Love sought is good, given unsought is better.
—William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, III, i
She did not slow down until she reached the relative safety of the Long Gallery—and only then because of the growing stitch in her side. Pausing at last, she drew a shuddering breath, hugging herself in a fierce effort to hold on to her composure.
More than three years since that day... and the agony of her loss had passed, thanks to the healing power of time and Alex’s loving patience. But all the same, the unfairness of it ached and ached. As it did for every unwillingly barren woman, she supposed.
“Margaret! Thank God—I hoped to catch up to you.”
Gervase’s voice, low and urgent... and she seized upon it like a lifeline, letting it tow her back to the still complicated but slightly less painful present. He stood just a few feet away, an almost palpable tension in his stance, scanning her with anxious eyes.
“Gervase.” She tried for a reassuring smile, then abandoned the attempt, as it felt hopelessly wan and unconvincing. “Your valet told me you were in the library.” It seemed a lifetime ago that she’d asked.
“I was. Up in the gallery.” His mouth crooked. “Father and Reg entered in full spate. I couldn’t find the proper moment to announce myself—and then, it seemed more prudent not to. Discretion being the better part of valor, after all.”
“Then you heard.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “My dear, I am sorrier than I can say.” He paused again, then resumed gently, “I won’t ask if you’re all right. I know quite well that you’re not. How could you be, after that?”
“We were going to call him Laurence. After my father.” How was it she could remember, even now, the light weight of her doomed son in her arms, breathing so quietly, so shallowly? She hadn’t wanted to let him go, even when that faint breath had stopped. Alex, his own eyes wet, had had to coax her arms open so... so that the proper arrangements could be made.
Gervase’s mouth set, his eyes going as hard as flint. “I could take a horsewhip to both of them, for putting you through that again.”
She shook her head. “They didn’t force it out of me—I told them freely. So that the duke would stop thinking of me as... well, as a potential broodmare! Even if I could oblige him by producing a child, I’d still never marry Reg!”
He strode forward to put his arm round her, and she leaned into it, grateful for his warmth and strength. Who’d have thought that Gervase Lyons, of all people, would have become such a source of comfort to her? Closing her eyes, she let her head rest against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of bergamot and spice that clung to the heavy silk of his dressing gown.
“Besides Hal, my parents lost a son in infancy, long before I was born,” he told her. “My mother says it’s something one never forgets or truly recovers from.”
“It’s not.” And then to lose not only one’s child but all hope of another... Margaret swallowed, fighting the hot press of tears against her eyelids, and forced the words past the constriction in her throat. “But one learns to live with it. Come to terms with it. Endure it.”
His arm tightened around her. “It need not be endured alone.”
She drew a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. “No. And by God’s grace, I wasn’t alone—then or now.” Reaching up, she laid her hand against his cheek, feeling its warmth even through her silk evening glove. “Thank you, Gervase.”
She thought she felt the arm about her shoulders tremble, then, “What are friends for?” he asked lightly.
Friends. The words she’d spoken earlier to Alicia seemed so feeble, in light of what was stirring... simmering between them now. And the memory of why she’d sought him out tonight, driven from her mind by the shock of what she’d heard, came flooding back, like the rush of heat following a draught of strong spirits. Almost too heady a wine for her senses, drying her mouth and making her head swim. A single word or gesture on her part would free her from his embrace... except that she had no desire to move. No wish but to stay where she was, close within the circle of his arm.
She did not know if Gervase could sense any of this, but his arm remained where it was, and she could hear the slightly quickened rhythm of his breathing. Not since the train had they stood so close together...
“Margaret.” His usually confident voice sounded almost tentative in the silent gallery. “You said—Farnsworth told you I was in the library. Were you looking for me?”
She swallowed, studying every plane and angle of that familiar face. “I was.”
His brows lifted. “Why?”
Margaret took a breath, bracing herself inwardly. “Something Alicia said. About old friends... and how we don’t always see them as clearly as we think we do.”
Again she felt the quiver of his encircling arm, could sense the effort he was making to keep his voice and expression under control. “An intriguing subject. How did it arise?”
“As a corollary to something else entirely,” she said, trying to match his light tone. “But it soon proved more interesting than the original topic. And far more pertinent.” She paused, searching for the words that would carry her over the next hurdle. From friendship to... something deeper. Something that could well change both their lives.
“I suppose,” she resumed, “when two people have been friends for years, they become accustomed to... to thinking of each other in a certain way. And not realizing that things might have changed between them.”
“Changed.” Something—apprehension, perhaps?—flickered behind his eyes. “In what way? And—for the better or worse?”
“Not the worse,” she hastened to assure him. “I just meant that friends are so used to the way things are that they might not see the possibilities of something more. Not right away.”
“Does that surprise you?” His voice was quiet and almost preternaturally level. “There’s always a risk when friends venture beyond what is comfortable and familiar. I can understand not wanting to lose that. Especially if...”
“If?” she prompted gently.
“If only one person desires more than friendship.”
“What if... both of them do?” Reaching out, she took hold of his free hand, lacing their fingers together and pressing her palm against his. Palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss...
This time she felt the tremor that went through his entire body at the contact, heard his sharp intake of breath, and saw his eyes darken to the color of storm clouds.
“Margaret.” Just her name, spoken about half an octave lower than usual, but enough to vanquish any doubts she might still have harbored and scatter them to the four winds... while the certainty growing inside of her took deeper root within her soul and sent out its first tentative blooms in her heart.
