The Marquis' Kiss Page 5

  Yet he could not hide away from what she made him see. He liked to think he was an honorable man, and a truthful one. If there was something in him that compromised that honor, it must be excised. He may not have started this acquaintance with her with the best of intentions, but he would proceed with them. Besides, he felt more alive now than after any of the dances or visits to either of his other ladies. Perhaps it was time he approached courtship differently. A friendship might be a good start, and it would be far less taxing to his emotions.

  He hated to admit it, but after two tries, he was beginning to feel a trifle bruised. He had done his best to convince Allison he was worthy of her hand, yet she had turned from him to an oafish brute of a country squire. He had been more cautious with Lady Janice, yet still she refused him. This time, he would go even more slowly and guard his heart. If there was any rejecting to be done, he would be the one to do so. Miss Margaret Munroe was not getting under his skin. He simply would not allow it.

  Of course, a lot was going to depend on the lady herself. She was right that he actually knew only a little about her. It seemed to him Allison had mentioned her on more than one occasion, but he could not recall the content of the discussion. There was of course the nonsense Pinstin had mouthed at the ball, but he did not put much faith in the truth of it. Gossip was for fools and cowards. Surely the best way to know the lady was to spend considerable time in her company. He would start tomorrow.

  He generally rose at nine in town, had a simple breakfast, and attended to his estate business before joining his peers in Parliament in the afternoon. When he rode, it was generally before changing for dinner. The morning he was to go riding with Margaret, he woke at seven. From that moment, nothing went right. His bleary-eyed valet, Jimms, who had never done anything the least offensive, actually nicked him while shaving him, forcing him to change his shirt.

  "Sorry, my lord,” the poor fellow apologized, “my hands are simply not steady this early in the morning.” The valet managed to find some sticking plaster to staunch the tiny drips of blood, and Thomas changed into his navy riding coat and cream trousers and went to breakfast with the white plaster pointing like a finger out of his chin.

  Cook had his habitual tea and toast ready, but one sip of the tea easily burned his mouth.

  "Sorry, my lord,” the footman demurred, hastily removing the steaming cup. “It usually has more time to cool before you arrive."

  The groomsman was just checking his saddle when he strode down from the house to his horse. He had to wait until all the girths had been properly cinched.

  "Sorry, my lord,” the man murmured, stepping away so Thomas could mount.

  "Don't tell me,” Thomas snapped. “The horses aren't used to getting up this early either."

  "They may be,” the fellow grinned saucily, “but the rest of us aren't.” He ducked his head and hurried away from Thomas’ answering glare.

  Am I such a creature of habit? Thomas wondered as he set off for Margaret's on the edge of Mayfair. He had never considered himself wedded to a particular schedule, but this morning certainly indicated he had fallen into a calculated rut. While there was a certain comfort in routine, he didn't want to become a slave to it. He chucked to the Arabian and cantered down the street so that he might still arrive before eight.

  A spirited gelding waited impatiently in the street in front of the Munroe house, a powerful black beast nearly seventeen hands high. He looked as if he should dragging a cannon into battle. His dun gelding Nicodemus snorted and skittered aside when the other horse tossed its head and whinnied in challenge. Annoyed that he would have to share the ride with another gentleman, for surely only a man would ride such an animal, he jumped from the saddle. He tossed the reins to the mews boy who stood waiting and climbed the stairs to the town house door.

  It opened before he could knock. Margaret Munroe offered him a cheerful smile and ran lightly down the stairs to the waiting horse. She patted the beast in welcome, and it whickered in recognition. The boy holding her reins grinned at her.

  "Coming, my lord?” she called, picking up the skirt of her cobalt velvet riding habit to climb the mounting block.

  Thomas shook himself and hurried to join her.

  "You intend to ride this beast?” he asked with a slight frown, noticing the side-saddle for the first time. Though the horse seemed easy with her, he wasn't sure he could be easy with her up on such an animal.

