The Marquis' Kiss (The Marvelous Munroes Book 3) Read online

  He smiled as well, lighting the iron eyes with something approaching warmth. “Lord DeGuis is going to help me redraft the bill.” He paused before adding, “If you have other points, perhaps I should hear them.”

  He wasn’t ready to ask her advice on the rewording, but she recognized the effort he was making. “Whenever you’re ready, Lord Darton, I’d be happy to discuss the matter.”

  She was equally happy to discuss matters with Thomas as she tried to understand him better. She had wondered, for instance, whether he overlooked his faith, mechanically attending church like so many others of their generation. She found that, like her, he listened intently to the sermon and considered it carefully afterward. They had discussed the sermon together the last couple of Sundays and, again, while they could not agree on every point, they could agree to disagree peacefully, and both seemed inspired by the debate.

  That they were both bruising riders she already knew, but she also found they both enjoyed swift carriage rides and quiet walks along the lake shore, rowing across the still waters, and staring into the flames of a warm fire. He preferred the more melancholy of Shakespeare’s plays like Hamlet and Richard III; she preferred more active ones with humor like The Tempest and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Still, they both agreed that the Bard’s work was powerful and timeless. All in all, she had every hope that indeed Thomas would make an excellent companion in life. It remained to be seen whether he would make an excellent husband.

  She still could not understand his reluctance to kiss her. She had gone over the possible reasons time and again in her mind, but nothing made sense.

  It could not be propriety, for he was willing to hold her close and kiss her hand. It could not be that he found her undesirable; she had seen the passion flame in his eyes and felt the answering heat in her own body.

  For the same reason, it could not be that he was cold. Certainly his entire family was reserved. She had come to realize Catherine hid behind the trait to keep others at a distance. Lady Agnes, on the other hand, only argued to hide the fact that she was not sure how else to converse. In Thomas’ case, however, she could not imagine what the issue was but knew that it was indeed a problem if he continued to refuse to discuss the matter with her.

  And refuse he did. She had made several valiant attempts, only to be thwarted. As the day of the party neared, however, she had too much on her mind to pursue the matter more earnestly. She had to finalize the decorations, which included some of her carefully tended flowers in natural groupings strewn about the sitting room, dining room, and withdrawing room. She had to order the extra supplies from Hilton as well as additional footmen to serve. She also took the liberty of convincing the local baker to assist Mrs. Tate in the kitchen that evening. In her weeks at Hillwater, Margaret had learned that the thin housekeeper had several trademark dishes, but anything beyond those was nearly inedible. Accordingly, Margaret had crafted a menu that included several kinds of fish and various lamb dishes, with the opening course being Mrs. Tate’s fish chowder. Everyone had assured her it was Thomas’ favorite.

  “It’s the heavy cream,” Mrs. Tate confided to Margaret in her squeaky voice. “Makes it thick and rich. Some folks claim they get dyspepsia from it, but his lordship adores it.”

  Margaret certainly hoped the woman was wrong about the dyspepsia. Her father had had an attack once when her stepmother had given a particularly elaborate dinner party. He had doubled in pain, and she had flown to get a physician, thinking he was dying. The attack, thankfully, had been short-lived, and her stepmother had been careful not to include so many rich foods again. All Margaret needed was to sicken Thomas’ guests. But as everyone seemed to rave about the dish, she simply had to include it.

  Most importantly of her many duties, she had to find suitable birthday presents for the guests of honor. This proved to be another challenge, as the little village of Hilton did not boast many shopping opportunities outside dry goods and fresh produce. She persuaded Thomas to take her to Windermere, dragging him through any number of shops before deciding upon a book for Catherine.

  “Lord Byron’s The Corsair?” Thomas questioned. “Isn’t that rather impassioned reading for my sister?”

  “Trust me,” Margaret replied. “It is exactly what she needs. It is suitably melodramatic and full of phrases that roll off the tongue. With any luck, we will have her declaiming as brightly as Lady Agnes.”

  Thomas looked dubious, but it was her choice for his aunt that made him raise an eyebrow.

