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JULY 26th, 1916
Darling Maggie,
I cannot wait to meet everyone you’ve mentioned. Anything I, or any of us, can do to help you find a fingerhold and put down roots of your own, we will do it. You so deserve to be happy and feel grounded. Heaven knows you’ve suffered enough in recent years for anyone’s lifetime, and I can’t tell you how glad it makes my heart to know you’ve found in Mr. Banner someone intelligent and interesting as well as courageous and responsible. Honestly, he sounds like a catch, which begs the question...
Why isn’t he caught? Have you learned any more about him...
“No, I haven’t,” she rasped. “Though not for a lack of trying.”
Folding the letter, she tucked it away in her escritoire along with a twinge of guilt at her reluctance to finish reading it and write an immediate reply.
From the dates of her and Dianna’s letters, they’d responded the same day, or within a day, of receiving each new note. Yet she’d let a whole week pass before she’d even opened this one. Almost three weeks after Dianna had penned it, and she couldn’t find the temerity to answer, as that meant confessing her latest interaction with Mr. Banner. Not to mention the matter of his cottage.
She couldn’t not tell Dianna about it. Nor could she tell her, and not tell her about Mr. Banner’s suspicions—and the fact he and his daughter now resided under her roof. Because then she’d no longer have to worry about Cousin Jake hopping a train to come here and exact Texas justice—Dianna herself would descend on Sugar Hill like an avenging angel to demand it.
With a sigh, she gazed out the window at the darkness—and saw sunlight reflecting off the pond’s surface, water beading along Mr. Banner’s broad honey-bronze shoulders and sliding through the tight whorls of dark hair descending from his navel to his—
“Stop it, Margaret.” She grabbed a ledger off the desk and flipped it open.
George’s penmanship was as straight and linear as his nature. No hesitation marks. No smudges. No corrections. No doubts.
“Why couldn’t you have been as honest and forthright with me as you were with your bloody accounting?”
She slapped the ledger closed, and, shoving herself to her feet, she paced over to the terrace doors where her meal sat on the small table. Beyond them, the night sky was the same bruised shades as her mood.
Lifting the silver dome, she picked a pea from the pile nestled between similarly sized portions of corn niblets and baby carrots. Popping the pea in her mouth, she grimaced at the roast chicken thigh and the small dab of mashed potatoes drizzled in butter and topped with a sprinkle of parsley.
The pea was lukewarm, as no doubt was the rest of the meal. It was her own fault. If she’d eaten when Coral had first delivered her meal, it might be more appetising.
Resetting the lid, she stared at her distorted image in the silver dome, a wavy egg-shaped head with odd unbalanced eyes crowned with flame-coloured hair.
She felt exactly like that: odd and unbalanced and still unable, hours after wading out of the pond and back into normalcy—in as much as dining alone and sleeping alone and reading alone had become normal for her—to find bottom. Some foundation for moving forward without any consideration that Mr. Banner and Maisie were anything more than her overseer and her overseer’s daughter who also happened to be her student.
The bottle of Haut Sauternes Coral had brought with her meal remained untouched in the ice bucket, condensation gliding down its smooth length, reviving the memory of water droplets sliding along Mr. Banner’s biceps and through the soft, dark curls on his chest.
With a faint rasp of exasperation, she grasped the bottle and retrieved the corkscrew from the tray where Coral had left it.
With enough wine, she’d stop thinking about Mr. Banner.
She’d stop thinking about anything and just sleep.
Sleep. What a wondrous concept. She couldn’t remember when she’d last fallen asleep with ease, her mind at peace as she slipped into the muted warmth of slumber.
Since George’s death, her brain had been a beehive of activity and sound, thoughts flying in and out, some sweet and others sharp as stingers, piercing her again and again until her whole being was swollen with fatigue and burning irritation.
Many nights she had walked the floor of the guest chamber at Dianna and Jake’s, her footfalls muffled by the moccasins Jake had made her. Still, Dianna must have heard some noise on occasion, or noticed Margaret’s light on under the bedchamber door when she roused to respond to one of her children’s nighttime whimpers, because she frequently ended up in Margaret’s chamber, holding her hand and offering comfort while Margaret struggled to comprehend the unfairness of having yet another husband taken from her.
