After the Kiss (3 page)

She’d not learned of Jerome’s tie to the duke until after their marriage. It had shamed him to be bastard born, the half-brother to the tenth Duke of Tarrant.

“You might have conveyed the fact of his death in a letter, madam. Or do you have another, less obvious reason for your presence here?” The Duke of Tarrant’s eyes were great black holes in his narrow and austere face. His long fingers drummed impatiently against the desktop like claws.

A giant bird of prey, the Duke.

However much she told herself not to be cowed by him, she was. She thought great thoughts and had wonderful retorts to each of his barbed remarks and criticisms. But always later…never at the occasion of their meeting.

He had made her wait to see him, a deliberate act of rudeness she’d come to expect from him. For an hour she’d stood in the foyer, uncomplaining. Only then had she been directed to this cavernous room of swooping shadows. Books lined the walls, but their
spines of gilt appeared fresh and untouched. There was not one comfortable chair to encourage a reader to sit and peruse a volume, no candles perched upon well-arranged tables. A person would not wish to linger here, but it was a chamber that oddly suited the Duke of Tarrant.

“I thought it my duty to come,” she said.

“So that we might mourn Jerome together?” he asked contemptuously.

“Jerome held you in great affection,” she said, willing her voice not to tremble.

He glanced at her as if she were an insect, something beneath his regard.

“Did he?” he asked, his fingers tapping against the desktop. “No doubt because I dispensed enough funds to him to ensure he lived well. You no doubt believe that because you are his widow you are entitled to as much consideration. But that relationship is ended, here and now. Do not presume to expect anything from me.”

“I do not,” she said, stung. She stood facing him, her hands fisted in the material of her skirt. “Is that why you’ve disliked me all these years? Because I had the presumption to marry into your family?”

He smiled thinly. “My father indulged himself with Jerome’s mother. A mistake. Our line had never before been sullied by bastardy. Jerome was an obligation, never family.”

“What was I?” She detested confrontation, but this moment had been coming for years. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it might leap from her chest. Tarrant, however, looked remarkably relaxed, absorbed in the actions of his fingers toying with the end of a quill.

“An irritant who never knew her place.” He looked
up at her, his smile vanishing. “You dared to address me by my Christian name once, as I recall.”

“And kissed you on your cheek when we parted,” she said, willing her smile to remain fixed in place.

An expression of displeasure flitted over his face.

“So,” Margaret said, “because I did not heed your consequence, you have always disliked me?”

“You are common,” he said, standing. “Your only claim to propriety is the fact that your grandmother was a governess. Your father was a soldier and your mother took in washing.”

“I see,” she said, nodding. “Honest employment, but not quite the equal of a duke.”

He didn’t answer. There was, after all, nothing he needed to say. His half-hooded eyes gleamed with contempt.

He picked up a small bell on the corner of his desk. One faint ring, that was all it took before a liveried footman opened the door and stepped aside. Beyond him stood the majordomo—somber, dignified, as regal as any member of the nobility.

Her lips trembled, but she held them tight as she walked from the room.

“No, not the duke,” Margaret said now. “He would be pleased to see me beg.”

She studied the list once more. Here was the very answer to their dilemma. If she sold only one book, she could keep the other two as a bit of security for her future.

“I think, Penelope,” she said, “that we should consider the
Journals
our salvation.”

The other woman shook her head slowly, but Margaret only smiled.

She would take the precaution of signing Jerome’s name. Not only because some men refused to do busi
ness with a woman, but to protect her reputation. Also, she’d send a quick note to Samuel and Maude, asking if she could use the draper’s address. That way, no one in the village would ever know that she was in possession of such shocking literature.

Life in Silbury village was simple and elemental. Those who obeyed the strictures of propriety were praised and applauded. Those who did not were ostracized. There were two women in the village whose opinion counted greatly—Sarah Harrington and Anne Coving.

Sarah’s influence as arbiter of morality was not to be underestimated. In the hierarchy of the village she reigned supreme, her opinion solicited and generally followed by most of the other matrons. Sarah had been among the first to send her daughter to Margaret’s school.

Her sister, Anne, was a teller of tales. If there was news to hear in Silbury, Anne was not only privy to it but ensured that it was spread far and wide.

