Chapter Three
“C heck.” Maggie looked up from the chessboard with a self-satisfied smile. Finally. After three miserable games where she appallingly ended up on the losing end, she’d managed to get the better of her annoying opponent.
Perhaps she had spoken too soon when she arrogantly asserted that Michael would lose to her, as he’d always done when they were younger. She had to admit, his concentration had gotten better over the years… or maybe it was hers that had worsened.
Because she was having a rather difficult time keeping her attention on the board, especially with Michael sitting cross-legged across from her on the bed. It hadn’t been her idea! She’d demanded that he sit in the chair next to the bed, but he’d been obstinate—something about evening the playing fields and meeting in the middle. Maggie was beginning to believe it had all been a ruse to throw her off her game, and unfortunately, it had worked.
Her cheeks hurt; however, she would keep smiling until he glanced at her. However long it took. She needed to see the realization float across his face when he came to terms with his defeat.
But the obstinate man kept his focus on the board, his tan face frowning at the pieces in single-minded absorption.
“It’s your turn,” she said sweetly through her saccharine smile.
“I’m well aware,” Michael returned, pinching his fingers over his last remaining bishop. “I’m just deciding if I want to beat you in four moves or six.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped, roping her mind back to the board. He couldn’t possibly… could he? She ran through the possible maneuvers. There was no way. She had him. She had—
Maggie fixed on a black rook in the corner of the board that Michael had kept deceptively innocent and quiet thus far.
His laughter was like nails on a chalkboard. “Do you finally see it? I was wondering when you were going to catch on. A little slow today, aren’t you?”
Maggie sat back against the headboard, shaking her head at her blindness. She was a good chess player—maybe even great—and playing Michael made her feel like she was learning the game for the first time. Now, it was Maggie who wouldn’t raise her chin, wouldn’t acknowledge the smug smile shining across her doomed white pieces.
“Oh, don’t be a sore loser. Finish the game,” he chided her, finally moving his rook out from the corner.
Four moves, Maggie surmised. He’d chosen to claim his victory in four. She had to respect that. Why string her along?
Grudgingly, she sat up, intent on playing out the game. Lord Michael might believe her the loser, but she’d never let him call her a quitter.
Just when she was about to make her move, a knock sounded on the door.
“My lady?” a timid voice called out.
Maggie flew out of her seat, fluidly managing to throw Michael off the bed while not upsetting the game. “Hide!” she spat, pushing him to the adjacent space next to the door, where he shot her a disbelieving glare. Just as Maggie had hoped, when the door opened, it pinned him to the wall, blanketing Michael from the maid’s view.
“Lady Maggie!” The maid came to a halt, nearly dropping the long black dog she carried. “Your aunt said you weren’t feeling well, but she didn’t say you had a fever. Your face is flushed; do you want me to call for a doctor?” She spun toward the hallway. “Maybe I should have your aunt come up—”
“No!” Maggie cried out, snatching the dog away from the maid. The muscular dachshund licked her face in appreciation. “I’m fine, truly, Jane. It’s just a little hot in this room, that’s all. I’ll open a window.”
“I’ll do it for you,” Jane said, marching to the far side of the room. Within seconds, the efficient woman had a nice breeze sailing through. “There. Now, your aunt wanted me to let you know that she’ll be up to see you after dinner is over. Did you want me to bring you up a plate? No? All right, then. Well, George has eaten and had his walk, but I’ll be by to take him outside once more before bedtime. Is there anything else—” Her words broke off as her gaze settled on the bed where the chess game was still in session.
“I was bored,” Maggie explained before the maid could jump to logical conclusions. She would never question Maggie, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t gossip the moment she left the room.
The poor woman couldn’t hide her confusion. “You’re playing… yourself, my lady?”
“Yes,” Maggie answered, puffing out her chest with confidence. No longer able to control George’s wiggling, she placed him on the ground, only to realize too late that it was a terrible decision. The dog made a beeline for the door, barking voraciously at the wall behind it.
Maggie raised her voice. “I’ve heard playing oneself is… the only way to get better,” she explained lamely. “George, come! George!”
The little dog cast her a doleful expression, thinking long and hard before eventually retreating from the door. Maggie shrugged her shoulders at the maid. “Silly dog. Always barking at ghosts.” She tried to pick him up again, but the badly behaved rascal evaded her, instead keeping a watchful eye on the door, growling from afar.
The maid nodded slowly, no doubt wondering if the lady was ill or insane. “All right, then,” she began. “Do you want me to help you undress—”
“That will be all, Jane,” Maggie replied swiftly.
The maid gave her one last look before bobbing. Maggie followed her to the exit, shutting the door quickly before Michael’s laughter could be heard.