The cork came out so suddenly, the damp and slick bottle almost slipped from her grasp. She managed to catch it on her thigh, grateful for the robe and nightdress that protected her leg from the worst of the cold and dampness. Tossing the corkscrew aside, the bottle in both hands, she poured herself a good half goblet.
The wine was sweet and crisp with a hint of peach. Or perhaps pear. Something fruity. She’d never been very good at detecting flavours in wine, much to William’s resigned disappointment after two years of his trying to educate her on aroma, taste, and finish.
“Apologies, love.” She hoisted the glass skyward. “But whatever’s in it, it tastes good.”
Too good. It was the perfect accompaniment for her dark, damp, and sour mood. Maybe it would help sweeten her outlook, for she did have much to be thankful for. The wine, for instance.
George couldn’t have cared less about wine, or what went into a vat in addition to grapes. But architecture? He could talk the day long about balance and counterbalance, peaks, and roof valleys.
Sugar Hill had many roof valleys. Secret roof valleys that hid glass domes capping secret torture rooms and books detailing that torture.
“Honestly, man.” She scowled at the first of the stars to wink out of the darkness. “How could you not mention that disturbing architectural and moral artifice? Shouldn’t I have been informed of it when you made the propitious decision to leave Sugar Hill to me?”
Gulping down the remainder of her glass, she refilled it and padded out the terrace doors on to the balcony, breathing in a welcome breath of cool air even as a shiver rattled through her at the transition from the heated room to chilly night. To the west, faint slashes of gold and violet skated through the upper branches of trees, jagged fingers as the sun lost its grip on the day.
Grasping the rail with one hand, she tipped the goblet to her mouth and drank, and over its rim she watched bats swoop and dive faster than the eye could track through the thin arcs of fading light, reminding her of a fencing match she’d witnessed in France.
The expert swordsmen had parried and riposted with blinding speed. It had been an enthralling and brilliant match to watch, and it had left her breathless with admiration and titillation. William, on the other hand...
“Yes, they were very good,” was all he’d offered in staid response to her exultant praise of the fighters’ skill.
She’d been a new and relatively naive bride of eighteen years to his seasoned and worldly twenty-five years, and had felt a fool, as if she’d embarrassed him in some way. Not wanting to disappoint him again, she had concentrated on emulating his reserved and knowledgeable mannerisms, even when she’d felt completely at a loss or, conversely, thrilled and overjoyed. It hadn’t been easy.
Nothing had ever been easy in her life.
A flaring shaft of sunlight arrowed through a gap in the trees directly into her wine glass, filling the bowl with a golden glow before winking out as if someone had blown out a candle flame.
Like she had smothered her innate nature to enshrine William’s pride in an aura of admiration.
Papa was one of few people in her past she recalled who’d seemed to appreciate her intellect and curiosity—her desire to learn what she could about anything and everything. Zest for life, he’d called it. It was what made her a good teacher now, if not the best of students then.
She’d found it impossibly difficult as a child to sit still and listen to someone when diving in and discovering for herself was so much more fun.
Action before inaction. It was a motto she’d lived quietly during her marriages, feigning guile as she guided William or George through pleasantry and approval even when she’d held a strong opinion on a matter.
She sipped more wine.
She’d learned to avoid direct confrontation and to instead offer up tentative suppositions and vague posits of concern—to sow seeds of discontent and then let nature take its course until she eventually harvested the result she’d delicately planted.
God, how she’d hated it.
She downed the last of her wine and returned inside for a top-up.
Turning away from the credenza with her full glass, she blinked when her brain failed to keep up with the abrupt action. Closing her eyes, she waited for a momentary dizziness to dissipate before crossing to frown at George’s and William’s likenesses on the dresser. She narrowed her gaze on George.
Oh, he had been sweet and loving and gentle and kind in comparison to William’s taciturn and patrician ways, but at least William had been honest. He’d made plain his disregard for directness and opposition and always made clear what he thought or felt. But George...He’d been a charlatan. Petting her ego, telling her she was special.