What would Sarah say if she even knew of the existence of these shocking
Journals
? Or if she discovered that Margaret was planning to sell the volume of carnal literature? Or, even worse, that she had read not only this volume, but another as well?

There was no doubt as to the other woman’s reaction. No longer would Margaret be considered a proper widow, someone held up as an example of decorum and proper behavior. Instead, she would be made a pariah. Sarah would not allow her daughter to attend her small school, and Anne would ensure the tale was told throughout the village. Her school would be unattended.

Everything she had come to value in her life was in jeopardy by this one action. A thought that made
Margaret consider her decision carefully. In the end, it was not as if she had any choice. If she didn’t sell the
Journal
she couldn’t remain in Silbury.

Margaret picked up her stationery box, then sat at the table again and began to write.

M
ichael Hawthorne, Earl of Montraine, nodded to his host across the room. The Earl of Babidge—Babby, to his friends—was currently engaged in his most favorite occupation, gossip. He held court over a small group, all of whom looked entranced at his words. Michael smothered a smile and turned aside.

Babby had spared no expense for this occasion. His cavernous second-floor ballroom was lit by hundreds of beeswax candles, all constantly being replaced by ubiquitous footmen. The accompanying yellow light rendered the room as bright as a sunlit day and warmed it substantially. The tall doors to the terrace had been thrown open to the night to counteract the heat.

Babby was a great believer in gilt. What could not be festooned in gold was trimmed in it. There were
three large mirrors in ornate gilded frames mounted on the south wall. What walls were not mirrored or hung with crimson were painted. Set within the gilded moldings were scenes etched in delft of Babby’s country estate, or life in the City. The artist had followed Babby around for a month with sketchbook in hand.

Tonight Babby had decided upon a masked ball to enliven the season. Consequently, the room was filled with people attempting, for at least a few hours, to be who they were not. There was a plethora of Greek goddesses and men dressed oddly—and chillingly, for this spring night—in togas. More than one stout peer was crowned with laurel leaves.

As for himself, he dressed simply in formal attire. That was not, however, the reason for the surprised looks sent his way. He rarely attended these events unless required to escort his sisters and mother. When he did so, he disappeared into a quiet chamber, or sought sanctuary with friends in the smoking or gaming rooms. Tonight, however, he was attempting to be affable. Almost sociable.

Three matrons roosting upon the settee against the wall nodded at him in approval. He returned the gesture, smiling slightly. They subjected each guest to a sweeping inspection, one that encompassed costume and demeanor, hairstyle to footwear. A judgment was rendered by either a slight smile or a forbidding frown. By their sudden shocked looks he knew that the most recent arrival had ventured far beyond the bounds of propriety.

The lady standing in the doorway was not unknown to him. A beautiful woman married to an aging peer, a combination that encouraged daring. She did not disappoint. Her costume revealed more than
it concealed, leaving no doubt as to the shape of lovely legs, or the enticing curve of hips. She sent him a provocative look, one designed to entice, he had no doubt. Perhaps another time.

This night was for more serious matters. He had come to Babby’s party to find a wife.

It was time he married, a fact that had exploded into his consciousness by one small and almost overlooked fact. All three of his sisters were being presented this season. Proof enough that the years had flown by. If he did not want his lineage continued by a nephew, he must concentrate upon matrimony.

In addition, there was the small matter of dwindling capital. The war with Napoleon had been ruinous, and their fortunes over the last decade had suffered like so many others. Add to that the drought that had decimated their harvests in addition to the foolish investments his father had made, and the resultant disaster was one of monumental and extravagant proportions.

They needed an almost desperate infusion of cash, else he would be forced to sell those properties not entailed.

It seemed that it was a more lengthy process to catch the eye of a wealthy noble than it was a rich heiress. A title or a respectable heritage wasn’t the least important in his case, while his mother had her heart set on, at the very least, earls for her daughters. Therefore, Michael was the sacrificial lamb destined to be hauled up to the altar and roasted. He was not, however, going to the flames without a few bleats of his own.

His requirements for a bride were sensible. Logical. A woman who would not expect love, but with whom he could deal agreeably. Someone engaged in her
own interests. A woman who would give him sons but not difficulties. Above all, he didn’t want a woman of a violent temperament.

The conversation swirled around him like the drone of bees as he walked around the edge of the dance floor. Once it pierced his concentration, caught him off guard. It was a disconcerting experience to find himself the topic of whispers.

