Chapter Thirteen
M ichael didn’t know what he’d done, but clearly it had been wrong.
He’d planned on canceling his weekend trip to Lord Baxter’s; however, once he heard Maggie would be joining the party, the minutes couldn’t have passed quickly enough until he was sharing the same room with her. But if he’d been expecting a warm welcome, he was disappointed.
Because the woman barely looked his way—barely acknowledged his presence. At first, Michael had tried to console himself, knowing that Maggie wouldn’t act too familiar in front of the other guests; however, a little bit of familiarity wouldn’t have been improper. She was acting like she could hardly remember his name when she’d been breathing it into his mouth only days before.
Had he been too aggressive after the fight? Too brazen with his need? He’d warned her; however, even Michael had to admit that no amount of warning could have prepared her for the fire that erupted when they’d come together. Even he had left the night amazed.
But not scared. If anything, he wanted to experience it again and again. Could he have frightened her? Maggie wasn’t an ordinary woman; she didn’t startle easily. He couldn’t understand her coldness, nor could he abide it. With every blank stare, every span of space she kept between them, Michael found himself growing more and more confused.
There was a time and place for games at every country house party, but this wasn’t it.
By the second day, when the guests were lounging on the great lawn past the gardens, enjoying a picnic and tea, Michael’s patience had reached its end.
“It’s such a lovely day. How about a game?” Lady Anne Baxter asked, brushing the biscuit crumbs from her hand. Lady Everly’s sister-in-law was a round woman with a pleasing face whose entire mission in life appeared to be keeping everyone moving. She’d been married to Lord Baxter for five years, and Michael had heard rumblings of the couple’s disappointment in their failure to produce children. He wasn’t one to project onto others, though he could sense a nervous anticipation in the lady. She was always flitting about, never staying still. Michael recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one. He too had given up staying still years ago. Staying still gave the rolling, unmanageable thoughts a chance to present themselves and spread like a cancer in his consciousness. It was always best to keep busy.
Perhaps that was why he was the first of the group to stand along with their hostess and welcome an activity to pass the time when all the others avoided the comment, averting their eyes to their cups. It was kindness, but also an act of self-preservation.
“What do you suggest, lady?” Michael asked. “Croquet? Or maybe cricket?”
“Oh yes! What a wonderful idea!” Lady Baxter exclaimed, reaching down to tug her husband’s arm until he stood with them. “I think we have a few accomplished cricket players in our midst. I confess, I am not much a sportsman; however, I am more than open to advice.”
Her eyes landed on Lady Everly, who, after releasing a long, drawn-out sigh, proceeded to place her teacup on the blanket and find her feet. “I suppose we could put a game together,” she said begrudgingly. The rest of her sentence faded into the breeze, though Michael thought he heard her gripe, “…although I was relaxing…”
The hostess focused her attention on the rest of the group. “Lady Maggie? You are also an accomplished player, is that right?”
Maggie smiled, and the effortless way it came to her face stabbed Michael in the center of his chest. Her smiles had been ready enough over the party, just not for his benefit. “I would not call myself accomplished,” she said, “though I do play. I would be happy to join you.”
“Wonderful. That’s the spirit,” Lady Baxter crowed, placing her hands on her hips. She studied the rest of the lazing crowd. “Now… who’s next?
*
It took an effort, but Lady Baxter managed to wrangle fourteen people onto the makeshift pitch—everyone except Aunt Alice, who had only laughed and gone back to enjoying her strawberries and cream when Lady Baxter invited her to join in.
She divided the group in no particular order, though Michael noticed that she was on the same side as all the females who were members of the London Ladies Cricket Club. Though it was only meant as an afternoon amusement, Lady Baxter clearly wanted to win, and she must have surmised that her best chance of doing that included Lady Everly, Lady Ella, and Maggie.
Maggie and her teammates opted to take the field first and did a respectable job holding Michael’s side to thirty runs before getting their three wickets. It helped that four women on Michael’s team had never held a cricket bat in their lives. Instead of going easy on the women, Lady Everly bowled out two of them in quick succession.
Michael tried to take the game in stride. He even attempted to laugh off the lack of balance in the teams, but when it was his turn in the field, he asked to bowl. Competitiveness ran deep. He might lose the match, but he’d be damned if he didn’t take a few wickets of his own, if only to wipe the haughty look off Lady Everly’s face. That woman was a menace at the best of times.