  “A parrot?” He regarded the rather motley fellow that hung in a gilded cage at the local emporium. “What on earth would she do with a parrot?”

  “Parrots are often kept by the elderly,” proclaimed the shop owner, a portly fellow with narrow eyes. “They provide company and conversation for those alone in the world.”

  “My aunt is hardly alone,” Thomas informed him. Raising his quizzing glass was sufficient to send the fellow bowing hastily back to his post behind the counter.

  “No,” Margaret agreed, eyeing the bird who returned her gaze with a wicked black eye. “But she does enjoy conversation.” She raised her voice to the proprietor. “Does he speak?”

  “Actually, no,” the man confessed, keeping a wary distance from Thomas. “But I’m sure he could learn, given a good model of discussion.”

  “There,” Margaret proclaimed to Thomas. “Your aunt will have finally met someone who cannot escape her.”

  Thomas quirked a smile and agreed to help fund the purchase.

  “Well chosen,” he commented on the drive home, with the parrot carefully stowed behind the curricle. “I would not have thought of either of those, but you seem to have judged their tastes exactly. I wish I had your flair with gifts.”

  “You have known them longer than I have,” Margaret replied, even as she blushed under his praise. “I would think that would allow you to pick even more appropriate gifts.”

  “If I am that able, it is only because you have opened my eyes,” he told her. “I’ve learned a great deal from you, Margaret, and for that I will always be grateful.”

  Even though the words were kind, they chilled her, and she pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. He made it sound as if he expected her to leave him soon. For once, she did not feel comfortable questioning him.

  They managed to smuggle the parrot into the house and Thomas’ bedchamber. Thomas, of course, would not allow her past the doorway, although she did get a brief glimpse of room not unlike her own in its simple elegance. “Another time,” he promised with a wink that set her blushing again. She could not help the fact that her heart was singing as she returned to her own bedchamber.

  It was not until she took off her shawl and bonnet that she saw the letter lying on her bed. The room seemed suddenly darker, and she pulled the shawl back out of the wardrobe for warmth. Draping it about her shoulders, she moved slowly to the bed and stood looking down at the missive. From the handwriting, she knew it was from her cousin Allison. Very likely it had been forwarded by the staff in London.

  Margaret sank onto the bed and picked up the letter with hands that barely shook. This was it. She was about to learn the mystery of Thomas’ reticence, his character flaw, his secret that had alienated him from two other women who had seemed to care for him. Of course, they had clearly not cared for him as much as she did, or they would not have refused him. She wanted that fact to make a difference, but feared it would not.

  Perhaps it was better not to know. Perhaps she should simply throw the letter away unread and let whatever would happen take its course.

  She was too honest for that. She broke the seal and spread the paper out before her.

  Dear Margaret, it read in her cousin’s rounded hand. I was indeed surprised to hear that you had been approached by the Marquis DeGuis. You must promise to tell me when next we meet how this came about. I can only hope that he is the one with whom you had fallen in love. It would certainly explain why you refused to name him, p
articularly as I was engaged to him at the time. As to Lady Janice’s test, she believes in the physical demonstration of love.

  Margaret paused in her reading. A physical demonstration of love? The mind boggled. She tried to picture Thomas seducing Lady Janice and shook the vision aside. Even Lady Janice would not be so bold. She had had dozens of suitors, after all! The test could only be a kiss. And Thomas had failed. He had been unable to kiss Janice even as he was unable to kiss her. It was no doubt a result of his reticence, his infernal composure.

  She picked the letter up to finish it.

  I do not believe in this physical demonstration as fully as she does, her cousin continued. It took more than a simple kiss to convince me to marry my Geoffrey. From him I learned that love is more a combination of admiration, compatibility, and a sharing of one’s most precious thoughts and dreams. If you and the marquis share such a bond, by all means, marry him. Do not distress yourself over what his past courtships might have found or not. It is your relationship with him that matters. I look forward to dancing at your wedding reception. I have no doubt that even should it be a breakfast, you will find a way to have dancing. Love always, your cousin Allison.

