Chapter 4
She didn’t recognize him.
Gabriel hadn’t truly expected her to after so long.
After all, it had been thirteen long years, during which they’d both gone through a metamorphosis from child to adult.
Margaret hadn’t seen him even once since the day they’d parted, and the fact that man and boy shared the same given name shouldn’t be enough to give him away.
Gabriel was a common enough appellation, and he’d made certain to use his mother’s surname.
At any rate, the notion of true love for a twelve- and thirteen-year-old was ludicrous. They had but experienced a whisper of what might have been.
Nor was love a matter of sexual satisfaction.
If that were true, he’d had enough satisfaction throughout his lifetime to know that sort of gratification was just that: gratification.
Not once since reaching his sexual maturation had he longed to sit about conversing afterward.
Not once since leaving Margaret Willingham had he longed for hours upon hours hidden away behind an unpleasant nest of thorns, with earth-damp bottoms, and a plethora of scuffs and scrapes.
Indeed, not once had he wished for a sunny day to drag his lover onto the slopes, only to hear her giggle.
And now, simply because she still wrote his father occasionally, was no proof of her continuing affection.
She had known his father longer than she’d known him, and for all Gabriel knew, she had by now forgotten him entirely.
Even so, he’d anticipated some glimmer of recognition in her eyes when they met again.
Admonishing himself that it was preposterous to be disappointed over something so utterly absurd, he closed the door behind them, realizing that in a short time he would return as master of this house. Now that was even more absurd.
Lamentably, it was quite evident by the deepening crease in Margaret’s brow that she wasn’t particularly thrilled over the prospect of spending even five minutes alone with him, much less an entire carriage ride to Gretna Green, much less a lifetime under the same roof.
And devil take the woman; she couldn’t have chosen a more effective way to get her point across than to wear a mourning dress to her own wedding.
It had been all Gabriel could do not to howl with laughter as he’d spied her standing in the doorway of her father’s study.
Not that it wasn’t a perfectly lovely gown, mind you. Black as coal, the cut of her décolletage sent his pulses skittering like a green boy over his first kiss.
And nevertheless, if the truth be known, he was quite pleased to see shades of the mischievous girl she had been—if nothing else, in the fact that she'd chosen such a flippant manner in which to wed. Blackwood’s title and patrimony were not Margaret’s to give, nor to keep, but the unentitled estates alone amounted to a goodly fortune.
She knew full well that with her father’s name and money, she could choose any husband at will, and she was doing so with glorious abandon.
Flouting in the face of convention, she’d chosen a lowly commoner to marry.
She’d chosen Gabriel—only after he’d offered her a contract she couldn’t refuse.
In short, for a girl in her position, he was a dream come true.
He would take her bribe so long as she would have him.
He’d use that money for some altruistic affaire and stay out of her way.
After all, why shouldn’t he give her this gift?
He had no desire to wed or start a family—at least not under his present circumstances.
And she had no qualms at all over sharing him with a mistress.
Her good name would genuinely help him, and in return, he would give her absolute freedom—something he knew she’d coveted from the day she’d learned to run.
And yet, there was a flaw with that plan.
Having seen her up close—so close he could have brushed his lips against hers—he wasn’t any longer quite so certain he could agree to remove himself from her day-to-day routines, or to allow himself to consider the lady with her own stable of lovers, discreet, or otherwise.
Lady Margaret Willingham—the woman she’d become—wasn’t merely lovely, she was positively delicious.
Unfortunately, she didn’t appear to return the admiration.
She led the way to the carriage, back straight, chin high, and he wondered what, specifically, was the source of her annoyance.
Was it because he hadn’t allowed for a meeting beforehand?
Or could it be because she was disappointed with the candidate she’d unwittingly chosen?
The first possibility bothered him not at all.
The second sat like a thorn in the sole of his foot.
After helping her aboard the carriage, Gabriel mounted behind her, seating himself in the facing seat.