Michael assumed it would be easy. Those ladies might play cricket regularly, but how good could they truly be against someone like him?
Unfortunately, he received his answer readily enough. Even with his stellar bowling and Lord Baxter and Lord Rutherford backing him up in the field, Lady Ella put in for fifteen runs. The lady’s soft-spoken mien belied her tenacious manner, and when she swung the bat, she swung it like her life depended on it.
Naturally, Jo was no different. However, the biggest surprise was Lady Baxter, who had obviously been playing a joke on all of them. Not much of a sportsman? Ha! Her first turn at the crease resulted in a six when the ball sailed over everyone’s heads past the line of hedges that marked the edge of the field.
At Michael’s frown of incredulity, she merely shrugged her shoulders with a twinkle in her eye and said, “Did I fail to mention I used to play in the Singles vs. Matrons game? But I don’t think I was ever this good back then!”
Lady Everly snorted. “You were better ! That ball barely made it over the hedges. Don’t tell me you’re getting old, Anne!”
Lady Baxter stuck her tongue out at her sister-in-law, positioning herself for another go. Sure enough, when Michael bowled the next ball, she sent it even farther. She didn’t even bother to watch it land, but rather raised an eyebrow at Jo. “Is that good enough for you?”
Jo finally smiled in appreciation. “Yes, darling, that’s rather good. But perhaps that’s enough. We don’t want to embarrass the other side too badly.”
The hostess in Anne appeared to win out over the blatant competitor. “Yes, that’s very sensible of you.”
She popped up the next ball, and even though Michael’s side cheered for the small victory, he was convinced that she’d dismissed herself on purpose. That stung his pride even more.
But that flurry of indignance was short-lived when Anne handed the bat to Maggie. Michael noticed she was back to her old self. She hadn’t worn any ridiculously feminine outfits during the weekend. Her long brown hair was fashioned in an efficient bun at the back of her head, with no feathers or other gargantuan embellishments lining her plain bonnet. Though he could admit he’d grown to appreciate the loud yellow dress she had debuted at his fight, her muted, carefree appearance at the party relaxed Michael. It was like seeing an old friend.
Only, the feeling wasn’t mutual. Maggie took her place in front of the stumps, raising the bat high, her grip sure and strong. Michael admired the leanness of her figure, remembering the way she’d held him in those long arms with the same self-possession and composure, the same self-confident intensity.
But the difference was in the eyes. A good cricket player never took his eyes off the ball, so Michael didn’t begrudge her gaze as it stayed far from his; however, Maggie’s darted all over the place as she waited for him to bowl. First it landed on Lady Ella, and then Lady Everly, and then back again. A secret conversation seemed to be taking place between the trio, and the longer it went on, the longer Maggie’s face became.
“Just get on with it, Michael!” Lord Baxter barked from the field, a harsh note of resignation in his tone. “If they’re going to beat us, let’s get it over with so I can go inside. It’s bloody hot and I need a drink.”
Michael nodded and went into his run-up. As he released the ball, he readied himself for the inevitable strike from the bat, but Maggie’s swing was so wild and clumsy, she missed the ball entirely and almost landed on her behind in the grass. Michael’s ball just missed the stumps, almost gaining the last wicket.
“That’s all right, dear,” Lady Everly called to her friend. “That was actually so much better than the swings in our last match.”
Better ? That swing? A blind man would have had a better chance of making contact. That swing was ridiculous! Remembering Lady Baxter’s farcical popout, Michael’s ego received another strong slap.
“Don’t play with me,” he growled, taking a few frustrated strides toward her. “I know that’s not how you swing the bat.”
“I’m not playing!” Maggie hollered back. “And you’ve never seen me play, so don’t pretend that you know anything about my swing!”
Michael couldn’t understand the vitriol in her voice. Why was she so upset at him? What had he done to deserve this?
He was taken aback by the vulnerability in his own response. “Just play straight. Play honest. We can handle it—”
Lord Rutherford appeared in the corner of his vision as the sanctimonious man ran toward the pitch. “Go easy on her, Burlington. There’s no reason to be so rude. She’s a woman. Why should you expect her to be any better than this?” He turned away from Michael, addressing Maggie with a patronizing smile. “I find you charming, my lady. In fact, I would love to offer you some pointers after the game, if you’re up for it.”