  Margaret refolded the letter. Cousin Allison said look to the relationship. And what was her relationship with Thomas? Admiration, certainly, and a level of compatibility. Yet it was she who had been reticent in sharing her dreams. She realized with a pang that she had set him on a pedestal, demanding that he live up to her preconceived notions of the perfect man rather than allowing him to have very human faults. Even when he had chided her with it after the incident at Comfort House, she had been unwilling to take the issue seriously. Like Aeolus, she had formed a judgment and refused to see that the facts did not support it.

  Yet, like Nicodemus, Thomas was skittish. She had been quick to judge there as well. She had condemned him for jumping too quickly from one relationship to another, yet she had not seen the effort it cost him. Small wonder he was unwilling to show his feelings. How could he possibly open his bruised heart to a woman who was impulsive, brutally honest, and oblivious to his concerns?

  But now that she saw those concerns, what could she do? How could she prove to him she loved him, that his heart would be safe with her? Simply telling him would not be enough. Surely he needed a demonstration, just as she had expected him to demonstrate his love for her.

  And there lay the biggest problem of all. Even if she succeeded in showing him she loved him, would he admit that he returned her love? Or was his wounded heart simply an excuse to keep her at a distance?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Margaret thought a great deal about her dilemma over the next few days as she finished the preparations for the party. She did not want to do anything that would spoil the evening she had designed for Lady Agnes and Lady Catherine. On the other hand, knowing what she knew now, she did not think she could wait any longer than the party to confront Thomas. She was so busy ruminating and working that she paid little attention to the preparations she should be making for her own wardrobe. Her stepmother was another story, pouncing upon her and dragging her off one afternoon to decide on what she would wear to the important event.

  “Truly, madam,” Margaret told her when they reached the bedchamber and her stepmother had announced her intent, “I don’t care. One dress is as good as another. You pick one.

  Mrs. Munroe eyed her. “Really? But you seldom agree with my choice.”

  Margaret shrugged, mentally making a list of all the things she had yet to do. “I’m sure whatever you choose will be fine.”

  Mrs. Munroe brightened, trotting to the wardrobe and running her hands gleefully through Margaret’s gowns. Margaret wandered to the window and gazed out at the front lawn in her first quiet moment since reading Allison’s letter. By tomorrow night, she would have declared her love for Thomas. What if she was wrong, and he didn’t care? What if he was unable to care? Just the thought of it set her stomach in knots. Behind her, she suddenly noticed there was silence. Turning, she found her stepmother staring at her.

  “Is something wrong, Margaret?”

  Margaret struggled with her conscience. This of all times was surely the time to lie. There was no reason to worry her stepmother, especially for something over which the woman had no influence. But looking at the puckered face, she slumped in defeat. “I heard from Cousin Allison,” she confessed.

  Mrs. Munroe’s eyes widened, and she went so far as to drop the pink sarcenet and hurry to Margaret’s side. “What did she say? Is he a woman-beater?”

  Margaret shook her head. “Of course not. Can you be this whole time in his company and still think that?”

  “No,” her stepmother acknowledged with a blush. “If I truly thought so I would not allow you to be alone with him. But in truth I cannot see there is a single thing wrong with the man. What did your cousin say?”

  “She intimated that Thomas was unable to physically demonstrate his feelings.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Her stepmother shook her head and turned back to the wardrobe. “Honestly, the things that put off young ladies these days. Which do you think brings your eyes out to advantage—the violet silk or the sky blue satin?”

  Margaret stared at her. “Can you so easily dismiss what I said?”

  “What did you say?” her stepmother asked. “You left the choice in gown up to me.”

  “Not about gowns,” Margaret snapped in exasperation. “About the Marquis DeGuis. He may be cold. He may not be able to demonstrate his love.”

  Mrs. Munroe shrugged. “Certainly it is an annoyance, but not a complete surprise, love. The DeGuis are noted for their composure. I’m certain he will be a kind and companionable husband for you.”

