Chapter 13
Margo had imagined that it would take longer to determine what she wanted out of her life.
There were, after all, several fairly large revelations to contend with, and it had been a very long day.
Yet by the time she and the chestnut gelding made it back to Darley Dale, things had become quite clear.
She and Matilda had, somehow, grown up. What had amused and delighted them at eighteen no longer held the same satisfaction.
They wanted more—both of them. And that didn’t mean they’d been wrong in the past, only that things were different now.
Matilda had not left her forever. Things were going to be all right.
And Henry—Henry loved her. He had loved her from a distance for years, and when their proximity had tipped him over the edge, the passion between them had burned swift and strong.
There had never been a moment when she did not respect him. He had always been Henry—dear, smart, serious, true, precious Henry. And now that their relationship had shifted, like a lens slipping in front of a beam of light, she could name her feelings for what they were.
Love. She loved him in return.
She loved Henry Mortimer, and she needed to tell him so.
Unfortunately, the rapidity with which she had come to this conclusion outmatched Henry’s walking pace from the waterfall back to the village, and he was not presently available for her declaration.
She had always been decisive.
She elected to take a room at the inn and, in a blaze of optimism, informed the innkeeper that the room was for herself and her husband.
Once ensconced, it occurred to her that she was dirty, hungry, and wearing a stained, wrinkled, possibly odoriferous dress.
While she waited for Henry to come back to Darley Dale, she decided to rectify these various personal dilemmas.
She ate. She bathed. She paid an eye-popping amount of coin to one of the tavern maids, who produced for her a clean, if very revealing, frock.
And while she was pondering how pink Henry’s cheeks might turn when he saw her bosom in this dress, she stretched out on the narrow bed and fell asleep.
She awoke in a patch of sunlight. She blinked, squinting at the light in the window.
Why on Earth was it so bright? Had someone lit a torch or—
She sat bolt upright.
Morning. It was morning. She’d slept right through the evening and night, and—and Henry had not come. She looked frantically about the room, as though he might be hiding behind the washstand, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She threw herself out of bed.
Had he gone back to London? Without her?
Hang the man—he claimed to have pined for her for years, and then he could not wait a handful of hours for her response?
She dashed down the stairs and hurtled to the common room, where the innkeeper was humming and polishing glasses. She realized with some horror as she approached the man that she’d forgotten to put on shoes.
“Have you seen my husband?” she said without preamble. “This is the only inn, is it not?”
The innkeeper gaped at her. “Mum?”
She supposed he was not used to women appearing at this hour in his public room in their stocking feet and with their breasts half-bared.
She hoped he would not have her arrested.
“My—oh, dash it—a man. A tall dark-haired frowning man, traveling on foot. He should have come here last evening—I thought he would ask after me! Did you see him?”
“Aye,” said the innkeeper slowly. “I know the man you mean. He came in last night and asked if any ladies had taken a room for themselves. But did ye not tell me you were with your husband? I told him I’d had no ladies alone.”
Damn her foolish enthusiasm! Margo bit her lip. “Where did he go? Did he say?”
“Why, he stayed here, mum. Last night. He’s gone over to the tavern this morning to break his fast.”
Relief and delight made her dizzy. She went up on her toes and gave the innkeeper a smacking kiss on his cheek. “Oh thank you, sir!”
He goggled at her.
Pull yourself together, Margo ordered herself. If you are jailed for public indecency, it’s going to be very hard to declare yourself to Henry.
But she knew where he was now. He was coming back. He had not left, not at all.
After a quick trip to her room to retrieve her coin purse and a liberal application of tips all around, Margo ascertained the location of Henry’s room. A whispered word to the chambermaid had her inside, but she wanted—
She wanted to do something grand. She wanted a great sweeping gesture for Henry, something meaningful and romantic, something that would show him how true and deep her feelings were, for all that they’d taken her a while to sort out.
She tapped her finger against her lips for a moment and then went back out to find the chambermaid.
Unfortunately, when the door crashed open several minutes later, Margo had only gotten as far as stripping off the low-cut tavern dress and revealing the even more low-cut chemise and stays beneath it.
She whirled toward the door, caught sight of Henry’s terrifying glower, and backed up directly into the bed. She squeaked and sat down hard.
“Margo?” Henry looked utterly thunderstruck.
She did not know what to do with her hands. “Henry!” Her voice came out bright and casual, which only made her sound vaguely demented. “What a surprise!”
“I—what? This is my room.”
“Oh.” She gave a little awkward laugh. “Ha ha! Yes. Um. I thought you were dining.”
“You thought I was—” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened them again, his gaze dipped to her bosom and then slowly dragged back to her face.
Ha. Now she did want to laugh.
“I thought you’d gone,” he said. “I thought you went back to London.”
“No,” she said. “Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry. It was all a misunderstanding—”
She was interrupted by the chambermaid and three larger men, who bustled into the room bearing a copper hip tub and several buckets of steaming water.
“Good morning to you, sir,” said the maid, grinning widely at Henry. She quickly directed the assembling of the hot bath, steam pinkening her face. When it was done, she gave a smart nod to Henry and winked at Margo.
Then they were alone once more.
“Margo”—Henry looked adorably puzzled—“what in the world is going on?”
“Oh well, you see—” She suddenly felt foolish. She was dreadful at making plans. Her intentions were always so good, and then nothing transpired quite as she intended.
But no. She bit her lip. She was trying not to be so very hard on herself.
“You see,” she said again, “I told the innkeeper that I was here with my husband. I imagined that you would come and find me, Henry. I never in my wildest dreams supposed that you would think I had gone. I—”
The door opened again. This time it was the chambermaid alone, bearing a small table. She set it down beside the steaming tub and then flicked open a linen tablecloth, spreading it over the flat wooden surface.