  "Certainly,” Margaret said with a smile. “I've ridden Aeolus every morning for four years.” She glanced at his Arabian, who somehow looked small and dainty next to the black. “Though I appreciate the lines of that fellow. Shall we be off?"

  Thomas managed a returning smile, still wary, and held out a hand to help her. She either didn't notice or ignored him, hitching herself up into the side saddle as if from long practice. Shaking his head, he climbed into his own saddle and drew his horse abreast of hers. The black mouthed the bit as if he wanted to turn and nip the Arabian, but Margaret held him steady. With a twinkle in her eyes that promised fun, she urged the horse forward, and they started for the park.

  "A lovely morning for a ride,” he ventured, attempting to put the situation back onto more traditional footing.

  As if to disagree, she eyed the chimneys of the houses they past, where smoke from morning fires obscured the blue of the sky. Funny how he'd never noticed that before.

  "I hope this wasn't too early for you,” she replied.

  He started to demur, but his conscience nagged him. She was endlessly honest; she had said she expected the same from him. “Eight was earlier than I had thought,” he allowed, touching his cut chin. The plaster bumped his finger, and he snatched it off, trying not to color.

  She gave her signature laugh, and he had to join her. “Next time,” she promised, “we'll go when you choose."

  The idea that there would be a next time somehow pleased him, and the pleasure surprised him. They rode on in companionable silence until they reached the park.

  Thomas was further surprised to find that quite a few people were up and moving at so unfashionable an hour. Several couples strolled the paths, and more horses trotted along the riding trails. Still, it was far less crowded than in the afternoon when he usually rode. He found himself enjoying the openness.

  And he found himself enjoying the company. She asked no more probing questions, instead discussing the races he had entered as if she had seen them.

  "I'm not sure which I enjoy more,” she confided when he tried a question of his own, regarding her preference for horse or carriage racing. “Horse racing is thrilling—just the rider and his mount pitted against the hordes. But with carriage racing, you must be more cunning. There are the added dimensions of the vehicle, its weight and design, and wheel circumference that one must consider."

  "Very wise,” Thomas allowed, hiding his surprise that she should have thought about such issues. “I had not considered it, but you are right that in carriage racing one is at the mercy of the carriage maker. If there is a flaw in the wood of the yoke or if the wheel was not bent properly, you have lost."

  "We agree,” she replied with a smile as if that were an amazing thing. “In horse racing, you have only to worry about two flaws—yours and the horse's."

  "And what flaws does this fellow have?” Thomas nodded to her gelding, who rolled his eye as if he knew he were under discussion.

  "Aeolus, my king of the winds?” She smiled fondly. “He is stubborn and irascible, not unlike his owner. But he makes up his mind about people and situations quickly, and you cannot sway him with sweet words."

  "I am doomed,” Thomas predicted.

  She laughed. After she sobered, he caught her eyeing him speculatively. “And your mount, my lord? It's hard to imagine so graceful an animal having flaws."

  He patted the dun's neck. The horse picked up his pace a little. “Nicodemus is perhaps overly fastidious. He is swift to run, but he likes his way to be predictable. A new statue or plant a
long the path will deter him as if he thinks it inappropriate."

  "And his master?” she teased. “Has he any hidden flaws?"

  He wanted to answer with a quip, but his recent refusal was too much on his mind. “They are too numerous to list,” he replied with a sigh.

  She chuckled. “You are doing it entirely too brown. Only you would think yourself flawed. Perfection often cannot recognize itself."

  He could feel himself coloring, and she clucked to the black, riding a little way ahead as if to give him a moment to compose himself. A DeGuis, needing to recover his composure, in the middle of Hyde Park. He was clearly overwrought. Shaking his head, he nudged the dun back to her side along the flower-bordered path.

  They had reached Hyde Park corner, where lorries and wagons trunded past just outside the enclosing fence. Beside them began Rotten Row. The sandy riding track stretched invitingly into the distance. Another time, he would have loved to see how fast he could take it. With present company, of course, it was unthinkable. While Allison had begged him to ride with her there, he had always refused. Ladies did not ride on Rotten Row.