  Margaret made a gagging noise, and her stepmother scowled at her. “Kind? Companionable? Have you so little understanding of me, madam, that you think I would settle for such things?”

  “Now you listen to me, Margaret Munroe,” her stepmother declared, striding back to her side and reaching up to take Margaret’s face in her hands. “Against all odds it looks as if you have won the affections, hidden though they may be, of one of the most sought-after bachelors the ton has ever produced. Need I remind you of all his excellent characteristics?”

  Margaret shook her off. “No, for I am sick of hearing how wealthy he is. That doesn’t matter to me. I love him, and I want him to love me in return.”

  Her stepmother sighed. “I’m sorry to hear your heart is so engaged. Everything tells me he cannot match your love. But I’m sure you will grow accustomed to him, Margaret.”

  “Accustomed.” Margaret closed her eyes against the word and the vision it conjured. She could see herself withering into someone as quiet and introspective as Lady Catherine, eaten away with bitterness for the love she could never have. She opened her eyes. “No, madam, I can never grow accustomed to living without love. I’m going to show Thomas I love him. If he cannot show he loves me in return, I will break off our connection.”

  Her stepmother whitened. “Margaret, please, think of your future. You may never have a suitor like this again.”

  “I may never have any suitor again,” Margaret replied logically, though in truth her heart ached as she considered forcing Thomas from her life. “That does not matter. I have tried to live my life according to a set of principles, principles that include honesty and integrity. This is the most important decision I have ever made, very likely the most important one I will ever make. And it is mine, madam. I thank you for your concern, but nothing you say will dissuade me.”

  For a moment she thought her stepmother would argue with her. She stood stiffly, head high, trying unsuccessfully to meet Margaret’s gaze straight on. After a few seconds, she wilted, throwing her arms about Margaret and hugging her fiercely.

  “I know you will do what is right,” she murmured. “Much as I want a good match for you, you would not be the woman I know if you were not true to your feelings.”

  Marg
aret hugged her in return, tears pooling at the unexpected praise. “Thank you.”

  Her stepmother straightened. “And now,” she declared, “I still want to know—sky blue satin or violet silk?”

  A laugh bubbled up inside Margaret’s tears. “Violet silk. And I’m sure you will be delighted to pick the jewelry to go with it.”

  Mrs. Munroe was quite delighted, gleefully going to the dressing table. Margaret wished her mind was so easily occupied. After her conversation with her stepmother, the party seemed an ominous affair. She wanted only for it to be over.

  –

  By the night of the event, she had to own she was not a little nervous. If having Thomas on her mind was not enough, she also had to make sure everything went as planned. She was certain she must have forgotten something. Then the knocker sounded, and she knew it was too late.

  Their guests arrived on time and in little groups that allowed introductions and conversation before the next arrived. Thomas had requested that Margaret join him and his family in the entryway to greet the guests, a gesture that should have warmed her but only made her more nervous. She felt like a target and waited for their guests to prove it.

  Fortunately, she liked the Rothbottoms right away. Lord Rothbottom was tall and angular, with a jutting chin and a severe under bite that reminded her of Aeolus when he champed the bit. His lordship was just as eager, to introduce each of his fresh-from-the-schoolroom daughters to Thomas and Lord Darton. The equally angular Lady Rothbottom was no less eager, giggling in a manner just as girlish as her daughters and batting blue eyes innocently as if she were a maiden herself. All four daughters were tall, thin, and blond, ranging in age from fifteen to eighteen. Margaret approved of the oldest daughter’s forthright manner, but the younger three, who seemed to like to remain in a simpering huddle, made her wonder about the potential success of the party. Catherine’s smile as she greeted them was wooden.

  But then, Catherine had been even more quiet than usual the last couple of days. Margaret had thought it was the anxiety about the approaching party and had done her best to assure Catherine that the event was being planned for her enjoyment. The woman had merely nodded and murmured something short but appropriate before hurrying off to be by herself. To Margaret, it was only another sign that the DeGuis family kept everything too much inside.