“You’re too kind,” Jo called out, giving Maggie yet another inexplicable look.
Michael stepped toward Rutherford. The men played nice amongst others, but there was no love lost between them. Michael couldn’t stand the smarmy fellow who traded gossip like currency and took every married woman he could find to his bed. “Get back in the field, Rutherford,” he seethed. “This doesn’t concern you. I’m talking to my—”
He stopped short. Rutherford’s brow pinched together. “Talking to your what?”
Michael shook his head. What the hell had he meant to say? His Maggie? His woman? His lover? Because none of those descriptions were technically true, and yet they still gnawed at him, wanting to come out.
“Maggie,” he replied evenly. “I was talking to Maggie. Not you.”
Rutherford laughed in his face. “So touchy, Burlington. We aren’t children anymore. No need to pick a fight at the first chance. Girls are shite at cricket, you know that. Well”—he sniffed, lifting his eyebrows to the opposite team—“ normal ones are, at least. I was just trying to help the pathetic woman.”
Michael saw red, but before he could do anything about it, Rutherford was already jogging to his spot near Lord Baxter.
“But that’s not her . I don’t know who that is but it’s not her ,” Michael muttered to himself, squaring toward Maggie once more. He held up the ball, showing her that he was about to bowl.
A haunted look clouded her face. Again, Maggie looked at Lady Everly—almost beseechingly—but the lady only returned a steady nod.
“I’m ready,” Maggie announced weakly.
Michael began his run-up. He put more spin on the ball, anxious to see what she could do with it. But the woman acted like she’d never encountered a spinner before and hacked at it like she was scything wheat. She did manage to make contact, though. The ball skidded, petering out in the grass by Lord Baxter, who knocked the bails off the stumps before Maggie could reach it. The woman looked relieved as she handed the bat off to the next batter, taking a seat beside the others on the ground.
Completely bewildered, Michael watched as Lady Ella walked over to her, patting her shoulder in a way that reminded him of someone being congratulated rather than consoled.
He couldn’t process any of it, but there was one thing he was sure of—something was definitely going on between Maggie and her friends.
And Michael vowed that before the end of the party, he would find out what it was.
*
Unfortunately, Michael’s questions had to wait. The minute the cricket game finished, the party hurried inside to dress for dinner. Soon after, Michael joined the other man for a quick drink as they waited for the women to join them downstairs. The men were nursing their intolerable loss, while Michael was nursing his increasing confusion.
And it only got worse as the night went on.
By the time dinner was over—and Maggie had successfully avoided looking at him for all six courses—he’d had too much to drink, and his self-control was nearing its limit.
The party retired to the drawing room, where, thankfully, music was ignored in favor of more games. Lady Baxter’s competitive nature had still not reached its capacity, and she encouraged pairs of four to break off for whist. Michael’s prayers were answered when he noticed Maggie refrain from joining Aunt Alice at a table. It was his opportunity to pounce.
As he came upon her, Michael noticed she wasn’t surprised by his audacity, but she wasn’t overjoyed by it either. With self-restraint in abeyance, he launched right in.
“Why did you do that?”
Maggie swiveled her head to all the guests closest to them.
“Don’t worry,” Michael went on. “No one can hear us.”
She returned a disbelieving frown. “Do you know how loud you’re speaking right now?
Was he speaking loudly? Michael couldn’t tell because of all the thoughts screaming in his head. Taking her hint, he tempered his voice. “Why?” he asked again.
“Why what?”
“Why”—he gritted his teeth—“did you play like that? So poorly?”
She had the nerve to act hurt! “That’s not very kind to say to a lady.”
Maggie placed her hand against her chest in feigned shock and started to walk away, but Michael would not be dismissed that easily. He leaned into her ear. “You’re better than that. You’ve been better than that since you were ten.”
Maggie made an unladylike sound, rolling her eyes. “Hardly. And I’m surprised you don’t like it. Don’t all men want a woman who constantly needs help so they can instruct her? Rutherford seemed to enjoy it. What did he call me… pathetic?”