“Thank you,” Margo said, feeling quite absurd as the maid departed again. She looked back at Henry. “I really thought you would be gone longer! Were you not hungry?”
“Not especially.”
She winced. He looked somewhat the worse for wear, his face a little drawn, his mouth curved downward. She gestured lamely at the hip tub. “I—um. I got you a bath.”
He blinked, one slow flutter of his thick dark lashes. “I’m sorry?”
“I, um, thought you might want one. I—”
This time when the door opened, it was the innkeeper himself. He looked in every direction but Margo’s as he placed the items she’d requested on the small table. A bottle of champagne. Two glasses. A knife and a wedge of cheese. And—
“No cherries,” the innkeeper told her. “Not in October. We had quince and raspberries.”
“That’s all right,” she said. Her voice was unsteady. “Thank you for your help.”
And then he left, and her ridiculous plan was complete, and it seemed not at all enough for what she wanted to tell the man she loved.
“Do you want to bathe?” she asked. She was certain she was blushing—her cheeks felt hot, and she suspected the flush went all the way down her body, based on the waywardness of Henry’s gaze.
He made a choked sound. “Not—I don’t—Margo, what is going on inside your head?”
She started to stand, then flung herself back down onto the bed with a sound of disgust. Her breasts threatened to spill from the thin white chemise and she tried to sit with slightly less vigor.
“I am trying,” she said, fisting her hands in the sheets and staring at her lap, “to take care of you, Henry Mortimer.”
“I—I don’t—”
“No,” she said. “Hush. Listen to me this time. I love you, Henry.”
She chanced a glance at him. He didn’t look pleased, precisely. He looked dumbfounded.
She hoped that was a good sign.
“I love you,” she said again. “I think I’ve loved you for a long time, but I wasn’t ready to see it until now.
You are perfect to me—you are all I want.
You—” She looked around at the little tableau, the bath and champagne and fruit.
“You deserve to be cared for. You deserve to have someone give you everything you want and pet you and hold you and make you happy. You said—”
She swallowed, tears clogging her voice. “You said you were afraid you did not have anything to offer me. But Henry, I know it to be the other way around. I don’t—always do the right thing. I try—I try so hard—but I am not—”
Somehow he was in front of her, cupping her face in his hands. “You’re perfect,” he said hoarsely. “You’re perfect, Margo Halifax, just as you are.”
“I’m not,” she said. “You’re blind and silly and I’m—”
And then he pulled her up, pulled her against his chest, and kissed her until every word in her head was gone, and all she knew was the man in her arms.
“I am going to make you so happy,” she said when he let her go.
And he looked happy—he looked dazed and delighted and undone. “You—Margo—are you certain?”
She looked at him, his beloved dark eyes, and threaded her fingers into his hair.
She wanted to go slowly now. She wanted to get this right.
“I’m certain. I’m impossibly certain.” She touched the line of his jaw with her thumb.
“You have been my constant, Henry William Mortimer. I had not realized until things started to come apart—with Matilda, with myself—how true that was. You are the one thing upon which I rely. When Matilda left, it was you I thought of, you I trusted. I think I’ve loved you for a very long time.
I think I needed to know myself better to realize it.
” She took a breath. “I think I needed to trust myself a little bit more. In order to believe that I would not hurt you by loving you.”
His hands were warm on her shoulders, warm and steady. “I trust you, Margo.”
She felt her lips curve. “I know you do.”
“Will you—do something for me?”
She swallowed. “Anything.”
“Say it again.”
She cupped his cheek in her hand. His serious mouth tugged up—a slow, dazzled smile. “I love you, Henry Mortimer.”
“Oh Christ,” he said. And then he kissed her.
Some minutes later, Margo lifted her head. Her breath was coming in short hard gasps, her body plastered against his. His hands had made their way up underneath her chemise. “We should take a bath,” she managed. “It’s going to grow cold.”
“Let it,” he said, and then he pushed her down onto the bed, and she pulled him with her.
Much later—it was hard to say how much, as they had no timepiece—Margo lay tangled up with Henry atop the ticked coverlet.
“Are you entirely certain that you were a virgin?” she asked. She was still a trifle out of breath.
Henry laughed into her shoulder and squeezed her rump. “If you count how many times I imagined doing that very thing with you, then no, not even a little bit.”
She rubbed her face against his skin and could have melted into his body.
But no. She couldn’t melt. She had one more thing she wanted to say.
“I thought,” she said slowly, “that we could stay here another night.”
“Mm. Or forever.”
She bit her lip. “Well, I’d—” Why, after everything that had passed between them, was she so nervous? “I’d rather hoped you might want to continue on.”
He lifted his head. “On?”
“Mm-hmm. To, um. To Scotland.”
His brows drew together. “Why Scotland? Surely you don’t still want to go after Matilda. I’m afraid they’re long gone—”
“No, no. I don’t—I’m not thinking of them. I’m only thinking of you and me, Henry.”
He gave her a bemused look, one hand still cupped over her bottom. “All right. If you fancy a trip to Scotland, I’m at your disposal.”
“No, I—” She groaned and rolled off him, flopping onto the mattress at his side. “I am suggesting we elope, you perfect blockhead. Did you not say you wanted to marry?”
He lay perfectly still at her side.
She poked him. “I haven’t killed you, have I?”
“You—want to elope?” His voice sounded quite peculiar.
“Yes. Please. If you still want to.” She turned onto her side, propping herself on one elbow to look at him. “I don’t want six babies though, Henry, so if that’s a condition of the deal, I’d like to negotiate it down to one or two—”
He kissed her. It was a long, slow slide of his lips over hers, and somewhere in the sweet drugging pleasure, she heard yes. She heard mine and she heard forever, and it might have been Henry’s voice or her own.