“You should have let her undress you.” He chortled, straightening his jacket. “I daresay that would have made the night more interesting. Oh Christ, what the hell is that?”
Maggie frowned, not understanding why he was scowling at her beloved dog. George unleashed another round of high-pitched barks. The animal’s little legs hopped off the ground as it made circles around the intruder.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “That’s George. I don’t think he likes you.”
Michael meandered back toward the center of the room, keeping a wary eye on the dachshund. “I think you’re mistaken, but that’s a long-haired rat.”
Maggie’s hand flew to her chest. “George is a king among princes.”
“George is a rat,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Maggie couldn’t take the barking anymore—nor Michael’s harsh words. She scooped up her dog, shushing him into an uneasy quiet. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen a dachshund before?”
Michael bent over and peered closer, grimacing at the oddly shaped animal. “I’ve seen them in pictures, which was bad enough. It’s… it’s…”
Maggie smiled broadly. “Lovely.” She kissed George’s smooth black head. “He’s lovely and perfect.”
“Your dog is missing legs. Do you know that?”
Maggie waved George’s front paws. “They’re here. They’re the perfect size for hunting.”
“Hunting?” Michael scoffed. “His body is too long.”
“It’s the perfect size for chasing badgers in their holes.”
Michael flinched as George let out a low, menacing snarl. “He doesn’t like me.”
“He is a perfect judge of character. And,” Maggie continued, giving the dog a quick squeeze, “George will be a champion sire and his children will demand a lot of money.”
Michael surveyed the animal more, no doubt searching for his potential greatness. He tried to raise a hand to pet it, but George’s growl forced it back down. “You’re going to breed this ill-tempered mongrel? You actually believe others will want something so… misshapen?”
Maggie regarded him stonily. “I hear women like you just fine. Anyway, for a man at the center of the ton , you know little about its goings-on, don’t you? The queen and Prince Albert just acquired a dachshund from the prince’s homeland. They’re mad for them over there, and they will soon be mad for them here. Everyone emulates the royal family.”
“If you say so,” Michael replied dismissively, reclaiming his space on the bed. He studied the board for a moment before snapping his fingers. “So, this is your little plan. This is how you think you’ll stay unmarried. You’re going to start a business, breeding these loud toys.”
“They’re hunters.”
He shrugged. “My father loves his hunting dogs, and I doubt he would look at these things twice. Sell them as lap dogs.”
His words stung more than Maggie was willing to admit. “Well, he’s not the only man in England. And I wouldn’t call it a business, more like a passion,” she said. “I love dogs, always have. And I like the idea of my dogs finding their perfect companions.”
Michael cocked his head, shooting her a lopsided smile. “You and I both know there is no such thing as the perfect companion. For our set, anyway.”
Maggie heard rancor in his voice, and it confused her.
No longer sensing Michael as a risk, George urged to be placed on the bed. He hopped in Michael’s lap, sniffing every inch he could. “Not when it comes to people, you’re right,” Maggie replied, “but I most assuredly believe that there’s a right dog for every person. And I intend to help others find it.”
Michael laughed, though it had nothing to do with what she had said. George was now standing on his little back legs with his paws on Michael’s rumbling chest. His tail wagged ecstatically as he licked Michael’s face. “Maybe you’re right,” Michael said, attempting to keep the dog at bay.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, sitting next to him. “He’s still young. He can get rather excited.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied dryly. “I’m quite used to this behavior from others.”
She rolled her eyes. “Naturally. Here, let me take him.”
“That might be a good idea—Ah, ouch!” Michael inhaled deeply through his teeth. In his overzealousness, George had accidentally knocked his head against the purple bruise covering Michael’s eye.
“I’m so sorry!” Maggie cried. “Down, George. Down. Go to your bed,” she ordered the dog, putting the chastened animal on the ground. She pointed to the corner where a blanket sat with a couple of plump blue satin pillows. “He’s still not completely trained.”
“It’s all right. No harm done,” Michael said easily. He took off his gloves and shoved them in his jacket pocket before wiping his hands on the tops of his thighs. Maggie couldn’t help but stare at them. They were large, so much bigger than she’d remembered—and covered in cuts and bruises.
Maggie knew she shouldn’t say anything. It wasn’t proper. But nothing about this day had been. “Michael,” she began tentatively, “what are you doing?”
He reminded her of a stone. He froze at her words, flicking a furtive glance at his knuckles. When he began to breathe again, she heard the tight, fast pulls of air, and they made her chest ache.
“Michael?”
“It’s nothing.”