Michael studied her. She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice, and she chewed on her lower lip as if ashamed the words had come out of her mouth.
“Rutherford’s an arse.”
She bobbed her pretty shoulders. “Still. He proved a point.”
A cheer came up from one of the tables as a game ended. Seizing the advantage, Michael guided Maggie to the corner of the room and lowered his head until she was forced to look at him. “Is that what the afternoon was about?” he asked. “Am I nothing but a game to you? If that’s the case, you’re playing me all wrong, my dear. Since when do you think I want a helpless woman?”
Maggie continued to gnaw her lip, and Michael worried she might break the precious skin.
“I thought, by now, you knew me better than that, Maggie. I thought you knew me .”
“I don’t know what I know anymore.”
“You know I want you. Do I have to be more direct?” he said. “I want you. And not some silly creature you and your friends have concocted.”
Her eyes found his, and Michael’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Oh, yes,” he went on. “I know that Ella and Jo are up to something. I just don’t know how you’re involved.”
“Just leave it be. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I think it does. And I want you to tell me.”
Maggie matched his intensity, and when she sighed, the anxiety seemed to be released from her body. Michael was ready for a confession, but it didn’t come. “I don’t think we should spend any more time together, my lord.”
“ My lord? What—”
“You have your boxing, and I have my life and my friends and my dog to get back to. This whole situation has been distracting.”
“You’re damn right it’s been distracting,” Michael growled. “But that doesn’t mean it’s been wrong. It’s been more right than anything I’ve ever experienced before.”
Maggie grew increasingly agitated. She continued to glance over his shoulder. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“Please don’t do this. You don’t understand—”
“Then make me understand!”
Maggie expression was racked with despair. “I can’t. It’s out of control. I don’t know how—”
“Wo-ho, what’s all this?” Rutherford announced gleefully, causing the entire room to fall silent.
Knowing who the bastard was directing his question to, Michael had no choice but to back away from Maggie. He could feel a crowd closing in. A hand smacked him on the shoulder, and even though his bruises were still fresh and tender, Michael did not flinch.
“Don’t be such a sore loser, Burlington. It was only a game,” Rutherford said, coming up beside him. “You’re caging the poor woman. Besides, she’s hardly the one to take your frustrations out on. She didn’t account for any runs, isn’t that right, Piggy Peggy?”
Spit flew from his mouth as he punched out the words, and Maggie flinched.
Michael turned around slowly. “Don’t call her that,” he stated icily, but Rutherford merely grinned. He was the type of man who was accepted and invited to everything, though no one could ever explain why. Loud-mouthed and unctuous, he never brought wit or anything new to a conversation. But his title and good looks afforded him a place in the circle. Most of Michael’s friends, like Lord Baxter, considered him harmless because they had the distinct advantage of being equals and able to fight back against his bigoted tyranny. Women of any kind were never that lucky.
Rutherford’s handsome face folded into a sneer. “Oh, relax, Burlington. Little Piggy Peggy knows I’m only teasing. We’re old friends.”
Michael lifted his chin and stared hard at the man from his elevated perch. Rutherford wasn’t short, but he only came to Michael’s nose. “You’re not her friend.”
Titters of polite laughter sprang up sporadically around them. It was nervous laughter, meant to deflate an awkward situation, and ordinarily, Michael would have heeded them and moved on. However, at this point, he was more than slightly drunk and not in the mood for diplomacy. He closed his hand into a fist at his side, and it felt so good . Like putting on a perfectly tailored jacket.
“Not her friend?” Rutherford chortled along with the others. “I’ve known Maggie since we were babies. Isn’t that right?” he asked, searching for Maggie over Michael’s shoulder. “In fact, I was there the day that you came up with the nickname. As I remember, Maggie had decided she would try her hand at riding a pig. She wanted to impress us with her skills. Didn’t work out for her, of course, but it was a mighty try.”
Michael’s scowl deepened. Had Rutherford been there that day? He couldn’t recall. But there was something he did remember. “Maggie didn’t try to impress you. You”—he clenched his jaw—“ we dared her to do it.”
Rutherford blinked in confusion. From the corner of his eye, Michael watched Lady Everly draw Maggie out from the corner. Together they left the crowd, seemingly bored by the turn of conversation.