With much aplomb, she cast him a haughty glance and knocked on the rooftop, signaling the driver to move along. Only for an instant beforehand, he had the feeling she was this close to calling it off—to bloody hell with her inheritance. He rested easier once they were on the way.
Fortunately, they hadn’t all that long to travel. From London it would have been a tedious, four-day journey, but from Blackwood, it was only a six-hour trek. He withdrew the timepiece from his pocket, glanced at the hour and felt reassured there was time to spare.
Silvery moonlight sluiced into the carriage as it turned onto the north road, illuminating Margaret’s face along with the blush of her cheeks. Even by the dim light in the carriage, it was more than apparent that her color was high, and he smiled, wishing he were privy to her thoughts.
There was a time in their lives when he might have had to put a hand over her mouth to keep her from regurgitating all her thoughts, but even then, he’d longed to know more.
He shifted in the seat, turning to stare out the window.
But it wasn’t too long before his gaze returned to the woman occupying the facing seat—her features set firmly, no smile to be found.
Gabriel could see in the stern lines of her face that she’d forgotten how to laugh.
Perhaps the entire charade was something of a caprice.
But, after all, what harm could there be in this?
Margaret intended to marry, one way or the other, and he could more easily protect her this way.
After a time, she dared to look his way, and Gabriel once again averted his gaze, worried that she would see the truth in his eyes.
Of course, he fully intended she should learn his true identity, but he daren’t reveal it until after they were duly wed… just in case. Pride be damned, her father be damned. He wasn’t about to sabotage the evening—for her sake.
Certainly, it wasn’t for his.
But how was it possible he could feel such joy over this happenstance?
Love?
Good lord. What was love, anyway? He hadn’t spoken those words… but once… and it so happened they were spoken to Margaret, though, in truth, whatever they must have felt as younglings could be no more than innocent affection.
Romantic love, he mused, was the stuff of faerie’s tales. Love was far staider and more practical.
Love was an old man, sending his child off to Eton to provide him a better life.
Love was a mother who labored over a blanket for hours on end, to send it to her exiled son.
Love was… a young woman who wrote endless letters, year after year, without any promise of answer.
Love was… a willing sacrifice without promise of thanks or recompense. And, well, if that were love, in truth, he supposed he still loved her.
She was worried, he thought. She still had that telltale habit of picking her fingernails. The clipping sound filled the carriage, its cadence falling in time with the beat of his heart.
How dearly he’d love to ease the stress from her brow.
He’d love to be wedding her, in truth, not merely for the sake of convenience. The realization struck him as boldly as did the manner of her proposal.
But why shouldn’t he aspire to something more?
It had been years since they’d known each other, true, but he’d never once been tempted to marry before now, and that simple truth must account for something.
Maggie needed someone to love her; He wanted to be the one to soften those creases about her lips.
Tonight, lovely though she was, her hair was pulled back too severely, with every curl put properly into place, but, somewhere, deep in her heart, Margaret Willingham was still that carefree child, struggling to be free of her father’s constraints.
And lord, what Gabriel wouldn’t give to hear the Elfin lilt of laughter and run his hands through her glorious hair.
A familiar longing embraced him as he sat in the darkness of that carriage, studying the woman who was soon to be his wife, and as the journey progressed, he marveled that this… feeling… had remained so strong, so long—for his part.
Once more, he shifted in the carriage seat, stretching his legs, pretending a languor he didn’t feel, and when their eyes met again, he forced a lazy smile, although the effect of her gaze, even under heavy shadow, sucked the breath from his lungs.
Finally, after a long while, she deigned to speak. “Do you believe in being frank, Mr. Morgan?”
“Over duplicity, and ambiguity?” he asked with a quick smile, wondering over such a pointed question. “Yes, of course.”
“Then please forgive my plainspokenness… but I was wondering...” Her hand fluttered to her breast. “Well, you see... I know what it is I hope to gain from this union. And I know what it is Mr. Goodman claims you hope to attain, but I should like to hear it from your own two lips.”
The abruptness of her question took him aback.