Maggie reached out, surprising herself—surprising him. He flinched when she traced the cuts along his knuckles with the tips of her fingers. In so many instances throughout this night, Michael had reminded her of the boy he’d once been—his quick laugh, the taunting sparkle in his blue eyes, the easygoing expression he wore as a mask for his sadness and confusion—but this was different. These marks of anger and violence introduced her to a stranger.
“Whom did you fight?” she asked gently.
“No one. You don’t know him.”
Maggie chewed on the inside of her cheek. If the man wanted her to pull it out of him, she would. She picked up one of his hands, balancing it on top of her own, his fingers pointing toward her wrist. “Was it over money,” she asked, gathering her courage to add, “or a woman?”
“For Christ’s sake,” he growled, pushing her hand down so he sandwiched it against his thigh. “Don’t be dramatic. I was in a fight, but it wasn’t a fight .” He squinted at the ceiling as if looking for the words. “What I mean is it isn’t a fight as you know it. It wasn’t over something, I mean.”
Maggie couldn’t understand what he was trying to tell her or if he was being elusive on purpose. What she did know for certain was that he was uncomfortable, which meant she was on the right track.
She took her time, scrutinizing him, from his bruised hands to the bluish-green contusion surrounding his eye. There were other signs too, ones that shamed her because she’d been conversing with the man most of the night and hadn’t noticed them. But they’d been there, right in front of her—the way he’d grimaced when he sat on the bed, his limp when he’d carried her from the chapel, the small scratch at his temple that his brown curls mostly hid. However, those were only the negative signs. There were positive ones as well, from the way his suit jacket clung a little too snugly to his upper arms to be fashionable, or the way he navigated his body in space, graceful and determined, like each movement was premeditated to his advantage.
When the answer came to Maggie, it came all at once, slamming into her like a blunt force to the stomach. She grabbed Michael’s chin, urging him to meet her. “You’re a boxer?” she asked with frank astonishment.
His head dropped from her grasp, but not before she caught his sheepish smile. He pressed harder into the hand he still held prisoner on his thigh as if warning her not to flee from him. The thought had never crossed her mind.
“I’ve dabbled in it.”
“Dabbled?”
He bobbed his wide shoulders. “More than dabbled, then.”
“How? Why?” Maggie couldn’t envision the Lord Michael she’d grown up with—the beautiful, proud, arrogant boy—putting his toe on the line with common men, inviting them to bust his patrician nose and cut into his blue blood. In what world did that make sense?
“It started when I was younger,” he explained, using his thumb to draw little circles on the top of her hand. His touch was light, sinfully sweet, and it brought out goose pimples all over her body. Maggie didn’t know why she allowed him to do it—maybe because she wanted to believe that he didn’t even know he was doing it. What was the harm in that?
“I found I was good at it.” He grinned ruefully. “Or maybe I just had the right amount of anger. Anyway, a man named Tommy Jones saw me a little while back and agreed to help me train. I’ve been with him ever since.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Five years.”
“Five years!” Maggie gasped. On reflex, she tried to pull her hand away, but Michael’s grasp only strengthened. She thought it would frighten her, but it was the opposite. For a woman who was used to being alone—who reveled in her independence—his hold made her feel wanted .
“At first it was only something to do, a way to clear my mind and beat out my frustrations,” he continued calmly. “It’s only in the last few years that I’ve taken it seriously.”
“Do people know?”
“I’m not hiding it.”
“What about your father?”
His glower made her shiver. “He’s not particularly happy, and nor is my mother.”
“I would say so,” Maggie cried. “You’re his heir, his only son! You can’t gad about having men beat in your skull!”
True pride lit his countenance, and Maggie’s stomach lurched. There was the beautiful boy. “Not many get the chance. I’m awfully fast,” he said.
Finally, Maggie managed to win her hand away and settle it primly in her lap. “If you’re inviting me to come and witness it, you’ll be disappointed.”
Michael leaned back, playfully gifting her with a discerning eye. “You surprise me, lady. I thought for sure you would have jumped at the chance to watch someone make me bleed.”
Maggie laughed, dragging her legs up from the floor, hugging them to her chest. “You’re right. On second thought, I probably wouldn’t mind it so much.”
She liked the way his eyes flashed when she made him laugh, and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and over his necktie. She also liked that she hadn’t worried once about what she should say in his company. She just said what she felt like saying. Now, Maggie tended to say what was on her mind—however, she usually worried about the other person’s response. But not Michael’s. She had a feeling that he would accept anything that came from her lips, giving it the same respect he allowed his male friends.
Friends? Was that what they were now? The idea provoked something deep and odd within her. It was like trying to find the perfect word for something and only coming up with something that was close, but not exactly right.