  "Race you to the Serpentine, my lord?” Margaret said with a grin.

  He smiled. “A bold jest, my dear. Much as I enjoy The Row, I quite prefer present company."

  Her grin faded to be replaced by a frown. “I wasn't joking. Aeolus and I have taken Rotten Row any number of times. I was inviting you to race with us."

  Pinstin had claimed she was a bruising rider, but Thomas had not believed him. It struck him now that her points on racing had been grounded on practice, not philosophy. He could not seem to still his disapproval. “Don't be ridiculous. Women shouldn't race."

  "Anyone who rides a horse well and enjoys the sport should race,” she countered. “And while I dislike bragging, I have to admit I ride quite well. You've just finished telling me how well you ride. The path lies open. Let's race."

  He could feel the desire building inside him to do just that. The vision of her flying along beside him made his face crack in a grin. Her eyes lighted as well. He forced himself to frown. “Miss Munroe, if you have no care for your own safety, I must. I cannot race with you."

  "If I were a man you'd race with me,” she accused.

  "If you were a man,” Thomas snapped, “I wouldn't be out riding with you at this ungodly hour!"

  She glared at him. “So sorry to have inconvenienced you, my lord. I assure you it won't happen again.” She tightened her grip on the reins and pressed her heels into the flanks of the black. Aeolus flattened his ears and broke into a gallop onto The Row.

  Thomas grit his teeth. He counted to ten. He scolded himself for his lack of will power. The challenge of her quickly disappearing back mocked him. He pressed the Arabian into a gallop and tore off after her.

  She was not easy to catch. The massive gelding started slowly, but he gained speed with each stretch of his powerful legs. It was perhaps five hundred yards to where the path opened onto the Serpentine. She had already crossed fifty yards of the distance when he started forward with Nicodemus. He crouched low over the dun's neck, urging the beast to a faster pace even as his blood heated with the family tang of competition. The lighter Arabian sprinted easily. Trees shot by on either side. People strolling on the paths that paralleled The Row stopped to watch him. A silver-haired matron raised her quizzing glass. Another gentleman rider heard the thunder of his hooves and pulled aside to let him pass. Ahead of him, through a haze of dust, he saw Margaret.

  She glanced back at him and bent forward herself. Her laughter floated to him in challenge. The minx was thoroughly enjoying herself! Grinning, Thomas urged his horse faster.

  They pelted down the stretch of path, Thomas's mount edging closer with each moment. The black swerved away from the encroaching dun, and Thomas pressed into the gap. Margaret cast him a quick look, eyes alight, grinning with joy. They shot past the overlook to the Serpentine together. Thomas pulled into the lead just before they were forced to slow for a group of riders ahead of them.

  "Well done,” she cried, pulling abreast. “Thank you for an exciting diversion, my lord."

  He couldn't help but return her smile. His blood was singing in his veins, the air tasted sweet, and he hadn't felt so alive in a very long time. “You are quite welcome, Miss Munroe. I begin to see what you mean about living in the moment."

  "I thought you might,” she replied with a nod. “We'll have to see that you enjoy yourself more often."

  Her eyes were bluer than the sky above them; her lips pinker than the roses in the nearby gardens. He had a sudden desire to feel those lips against his own. The idea was so improper and dangerous that he nearly dropped the reins. The responsive dun faltered in his paces.

  "I think perhaps Nicodemus has had enough for one day,” he said to hide the gaff. “Perhaps we should head for home."

  She looked disappointed but nodded again and continued along beside him. As they rode out of the park, he wondered whether he was fooling anyone. He could not deny that Margaret Munroe had a unique way of cutting up his peace. This friendship might prove more dangerous than he had thought.

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  Chapter Six

  Having reached the safety of her room by the back stair without encountering her stepmother, Margaret shrugged out of her riding habit. She felt as if her body glowed with pleasure. From the first time she had met Thomas, she had felt he embodied all that was right in a man. He was noble, kind, courageous, and intelligent. Of course, no one was entirely perfect. A handsome profile, stunning physique, sharp wit, and gentlemanly bearing were nothing without an impassioned heart. She had considered his courtship of her cousin restrained, but she had thought he was surely more effusive in private. When Allison had rejected him, she had wept for him. When Lady Janice had refused him, she had wanted to scratch her eyes out. When he had turned so quickly to Margaret, she had begun to fear that her perfect man had a heart of clay.