If he’d truly believed that—truly and honestly thought her wondrous and worthy of his heart—he would have shared it with her. He would have been honest with her. He would have trusted her with this mess long before he dropped it in her lap.
“Damn you, George Sweeney,” she muttered. “Damn you all to hell for putting me and Mr. Banner in this...untenable position.”
Is it so untenable?
Only so much as she couldn’t seem to shake Mr. Banner from her thoughts. He was a sheared-off thorn embedded in her foot. The more she tried to draw him out, the deeper in he went. Yet she couldn’t leave him be and try to forget about him any more than she would leave a thorn in her foot to fester. But if she didn’t find some way to get him out from under her skin, he would continue to poison her thoughts. Her mood.
She needed salve.
Or pliers.
Man-sized salve.
Man-sized pliers.
But the only salve or tool that had ever worked for her before—
Action before inaction.
I will.
I am.
I can so.
~~~
THE SMALL DESK CHAIR in his borrowed bedroom creaked as Joe slid the telegram, in its envelope, under his half-empty plate of congealed food. Or half-full plate of congealed food, depending on how one viewed it.
Miss Alma would see it half-full and wonder if she’d failed to please his palate with her choice of evening’s cuisine. But it wasn’t his palate that was displeased. It was...him. All of him. His palate. Stomach. Head. Chest. Even his fingers and toes.
Everything inside and outside of him ached and itched as his mind divided itself between two women: one who’d walked away willingly and who, until two months ago, he’d spent a decade trying to forget; and the other who, in two short months, had invaded his senses to the exclusion of all else, including Simone.
The feel of her and smell of her in his arms while her hands worked his cock...
He was still trying to make sense of how he’d let that happen when for over a decade he’d restrained himself, blocked other women’s attempts to breach his defences.
He’d had ten years of saying no with very little compunction or regret. Mrs. Layton had been by far the most brazen, but there’d been others—married and unmarried women varying in appearance, age, and approaches. But he had remained singular in his always polite but definite disinterest.
So, what made Margaret different? Why did she get to him, weakening his resistance and spurring him to impulses he could usually control?
She was like whisky. Worse than whisky. At least too much whisky left him feeling nauseated at the thought of imbibing again anytime soon. But her...He couldn’t imbibe again soon enough. He craved a repeat offence. Craved her.
Even now, after his bath, after scrubbing his skin and shaving as though that might somehow cleanse him of the sin of inconstancy, he could smell jasmine and hear her voice.
He stiffened and looked at the door.
Another muffled mumble, and fumble of the doorknob, brought him to his feet. He crossed to the door, eased it open.
She stumbled back a half step and blinked up at him.
“You’re here,” she whispered.
Was she slurring? Was that a wine glass in her hand?
Yes, and a two-thirds-empty wine bottle in her other hand.
“You’re drunk,” he muttered, shooting a look past her at Maisie and Miss Lisette’s closed doors.
They’d gone to bed an hour earlier and should be sound asleep, but...He scooped an arm around her waist and dragged her into his room. Closing the door, he locked it and turned around.
She was facing him, a coy smile curving her mouth as she wobbled slightly, glass and bottle in hand.
Her dressing gown fell in cascading layers of voluminous, lace-edged pink silk, its cut purposefully provocative, nipping in where white ribbon ties held it closed in a dense ruffle of white lace at her bosom and arced away to the floor to puddle around her feet. If not for the matching floor-length nightdress she wore beneath the robe, the robe’s white edges would form a ruffled frame around her sleek thighs and that glorious patch of red curls nestled at their juncture.
“Am I?” she murmured.
He dragged his eyes back to hers to find their emerald colour smoky with heat. His cock, already twitching, lunged to full strength.
For a second, he couldn’t figure out what she was talking about or take in enough air to ask her what she meant, and then she hefted the bottle.
“Well, that explains this, then,” she said, lowering it. Raising the empty wine glass, she waggled it like she might a finger at a naughty student. “I’ve a thorn in my foot, Mr. Banner. A big ol’ thorn. And I need you to take it out.”