If only Michael could let it go so easily. His resistance was partly due to the role he’d played in that juvenile nickname, but also over Rutherford’s insistent familiarity with Maggie. How dare he think he could speak to her, let alone use that abominable name? How dare he even look at Maggie when she was his?
Michael’s chest swelled at the realization. Yes, Maggie was his. And her name would never come out of Rutherford’s fucking mouth again.
“I’m afraid your recollection is faulty, my dear man,” Rutherford continued, encouraged by the crowd’s rapt attention. “We didn’t goad her into anything. One minute we were all talking about the latest scandal and the next she was flailing about on the back of an old sow. It was… well, it was a sight.” He cocked his head at Michael, his eyes gleaming. “Perhaps you have a bit of selective memory because of the scandal we were discussing. Or maybe it’s all that boxing. Can’t be good for the head. You know, you cost me a substantial chunk of money with that lucky fight of yours against O’Shaughnessy. Shame, really. And for what? A little fleeting glory? It’s a poor substitute for a working brain.”
This was why Michael never drank too much. It slowed his reflexes, and every fighter knew that he was complete shit without them. He should have seen the trap Rutherford was setting, but he let himself get drawn in. “What the hell are you going on about? That was years ago. How could anyone possibly remember what we were discussing? What scandal?”
Michael recognized his error the moment the words left his mouth. Rutherford was like a fighter, weaving and moving, taking punch after punch, just waiting for the right opening. He’d found it.
His smile widened, showcasing two absurdly crooked front teeth. He closed his mouth when he noticed Michael staring at them. “Your father, of course. That’s what everyone always talked about back then. Do you truly not remember? What were we, twelve? Danbury was filling us all in on what the papers had printed that day. Something about a club—the Dark Angel, I think it was named—that had been raided by a bunch of Bow Street Runners…”
Panic threatened to strangle Michael as that day came rushing back. It was odd how he’d forgotten that shameful conversation. Maggie’s outrageous behavior had eclipsed everything else.
Rutherford became buoyed by Michael’s silence and looked around at his congregants while he continued. “You see, we were all so enamored by the gossip at the time because this was the first instance of hearing about these miscreants. It wasn’t a club, it was a molly house where men cavorted and dressed up as women, even wearing face paint like French prostitutes.” He laughed, holding his stomach as if the act hurt him. “I won’t even tell you what else they did there, for the women’s sake, naturally.”
Lord Baxter stepped in, unease evident in his expression. “That’s enough, Rutherford. This isn’t decent conversation.”
“Oh, I know that!” Rutherford chuckled. “It wasn’t decent for us children either, but I’m glad Danbury told us. It’s important to know what filth is out here, especially so close by.” He lifted an eyebrow at Michael. “Isn’t that right, Burlington? Some of it’s rather too close by, don’t you agree? Or maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s true that the apple doesn’t fall from the tree?”
Michael squeezed his fists so tight he was certain the bone would break through the thin, scarred skin. A war raged inside. He wanted nothing more than to break every crooked tooth inside Rutherford’s mouth, but he also didn’t want to lose control. Because that was where men like Rutherford drew their power. These men had no skills, no intellect, no curiosity in the world beyond their immediate sphere, and their goals were to strip it from everyone around them. Michael hadn’t understood that when he was young, which was why he’d swung his hands so readily. But he was different now. A man. And he could bear it; he could take everything these bastards threw at him and never fall. He would toe the line again and again until they tired themselves out with their hate and fear. Then he would watch them drop, and Michael would be the last one standing.
He returned a bored smirk. “As you say.”
Baxter continued to play the peacemaker. He gave Michael an apologetic grimace before smacking Rutherford on the shoulder again. “You’re ruining the party, my good man,” he said. “No one wants to hear all this old news. Come back to the table. Let’s see if we take the next game of whist from the ladies. We wouldn’t want them to think that their men are completely hopeless today.”
That seemed to do the trick. Rutherford relented, disappointed in Michael’s bland response. He allowed the earl to string him back to the cards. Nevertheless, just as he was about to take a seat, he spun around to Michael once more. “But doesn’t everyone want to know who was at the club that day?” he asked. “So many were, but not everyone was taken into custody. A select few had the money and influence to keep themselves out of handcuffs and the gossip columns. But I am privy to the information, so let me tell you—”
“Oh, good Lord!”
