After the Kiss (23 page)

S
mytheton was waiting for Margaret at the base of the stairs.

Smytheton was waiting for Margaret at the base of the stairs.

“Allow me to convey my felicitations to you, my lady, on the occasion of your marriage,” he said stiffly.

“Thank you, Smytheton,” she said. She wondered if he knew it was the very first time she had been addressed so formally.

He reminded her, oddly enough, of what her father might have looked like if he’d lived. He’d been a soldier, too. Her Gran had told her that he had big, strong shoulders and a broad face. She had been only a baby when he’d died, but sometimes she thought she remembered his wintry blue eyes. Or maybe it was just from all of Gran’s stories.

Smytheton had the same light blue eyes, and a
shock of white hair that made him look altogether very distinguished. The perfect majordomo for an earl’s home.

A more proper accessory than she was, certainly.

She went to the table, picked up the valise.

“Where is Michael?” She revised the question at Smytheton’s frown. “Where is his lordship?”

“I believe, my lady, that he is in his library,” he said, bowing.

Not the same the respectful gesture he showed to Michael. This unctuous effort seemed to say that he knew well enough where she had come from and that she did not quite deserve his reverence.

If he had been disposed to listen, she would have gladly informed him that she disliked the trappings of rank. It was perfectly acceptable to her if he never bowed again. However, that would have made him frown once more, and she had had quite enough of Smytheton’s glowers.

She knocked on the door, pushing it open at the sound of Michael’s voice.

He sat in the middle of his library at his desk. A majestic setting for a man of similar appearance.

She smiled, feeling unaccountably shy.

“Good morning,” she said.

He smiled at her. “I was wondering when you would awake.”

“I’m sleepy all the time lately. But I understand that it is normal when one is carrying a child.”

She walked toward him. “Are you happy about becoming a father, Michael?” A question she’d never asked.

“I am,” he said. “But even more so about becoming a husband.”

Her smile was born deep inside her where secret wishes were stored.

“Are you preparing to leave me again?” he asked, eyeing the valise in her hands cautiously.

She placed the bag on the desk. “I’ve brought you the
Journals
,” she said, taking them from the case. “Where else to keep books but in a library?”

“I never asked where you got them,” he said, his attention directed at her, not the
Journals
.

“I found them in the strongbox. It was the only item I was able to save the night the bookshop burned down.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, standing. He pulled the chair in front of his desk to the side of it.

“There isn’t that much to tell,” she said, sitting beside him. She related the story of that night, and when she was finished, his scowl was even deeper.

“Did no one ever determine how the fire started?”

She shook her head.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said. He stood, walked to her side and scooped her up in his arms. He returned to his own chair, still holding her.

“Don’t frown so, Michael. I did survive it,” she said, looping her arms around his neck. “It’s all right,” she murmured, laying her head against his chest, and heard the booming sound of his heart.

“I’ve never sat on someone’s lap before,” she admitted a few moments later. “It is a thoroughly pleasant experience.”

He smiled, brushed a kiss over her forehead. “I was just thinking that my work cannot compete with such temptation.”

“Could I truly tempt you from your work?” An intriguing notion.

“At this moment?” He smiled and shook his head.

“I need to get the harvest figures to my solicitor if he is to sell my properties.”

“Is it a very grand sacrifice?” How could he do it? How could he sell his birthright and seem remarkably calm about it?

“Not a sacrifice at all,” he said with equanimity. “We shall have to practice some economies, but we’ll still have candles and coal.”

“Penelope used to say that I could make a meal out of a pea,” she offered.

He laughed, the sound echoing in the large room. “There isn’t a need for such drastic measures,” he said. “Except, perhaps, as an example. I do not think my mother or sisters are going to take the news at all well.”

“That we have married, or that I am not an heiress?”

“Perhaps both,” he said. She smiled at him, grateful for his honesty. “In the end they will have no choice in the matter.”

“Do you think it’s truly that simple? Your mother makes me think it will not be. Besides you cannot simply decree that people act in a certain way and expect them to obey your command.”

“Can’t I?” His smile was altogether too charming.

“The only place people are orderly and silent is in a graveyard, Michael.”

He smiled, amused. “
Orderly
and
silent
are not words I would use to describe my family,” he said. “But on this, they will have no discussion. It is done, Margaret. Do you worry that it might be undone?”

She sighed. “I know nothing of being a countess, Michael. I am frankly terrified to attempt it.”

“Do you not remember the examples of nobility I recited to you, Margaret? There are countless others.

The
ton
is simply a collection of people, all with their own eccentricities.”

“So if I stumble over someone’s toes, or drop my fork, or spill my wine, I will just be seen as endearingly clumsy?”

“No,” he corrected. “You will be the endearingly clumsy The Right Honorable Countess of Montraine. Therein lies the difference.”

“Then I should consider myself fortunate that I chose an earl, shouldn’t I?”

“I have a feeling you’d be happier if I were a mere knight.”

“Or a tradesman, perhaps,” she offered.

“Being in society is not that onerous, Margaret,” he said with a smile. “As long as certain rules are obeyed, you should have no difficulties.”

She smiled at him, wondering if she should mention that her Gran had educated her in propriety. Perhaps he did not remember, since they had broken so many rules together. “Such as?”

There was silence for a moment, as if he chose the words to say.

“You are never to be in the company of a man,” Michael began. “Unless, of course, I approve of him. Or to speak to those men who seem too coarse or have a roving eye. Bachelors are to be avoided, as well as recent widowers.”

Margaret didn’t mention that she had never heard of such dictates. True, an unmarried woman or one beneath the age of thirty was limited severely in her contacts with the opposite sex. But she had never heard of a wife being so constrained. However, she said nothing, simply looked at him with what she hoped was an earnest expression. It would not be wise to reveal her amusement.