“It’s a pity Montraine is so handsome,” one young miss said. “He truly has the most fearsome glower. And he is much too somber. He rarely smiles.”

“Indeed,” the other woman said behind her fan. “Charlotte says he’s most inflexible and terribly stern, and acts twice his age. She is quite afraid of him.”

“Her own brother?” The fan was in rapid motion.

“Well, I for one would never countenance his suit. Could you imagine being constantly frowned at in that forbidding way of his?”

“It is said that he is involved in something secret with the government. Some master, or something.”

He was tempted to lean over their shoulders and tell them that his sister Charlotte was not to be considered a source of information since she was, more often than not, irritated at him. The name Code Master was an embarrassing sobriquet Babby had announced to one and all after his success at breaking the French code during the war.

As a member of the Black Chamber of England’s Foreign Office, he was only one of many men who labored independently and alone for a dual purpose—to solve ciphers and protect the empire. It was occasionally tedious, always mind absorbing work that he loved.

But the French cipher that had led them to discover Napoleon’s plans to march on the east had been such
a monumental undertaking and happy accident that word of it had slipped out. It irritated him to no end, since most of the people who now knew the name presumed that his occupation made him exciting, dangerous, and romantic.

Michael continued his progression around the perimeter of the dance floor, his attention focused on the dancers. Not unlike, he thought with some degree of humor, a wolf seeking its mate.

It seemed to him that his requirements for a wife were not onerous.

His life ran on a strict schedule. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday he boxed in the morning. Tuesday and Thursday he rode. He worked from nine in the morning until well after seven at night, with two hours in the afternoon set aside for lunch and personal correspondence. Family obligations occupied two nights a week. Other than that, his time was his own to do with what he wished. Most of the time, however, he found himself either involved with his newly designed mathematical engine or engrossed in a cipher. He did not wish to be pulled from a fascinating code because a woman expected him to pay her homage, take her shopping, or approve a frock.

In addition, she must not be too young, because incessant giggling would drive him mad. She should possess some sense and be level-headed and dispassionate.

He asserted the same authority over his own emotions.

His childhood had been marked by his parents passionate arguments, each occurrence ending with his mother throwing something and his father responding by breaking something equally expensive or shooting out a window. On the nights when their
rages woke his sisters up, they found their way to his room. On such occasions he would reassure them that all was right in their world, a necessary lie and one they came, eventually, to see as such.

Finally, he’d rebelled, seeking sanctuary from the cacophony of his own home at his friend Robert’s house whenever the confrontations escalated. It was an irony that his wish for privacy had led to his love of ciphers. He’d not wanted his family to be able to read his notes to Robert and had devised several codes that they used to communicate.

Give him a code any time. Ciphers did not cry and run from the room. A logical progression did not scream at the top of its lungs and then shoot a hole through the library window.

Or put a bullet through his head because his mistress had left him for another man. A gruesome discovery for a boy of fourteen. But even then, he’d been the only calm one in a house filled with tears and screams. He had been the one to pull the note from beneath his father’s limp arm and read those last words. A confession of obsessive love and despair.
I cannot live without her.
A warning and a caution to the boyish Michael to refrain from such excess.

He was determined to do so.

The females in his family, however, preferred not to see the world logically and dispassionately. His sisters were princesses of drama and his mother the queen of histrionics. Only one more reason to find a wife with some degree of sense about her. She might be someone with whom he could talk. Perhaps she might even become a confidante. As it was, he would never confide in his family for fear that his secrets would be fodder for London gossip the next day.

Michael presented himself in front of Miss Gloria
Ronson, bowing slightly. She was the daughter of a knight, but he was not concerned with her antecedents as much as the fact that she was also rumored to be an heiress. True, she was shy, but she also seemed like someone who might suit him.

“I believe this is our dance,” he said. He smiled, wondering why his companion looked startled.

He bent his arm and she placed her gloved hand atop it. The musicians began the opening bars and the first movement began. He turned to his side, held his hand out for her. Her gloved fingers touched his, but she said nothing further, simply stared at the oak boards of the floor.

Her reticence was delightfully charming. As if she heard his thoughts, she looked over at him. He smiled at her and once more she appeared startled, looking away for a moment and then shyly smiling in return.

The evening was looking suddenly more favorable.