Glass smashed to the floor, tearing Rutherford’s audience from his grasp. All eyes shot to the opposite side of the drawing room, where Maggie posed in shock with red punch splashed all over her dress.
Lady Everly sprang to action, grabbing a clean linen from the sideboard and rushing it to her friend with Lady Alice not far behind. “My dear Maggie, what happened? Are you all right?”
Maggie tossed her arms up at her sides as liquid dripped from her body. “I’m so… so… clumsy!” she cried, walking to the center of the space, granting everyone a full view of her mess. Michael couldn’t comprehend how she’d managed to get the punch in her hair, but there it was, sprinkling from the copper curls buttressing her rueful face.
“I’m so sorry. Look at your floor!” she wailed. For all her histrionics, Maggie’s eyes stayed clear, without a tear in sight. “I hope I didn’t ruin the night with my blundering!”
Jo hugged her shoulders, being careful not to get any of the punch on her pale-mint gown. “Not at all, dear. How could you think that? Let’s just go get you cleaned up, shall we?” Maggie resisted at first, fixing a forlorn countenance on the spill, but eventually followed Lady Everly out of the room.
Michael started to trail behind her. He wanted to ask her what all that was about. Maggie was the least clumsy woman he knew. But Lady Alice put an insistent hand on his shoulder as he passed her.
“Give her time, dear boy,” she said with unexpected familiarity. “She likes her space.”
Michael nodded and held his ground. Maggie had appeared visibly distraught. The day had been long, and he had approached her in an ungentlemanly manner. And he didn’t even want to mention the uncouth argument Rutherford had pulled him into…
Reluctantly, Michael returned to the guests. He readied himself for more of Rutherford’s attacks until he noticed that everyone had gone back to playing cards and milling about the room. His altercation with Rutherford had been completely forgotten—or, at least, dismissed.
These people were fickle, Michael thought angrily. Even if their capriciousness worked to his advantage, he still didn’t want to spend another second in that room. There was no reason anyway, with Maggie no longer there.
He was about to leave when he heard a snicker.
“Piggy Peggy strikes again,” Rutherford remarked to a low buzz of cackles. “Why am I never surprised with that woman? She’s always been a catastrophe.”
Michael froze—and then the floor fell out from under his feet.
All at once, he was like a lonely spectator in a theater observing a series of vignettes flashing before his eyes. A picture of Maggie as a child covered in mud looking at him with sympathy, as if she couldn’t care less about what she’d done. A new picture of Maggie, stained in pale red liquid, mirroring that same expression—always in his direction. As everyone had stared at her, her only focus had been him. Then and now.
Michael shook the pictures from his head. It couldn’t be. Could it? Maggie couldn’t have done it… for him?
Heat climbed up his body, spurring him on. Coming to his senses, Michael headed for the exit, leaving the gossip and the titters behind. Beyond a doubt, he knew that Maggie didn’t care about it anyway. Vengeance was unnecessary because, he now realized, she’d always wanted the laughs and nasty comments.
They’d been her gift to him.
But something nagged at him before he could completely leave the drawing room. Just as Maggie didn’t ask for revenge, Michael hadn’t asked for her to humiliate herself for him. He would give her this gift anyway because he enjoyed revenge. He never cared how it got there—hot or cold—as long as it was served in the end.
He set Rutherford in his sights. Michael’s feet did not falter as he came for the man, who made the stupid decision to step forward in what Michael could only surmise was encouragement.
Michael’s fist flew through the air so fast that he heard a whistling sound. And then he heard the delicious crack of bones as he connected with Rutherford’s jaw.
The man hit the ground with a disappointing thud. Michael would have appreciated more flailing, more drama. He was certain there were gasps and shrieks, tumbled wine glasses and scattered playing cards; however, Michael was deaf and blind to them all.
He bent over Rutherford’s body, picking him up by the collar. “I warned you not to say her name again,” he rasped menacingly. Rutherford’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. Michael doubted he could hear him, but that didn’t matter. He needed to say the words. He needed the room to be his witness. “I hope you learned your lesson, because this was the easy one. Speak of her again and you’ll wish you’d never been born.”