  After the race today, however, and the desire that had flamed briefly in his sapphire eyes, she knew otherwise. There was a passion inside him to match all his other wonderful attributes. She had only to find a way for him to share it with her.

  She still could not believe she had much of a chance. She was not ashamed of her standing in the ton, but she was not blind to it either. A perfect fellow like the marquis would have trouble explaining his interest in a woman like Margaret. However, much as she yearned to be his bride, she had never allowed her life to be dictated to by the whims of fashion; she wasn't about to change that now.

  Her stepmother, of course, was another story. “What happened?” she demanded when Margaret appeared downstairs at last. “Why didn't you come to me straight off? I was watching the window. I didn't even see you return."

  "We returned through the mews,” Margaret explained, taking a seat beside her in the worn family sitting room. It still bore the signs of recent cleaning, the scratched and dented furniture gleaming in the light of the twin windows. She gave her stepmother a sketchy account of the ride, but, as expected, when she came to the part about the race, Mrs. Munroe stopped her.

  "Oh, Margaret, you didn't!” she moaned. “How many times have I warned you! It is bad enough to race about the country when we are visiting your cousins. Few people will see you, and they are not of consequence. How could you do something so reprehensible, and in front of the narquis of all people!"

  "Racing is not reprehensible,” Margaret replied, thoroughly glad her father had not repeated the tales of her London races to her stepmother. “A number of people do it, even women."

  "Women,” Mrs. Munroe sniffed, “not ladies."

  "Yes, even ladies. In any event, it was early. Few were about so we did not encounter anyone we know. I doubt it will be remarked upon."

  "And for that you may be thankful. However, the primary question is this: have you damaged your chances with the marquis? How did he react to this race?"

  Remembering the fire in his
eye when they had finished, Margaret smiled. “I think he was rather pleased by the turn of events."

  Mrs. Munroe clapped her hands. “Clever girl! Hasn't your father always said so? When is he calling again?"

  Margaret's smile faded. “He didn't say."

  "What?” Her stepmother's eyes widened. “Oh, I knew it! You have frightened him away! We must find a way to make amends. Perhaps you can send him a note. No, that would be unseemly. Perhaps we can have a party and invite him."

  "You know we cannot afford that so soon after your dinner party last week,” Margaret reminded her.

  "Fudge on your father's budget,” her stepmother declared. “This is important. But if we get him back, you must be more careful, Margaret! This match would be more than I ever dreamed for you. You must curb these wild tendencies of yours."

  "Wild tendencies?” Margaret scoffed. “If one race is enough to scare off the marquis, he isn't the man I took him for."

  "One race, dancing with him so soon after he had broken off with Lady Janice, making eyes at him the very night he was seen courting her. Do you want to appear fast?"

  "No one with any sense would call me fast, madam,” Margaret assured her. “Unless of course one was referring to my riding."

  "You may laugh all you like. Such a name will do you no good."

  "No one uses that name. I believe the term being used is Original."

  Her stepmother paled. “I never thought I'd see the day when someone close to me would wear that appellation. I have obviously failed in my duty."

  Much as she often ignored the woman's acerbic council, Margaret could not help but be touched by the note of pathos in her voice. She threw her arms around her stepmother and hugged her fiercely.

  "You have not failed. I know you want the best for me. I cannot tell you why I'm different. Perhaps I did not wish to be compared with Cousin Genevieve or Cousin Allison. Perhaps, like Father, I don't like being a second-rate Munroe. My cousins are in all ways perfect, as you know. I will never be so. Please don't fret. I may not always agree with you as I don't in this instance, but that does not mean I don't recognize that you care for me. I care for you too. But what you ask I simply cannot do. I cannot be less than I am."