Chapter 7
Margaret was brooding.
It was all Gabriel could do not to chuckle with pleasure over that fact.
Unconscionable though it might seem, he was quite satisfied with the reaction he’d wrought from her.
She sat before him now, looking entirely perplexed, with her thoughts whirling behind those delightfully bewitching eyes.
At the moment, he felt as giddy as he had that day before she’d said her goodbyes.
He was once again that boy, dashing toward the hill, pasteboard in hand.
He realized only then how bloody disappointed he’d been that he’d never even shown her his silly pasteboard. More than anything, he’d craved the sound of her laughter—as he did right now.
But, of course, as it was on that fateful day, not all would go as he’d hoped.
They’d gone directly to the inn and, hoping to procure a single room as husband and wife, Gabriel bribed the clerk to deny them two.
Unscrupulous though it might be, he couldn’t muster any remorse.
It wasn’t as though he intended to force her, but he’d hoped that a certain proximity would soften her mood—so, yes, perhaps he had meant to seduce her.
But Margaret refused the arrangement out of hand, opting to make the return journey to Blackwood, forcing them to ride another four bloody hours back to Blackwood.
No matter. Gabriel could wait.
He’d waited a lifetime already, and the rewards to be reaped were worth his patience.
Unfortunately, the return journey was far more tedious than anyone anticipated, every bump and bend in the road a bother.
All the while, Margaret maintained her silence, barely deigning to look at him, and Gabriel realized she was dealing with confusing emotions.
He granted her the quietude she needed, and just at the point when he began to fear she was regretting their bargain, she breached the silence.
“That man was dyspeptic!”
She didn’t bother to look at him.
“You think so?” he asked conversationally.
“Quite,” she said, plainly annoyed. “He was ill-tempered, bigoted, and rude, to say the least!”
“He was also smashed.”
She turned to look at him, at last, and Gabriel sucked in a breath at the incredible loveliness of her face. “Smashed?” Illumined by the bloodless moon, her cheeks appeared overly pale, her eyes incandescent green. The never-ending journey was beginning to take a toll on her.
“Soused,” he explained. “Drunk.”
“Yes, well, I don’t believe there was any need to reward him for it. Do you? How much did you give him?”
He wisely refrained from pointing out that she, in truth, had needled the man, and disclosed, “Double what he required.”
“I thought so. I hope you’re not so quick to spend the stipend I’ll provide, because there won’t be any more once it’s gone.”
“I don’t need your money, Margaret.”
“Don’t you?”
I do not,” he reassured. “Money was never my primary concern.”
She tilted him a dubious glance, narrowing her eyes. “So then… tell me again… what was your primary concern?”
Gabriel smiled, diverting the subject. “My timepiece revealed one quarter past the midnight hour as we exchanged vows. I thought it prudent to leave the man appeased, as he’s the only one who can gainsay us.”
Her brows collided. “Oh,” she said, deflated, and her color seemed to pale all the more. “You don’t think he’ll do that, do you?” Her sea-green eyes were full of worry. “Did he put the correct hour on our certificate?”
“Indeed, he did.” And nevertheless, Gabriel withdrew the papers from his vest and offered them to Margaret, hoping she wouldn’t note his full signature—not that she could make it out in the coach's darkness.
Regardless, she would eventually see it and realize, so now was as good a time as any to take the chance. “Examine them for yourself.”
“Thank you,” she said, and took the folded papers from his grasp, never averting her gaze. “I never even thought to ask. He made me so angry. I-I didn’t….”
She seemed to lose her train of thought as she peered back at him—as he lost his own every time she met his gaze. For a moment, he thought the jig was up, but it was satisfying to see that he wasn’t alone in his distraction.
After all these years, she was like a feast to his starving senses.
The whispering black silk of her gown made him yearn to reach out, to draw the sleek garment into his greedy fingers.
The soft scent of jasmine filled the carriage, making him long to bury his face into her hair, against the soft curve of her neck.
.. taste her flesh... place his tongue over the pulse at her throat, feel it beating beneath his lips.
The even fainter scent of peppermint... exhaled in his direction by her soft, tantalizing sighs, made him thirst all the more to kiss those lips.
All in all, he was in a dangerous state.
