him for one reason, and one reason only: to save her inheritance.
Once she was gone, she couldn’t care less what happened to her father’s money, and it would serve him right to have no legitimate heirs to inherit—wasn’t that his plan, anyway?
Glancing up at the clock—one quarter after the hour—Margaret’s sense of unease intensified.
Famous!
For expediency, she had purposely arranged for him to arrive at Blackwood. But even as close as they were to the border, they wouldn’t be arriving at Gretna Green until near midnight. And that wouldn’t do. They must be wed before the midnight hour.
At long last, there was a knock at the door, and the sound gave Margaret no small measure of relief.
Praying it was Mr. Goodman with her unspeakably wonderful troll, she rushed toward the foyer, swinging the doors open to find that her manservant had already answered, and was even now allowing entry to her long overdue guests.
Philip Goodman was the first to enter, brushing the night’s fine mist from his black wool coat.
Her fiancé came next, and Margaret, much to her dismay, found she could but gape, slack-jawed, from the doorway of her father’s office.
Oh, dear. He was no troll.
In fact, whatever Gabriel S. Morgan lacked in breeding, he made up for in good looks.
Much to her dismay, he was a fine, fine specimen of a man, with his shining head of black hair.
Also, in total defiance of convention—something that rather appealed to her, truth be known—he wore his hair unfashionably long.
But—and this was important—his physicality strictly violated the terms of their agreement.
In no uncertain terms, she had specified that he must not be overly attractive, only marginally so.
But she might have guessed a man might not be so fine a judge over another man’s looks.
Or it was also possible that Goodman knew this violated her terms, and he had openly defied her. Now, what else should she worry over?
Recovering herself from the shock, Margaret drew in a breath, unaware that she did so.
Still oblivious to her presence, the two men bade Godfrey to announce them while Margaret attempted to find her voice—to reassure them it wasn’t necessary.
She was already painfully aware of their presence.
But, discombobulated as she was, words wouldn’t seem to form.
Bronzed and quite well hewn, Gabriel Morgan’s face was a stunning contrast to the pristine white stock he wore. Dressed in a somber black evening coat and trousers, he cut a dashing figure. And, yes, good Lord, his eyes—he glanced her way—uncanny blue, they hinted at the most devilish of thoughts.
Damnation, their sudden scrutiny left Margaret, once again, breathless.
He smiled then, making Margaret feel just a wee bit disoriented—and warm!
Indeed, with no more than a glance and a slight curve to his lips, he’d stolen her thoughts, made her head reel and her heart leap.
She had the very sudden and disconcerting sensation of having walked straight into a brick wall.
She, who’d sworn men were all little different, had somehow, in the space of only seconds, found herself abashed over how very different this man seemed to make her feel.
Too warm.
And heady.
Dizzy.
Oh, yes, undoubtedly dizzy.
Goodness. She was going to have to work at remedying such things—perhaps build him a small house elsewhere on the property, where she wouldn’t have to see him each morning for breakfast. Because then, how would she eat?
Even now, her stomach was in a roil.
Resisting the urge to fan herself, Margaret pushed away from the door frame, focusing her gaze on Philip Goodman, giving him a scolding glance. “At last!” she said, admonishing both.
“Do you gamble?” she asked her fiancé, without bothering to look at him. She snatched her gloves from the table and determined to wrest some measure of control.
“No, I do not.”
“Good.” She tugged on her white gloves. “Do you have any concerns at all over any of my provisions?”
He gave her a single, exaggerated shake of his head as she finally addressed him. “Not unless you’ve added something I’m not aware of.”
His voice was entirely too silky, and none of her questions had the least bit of effect to rattle him. His composure made her feel all the more hot and bothered. She longed to tug off her gloves and slap him with them, Mr. Goodman as well.
“Well… do you now have one, or have you ever considered acquiring a mistress?”
“Acquiring?”
“Well, yes, isn’t that what you men do—acquire things?”
He arched a brow. “No. No mistress for me,” he said.
“Well,” Margaret countered. “You’d best be considering it, Mr. Morgan. I am not in the market for a lover and this arrangement does not include the marriage bed.”
Both brows shot up at her plain-speaking, but Margaret didn’t give him time to respond. She turned to address her butler, keeping her gaze deliberately averted from Mr. Morgan’s face. “Please have the carriage brought about,” she directed him. “We’ve no time to waste.”
“Yes, mum,” Godfrey said, and he bowed as he took his leave, completely unaccustomed to her temper and looking bemused.
She turned again to address Mr. Goodman, all the while avoiding Mr. Morgan’s gaze, as she had already determined it to be most detrimental to her composure.
It would have been far easier to deal with him had he been a toad.
As for Mr. Goodman, she would cross words with him later.
“Come now. We must take our leave at once,” she apprised both, trying to maintain some measure of aplomb, despite feeling scattered.
“Lady Margaret, please forgive our tardiness,” Mr. Goodman appealed. He removed his hat, shaking it off, and clutching it before him as he said, “I’m afraid we managed to run into a bit of bedlam.” He peered up uneasily at his companion.
Although she had the urge to, Margaret didn’t follow his gaze. “Bedlam?”
Mr. Goodman’s brows lifted. “Well, yes, but no worries, Lady Margaret... ‘tis nothing for you to be concerned over. ‘Tis bedlam of a personal nature, I assure you. Quite personal—and tedious—and—”
“Never mind,” Margaret said. “I understand.”
“Thank you, mum,” Mr. Goodman said. “And now I should be pleased to have you make the belated acquaintance of Mr. Gabriel Ssss...” He received a very sudden, but discreet and rude elbow to the ribs. “Morgan!” he finished.
Margaret furrowed her brow. “Sssss Morgan?”
“No, just S,” Mr. Morgan interjected, and Margaret barely had the nerve to peer at him out of the corner of one eye. “Gabriel S. Morgan.”