But before she could find another word, Michael surprised her. He reached in between them and caught a few locks of her hair. With painstaking precision, he slid them off her face behind her ear.
Maggie’s laughter stuck in her throat.
Michael licked his lower lip, staring at the offending bit of hair, his brow puckered. “You used to have longer hair.”
Maggie blinked. He spoke softly and slowly, yet she felt like she was in the middle of a storm, being pushed this way and that. She longed to put her feet back on the ground but didn’t want to let go of her legs. They provided a shield that, for some reason, she thought she needed.
“It used to be curlier,” Michael continued before clearing his throat. Why did he look even more surprised than her by his action?
Instinctively, Maggie reached behind her ear, stroking the tendril he’d rearranged.
“It still is… when it’s wet,” she replied. “My mother let me cut some of it off because it gave me headaches. Have you met Lady Anna, the new Viscountess of Newton? I’d love to cut my hair as short as hers. It seems like it would be so freeing.”
“Don’t.”
She froze at his blunt words. “Why not?”
“Just don’t.”
Maggie yearned to pick a fight, yearned to tell him that he had no decision in the matter, but when she reached for anger, she couldn’t find any. The jibe stalled on her tongue. The fire inside of her had no oxygen. Michael was too close; his body, his presence, stifled it before it had a chance to grow.
So, she said the only words she could think of, the words that Society had bred into her from the time she could speak. “You should go.”
Maggie leaned away, but she wasn’t quick enough.
“Wait.” Michael swept a hand out and hooked the back of her neck, halting her retreat. The room fell back from them. They stared at one another, both more than a little shocked by his burst of emotion.
A boyish smile crept on Michael’s face. His forehead dipped, and he drew them together, so close that Maggie could see all the colors of his bruise, the greens and yellows that melded with the harsher jewel tones along the hollow of his eye. His palm was insistent yet gentle on her neck, warm, his expression even warmer. Maggie was a moth to a flame, attracted to the promise of his light.
And that was when the devastation hit her.
Just as Maggie knew that this man would always be beautiful, always be the rock that his friends broke themselves upon, the cover that they hid under, she also knew that he was the sad boy she’d always be in love with.
Sitting there with him, entranced by his body, his familiarity, Maggie attempted to keep the shame at bay. Because she prided herself on being different, and loving Michael made her like every other girl in the ton . Like them, she’d fallen under his spell from the very beginning. But unlike them, she would never wait around for him to hopefully direct his rays of light upon her. One didn’t need to read fairytales to know that men like him didn’t marry women like her. So, long ago, she’d decided to salvage her pride and reject him first.
Maggie knew firsthand the havoc that savage love could wreak, and she’d determined that she would guard against it—guard against him.
But how quickly all that self-care went to waste! The joke was on Maggie, because here she was in her room, on her bed, in the arms of the very man she’d sworn would never get the better of her.
And she was doing nothing to stop it. Because she wanted it. Wanted him. So badly. Just once. This one time. Because why not? She would never have a chance again. Nor would she want it.
When his hand tightened and he pulled her across the divide, Maggie obeyed willingly. She placed her hands on his thighs, curling her fingertips into the taut, rolling muscles. She melted in his embrace, molding herself to his torso, folding her body into the space he created, just for her.
Shyness overcame Maggie. When his nose grazed hers, she ducked her head, embarrassed by the intimacy. Michael followed. He nudged her to face him. Eye to eye they watched one another as he cradled her cheek with his other hand. She was entirely surrounded by him, contained by him, and lacked the power to leave or move forward. Maggie waited for him to kiss her, waited to know what it would taste like if Michael claimed her as he did the other girls that she’d secretly envied from across ballrooms and garden parties.
His breath mixed with hers. She opened her mouth to take in more, holding him inside her lungs, making him a part of her forever.
That fanciful thought made her smile. There was no forever with Michael. Only now.
“Maggie, I…”
“Yes?”
She could see tiny flecks of silver in his blue eyes, an uncharted land, a solar system for her discovery.
“Maggie…”
“Yes?”
His lips were on the precipice. One jump, one tiny step, was left.
“I…”
But one step proved to be too far.
Maggie didn’t know what the thought was, but she saw the change sweep over Michael’s face when he landed on her smile. Like a man waking from a dream, he blinked and slowly, so very slowly, dropped his hands from her body and created space, taking his warmth and her dignity with him.
“You’re… you’re right,” he said, sliding his gaze back to his lap. He played with the cuts on his knuckles, the ones she’d only caressed moments before. “I should go before your aunt comes.”
It was like being tossed out to sea. Maggie couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even turn her head to watch him go. It took many minutes before she could even move after he closed the door behind him.
Now Maggie was the stone. And she did what stones did best: she sank.