.. for a man who’d only just vowed to give his wife due time.
“Well... they do seem to be in order,” she said, without ever even having glanced at the papers in question.
Gabriel could scarce help note that she was once again staring at his mouth, and he smiled, his lips curving with a fierce satisfaction.
He couldn’t, of course, note what women saw in him, but he knew how they behaved in his presence, and yet, he’d never desired a one of them the way he desired Lady Margaret Willingham.
His gaze lowered to the papers she held.
.. flicking only briefly toward the décolletage of her gown, groaning inwardly.
He closed his eyes, his senses reeling. She was now his wife…
duly wed… and he wanted nothing more than to bury his face against those sweet breasts, taste the pebbled nipples and lift his head to whisper sweet nothings in her ear…
He opened his eyes, and the hazy moonlight toyed with his vision... darkening his mood... conspiring against his better nature. Lord help him, he was no saint, and he was dizzy with desire, and his mouth felt dry.
Margaret didn’t know him anymore, he reminded himself. She didn’t even recognize him. She needed time, and he must allow her that time.
It was the right thing to do.
He laid his head back again, repeating the litany until he was certain he must believe it, but his body remained as tense as a caged lion’s.
Her gaze was still focused upon him when he reopened his eyes, and he swallowed and held still... because if he moved... if he so much as stirred... he was going to reach out and draw her into his arms, seduce her right here in this carriage…
Margaret returned the papers, hands trembling, her thoughts in chaos. Of course, she hadn’t even bothered to look at them, she realized—but, then again, why should she have bothered? She couldn’t see the print in the carriage's darkness, anyway.
And Lord, it shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did... After making such a tremendous fuss about it all, why had he so rudely refused to kiss her?
Had he judged her and found her lacking?
Did he regret binding himself to her, after all?
Though why should it matter what he felt for her?
Or what he must think of her? She’d chosen him because he’d offered her this union without the usual trappings—without duty, and without attachment.
Margaret desired a loveless marriage. She didn’t mean for them to fall madly in love at first sight, and then long to fall into each other’s arms. She certainly didn’t wish to consider a married life, with tots running about the house.
And yet, never in her life had any man ever looked at her with such intensity of expression. Never had she experienced such a fluttering in her belly, such a tightness in her breasts—as she was feeling this moment.
Her heart beat a staccato as she stared at Gabriel’s lips, her gaze lifting to his blue eyes and those brows tilted so devilishly.
Her brow furrowed. Why hadn’t he kissed her? And why, oh why, must she care?
The questions plagued her, though she told herself it was absurd. Preposterous. Outrageous. Completely without merit. So what if he didn’t want to kiss her? Perhaps he had judged her and found her wanting, but why should that matter?
Still, the possibility weighed like stones in her belly—niggled her as well if, the truth be known. He sat there, looking far too unrepentant, and she had the most disconcerting desire to box his ears.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a notion—but yes, yes, she did, and she couldn’t suppress a sudden huff of laughter over the memory of a sweet, young boy who’d once vexed her so thoroughly that she had cursed the encumbrances of her femininity.
“Laughter suits you,” her husband declared.
Margaret shook herself free of her reverie, taken aback by the compliment.
“What are you thinking about?”
Margaret refused to be soothed by flattery—or mollified into sharing her private thoughts. How dare he rebuff her in front of that ill-tempered man, then expect her warmth. She shrugged. “A childhood memory—nothing of importance.”
And then, compelled to, she lifted her chin as she sat forward. “Not that I’m particularly upset over your change of heart, mind you… or your reasons, for that matter, but I hardly appreciated the humiliation of your declination, sirrah.”
He leveled his gaze upon her. “Pardon?”
Margaret inhaled a breath. “It was certainly your prerogative to change your mind—again, might I point out—but you could have advised me well in advance, before I managed to make myself appear the ninny.”
The man knit his brows, feigning obtuseness, but obtuse was something Margaret was quite certain he was not. “Advised you? That I cared to do… what, precisely?”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Kiss me.”
He lifted his brows and turned up those sinfully beautiful lips. Of course, in her anger, it probably sounded like a demand, and Margaret was at once chagrined over the path in which their conversation had veered. “I mean to say. You might have said... before—never mind!”