“When we travel together, you will procede me into the carriage, while I leave it first.”

A rule she knew well enough.

“While traveling, I will sit with my back to the horses or sit at your side. But again, if you are ever in a closed carriage with another man, he is never to sit beside you.”

She only nodded, fascinated. Not with the rules he intoned, but with him. She had never considered him proprietary. But it seemed he was.

“In public you will always walk close to the wall of building or a structure, so that I may protect you from ruffians.”

“It would be easy enough to formulate a set of restrictions for you, also, Montraine,” she said.

“Did you know that you call me that only when you’re annoyed?” He lowered his head, kissed her gently.

“Not fair,” she murmured against his lips. “I forget everything I’m thinking when you kiss me.”

“Nice to know it’s not simply one sided,” he whispered, kissing the edge of her ear.

She smiled, pushed him gently away.

“You are never to smile at another woman the way you do me,” she said, tapping a finger on his chest as if to accentuate each point. “Nor are you ever to touch another woman. Or remove her gloves or her shawl, or stare at her bodice.”

He leaned back in the chair, obviously amused.

“When you are in a carriage with another woman, you must not stare at her intently. Or talk to her in that voice of yours, one that promises almost wickedness.”

“Almost wickedness?” he asked, grinning at her.

“Sometimes I think you are too alluring, Montraine.”

“I shall immediately transform myself into a troll,” he promised.

“Please do not,” she teased. “I will endeavor to tolerate it.”

For several long moments they looked at each other. A sharing of selves not unlike their loving the night before.

He smiled, a slow dawning smile that curled her toes.

“If I were you,” he said, “I would not worry about being a countess.”

“I have no idea what countesses do,” she confessed, sighing.

“They spend money,” he said. “That has been my experience. But with our newly instituted economies, that proves unwise.”

“I have learned how to thatch a roof,” she offered. “And how to repair the chinks in the mortar between bricks.”

“A valuable wife,” he said, obviously amused. “We shall always have a roof over our heads.”

“I do not suppose there are any chickens about that I might feed? Or eggs to gather?”

“Nary a one.”

“I am quite good at milking.”

“Regrettably,” he said, “there is not one cow in the house. You could always visit the modiste for the final fitting of your dresses,” he suggested.

“A countess-like occupation?”

His nod confirmed it.

“I shall ask Molly to go. And frankly, I do not care whether or not the dresses fit. I never wish to see the woman again.”

“You have entirely too many sensibilities,” he said, grinning. “You cannot be a truly arrogant countess unless you’ve mastered the insouciance necessary to carry it off. You must simply appear as though scandal has no effect on you. Besides, didn’t you mention that it makes no difference what your feelings are in the matter?”

“That was when I was attempting to make a sale,” she said. “I find it’s somewhat different being a customer. Besides, that attitude was ascribed to by the Margaret who was willing to be your mistress for a week. This woman has lapsed back into propriety.”

“Yet, I do not doubt you can be coaxed from it,” he said, nearly leering at her.

She began to laugh, willing to admit he was indeed correct.

She stood, kissed him lightly. As she left the room, she retrieved a book from the shelf. A treatise on the dignity of man. It would make for heavy reading, but it was something that would occupy her mind.

Until, of course, he could join her again.

Michael watched as she left the room, wondering if it was altogether wise to be so enchanted by a wife. But then, he had little choice.

The crop figures completed, he made a package to send to his solicitor.

He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the library. It was a pity that he hadn’t the money to begin renovations. The third floor now had rooms only for Smytheton and Molly. They needed a nursery, perhaps another room for a nurserymaid.

It might be more feasible simply to sell this house and find something larger in a less fashionable loca
tion. But he would not, he vowed, occupy the family home as long as his female relatives were in residence.

His fingers trailed over the edge of one of the books. But for the
Journals
, he and Margaret would never have met. She would have remained in her cottage and he would be married to Jane Hestly. But for a moment upon a terrace he would not be sitting here now. But for that single space of seconds when he’d turned, hearing the brush of her shoe against the bricks, he might have missed her entirely.

Perhaps there was something to Fate, after all.

He smiled at himself again, opened the cover of the first
Journal
.

Michael smiled and turned the first page. He was amazed at the breadth of topics addressed. But Augustin X’s greatest fascination seemed to be all the various women he’d bedded in the course of his journeys.

As he began to read, Michael noticed the annotations beside each chapter heading. Babby’s volume had been distinguished with the same marks.

It was second nature to jot down comments that interested him while reading, or to make notes that he could pursue at a later time. Michael made a listing of the marks as he continued to read, but the sheer eroticism of Augustin X’s tale diffused his interest in the marginalia.

An hour later, he sat back in his chair, realizing that it had not been the wisest thing to read this book. It was one thing to have an inkling of the man’s licentious life, quite another to read each salacious detail. To say that the Augustin X had a way with words was an understatement. Either he had an incredibly rich imagination, or the man had been able to hold sway in the beds of more than a few supremely accomplished women.

There was carnality in abundance, written in such precise and unremitting detail that Michael did not doubt the skill of the writer or the lover. Yet reading the
Journals
had left Michael feeling oddly empty. There was more to passion than what Augustin had described.

Even as a stranger, Margaret had made him laugh, had incited his curiosity. He had, oddly enough, liked her from the first.

His attention was captured by one of the paintings. The woman lay on her back, her hands clenched in the sheets beside her. There was such an expression of delight on her face that he was immediately intrigued. Her lover was intent on bringing her to pleasure with his mouth.

He smiled, shut the
Journal
, and went in search of his wife.