Smiling, she looked at the man before her, speechless for the first time that she could remember. Gervase fenced with words better than anyone she knew; they were his weapon—and his armor, concealing his deepest vulnerabilities. But now was the time for action. Still clasping his hand, she leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth.
The moment Margaret’s lips touched his, reason fled and desire flared to life in its wake, a white-hot blaze obliterating all else. Stifling a groan, Gervase pulled her closer, deepening the kiss until he heard an answering moan break from her and felt her arms twine about his neck.
All he’d wanted, all he’d dreamed of for so long—warm and pliant in his arms, kissing him with the same fervor and fire that were consuming him. Fire ever doth aspire, / And makes all like itself, turns all to fire...
They surfaced at last, breathless and dazed. Gervase could feel his heart racing, faster than he could ever remember, and his mouth was bone-dry—unlike his palms, damp as a schoolboy’s before an examination. And a lifetime of self-control suddenly seemed no match for the mingled terror and exhilaration rioting through his veins, churning in the pit of his stomach. Was this how finally gaining one’s heart’s desire felt? If so, how did anyone survive it?
Margaret’s eyes, dark and deep, gazed up at him as though seeing him for the very first time. Perhaps she was.
“Gervase.” Her voice was low and husky, a voice meant for lovemaking, bedchambers, and midnight trysts. Some of her hair had come loose from its pins, and now lay in loose waves about her shoulders. Yielding to temptation, Gervase ran his fingers through it, and more pins pattered to the floor.
Sighing, Margaret closed her eyes, a smile playing about her lips, slightly swollen from his kisses. “Heavens, I’ve been such a fool!”
Gervase paused, raised an inquiring brow. “I beg your pardon?”
She opened her eyes, alight with rueful amusement. “I should be begging yours, dear friend. For not seeing—and understanding so much sooner.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want you to see. Or burden you with sentiments that you did not share. I know how you felt about Hal—”
“As long ago as that?” she broke in gently. “Oh, my dear—”
He swallowed, tried for a lighter tone. “You’re—the sort of woman it’s easy to care for, Margaret. But I was a younger son, and you were destined to be my brother’s bride.”
“And a pretty mess that would have been, had it ever come to pass!” she exclaimed, with the candor he’d always appreciated in her. “I fell out of love with Hal long before he died. Not that I didn’t still care,” she amended, “but not in the way that a wife should. He’d become more of a brother to me—and I know now that I was never more than another sister to him.”
“And then there was Bellamy, to whom I know you were devoted.”
“Yes, I was,” she admitted. “And the memories of the life we shared will always be precious to me. But Alex was a kind and generous man—I know he would want me to be happy again.” She lifted a hand to cup Gervase’s cheek. “Even happy with someone else. Someone for whom I already cared—and thought of as a friend.”
He captured her hand, pressed a kiss into her palm. “And now—as more than a friend?”
Her eyes glowed, their velvety softness seemingly lit from within. “Definitely as more than a friend!” She leaned into him, her body molding itself against his and sending a hot surge of arousal straight to his groin. “Make love to me, Gervase.”
The request stole his breath for a moment. “What, here?” He glanced about the Long Gallery, inhabited by empty suits of armor and portraits of his various ancestors, none of whom he wished to observe or even imagine while making love to Margaret.
She smiled. “My chamber would be more appropriate... and far more congenial!”
“Margaret.” Gervase studied her face intently. “Are you sure about this?”
Her smile did not waver. “Entirely sure, dear friend. Shall we go?”
Hand in hand, they hurried down the passage, and Margaret fought an insane urge to giggle. Country house parties, she knew, were notorious for nighttime assignations between amorous guests... she’d never thought she’d be among them, and trysting with a son of the house, no less! She stole a glance at Gervase and caught him looking at her with that familiar half-smile. But his gaze held warmth and a tenderness she’d never seen before, and she smiled foolishly back, her heart somersaulting in her breast.
The threat of laughter vanished, but she could not forget that other guests were asleep—or otherwise occupied—behind those doors, and the last thing she wanted was a witness. She could just imagine Alicia’s reaction—surprise mixed with smug satisfaction. Augustus’s she didn’t care to imagine at all, though, as her younger brother, he had no say in whatever she chose to do!
Reaching the tower room, Margaret opened the door and they slipped inside, shutting out the rest of the world.
Leaving her alone... with her lover. With Gervase.
Suddenly shy, she turned to face him. Limned by lamplight and firelight, he looked at once strange and familiar—and very much a man. Not even the heavy dressing gown could conceal the breadth of his shoulders or the lean strength of his form, to which she’d clung so eagerly in the Long Gallery. The feeling of his encircling arms, the ardor of his lips on hers...
Those lips were now pursed, those woodsmoke eyes narrowed in a decidedly critical stare, a vivid reminder of all the times they’d disagreed and debated over the years. Her shyness vanished, and she raised her own brows inquiringly.
“Belle amie,” he began in his flawless French, “I regret to inform you that you’re wearing far too many clothes for the occasion.”
“Perhaps I am,” she agreed gravely. “What do you propose to do about it?”
His eyes held an unaccustomed smolder that kindled an answering heat low in her loins. “Oh, I imagine I can come up with something,” he replied, slipping an arm about her waist and drawing her towards him.
She turned to smile at him over her shoulder. “My gown fastens down the back.”
“So I observe.” His warm breath ghosted over the nape of her neck as he brushed her hair aside and began to undo each tiny hook.
“So lovely,” he murmured at one point, brushing his lips against her bare shoulder. “A pearl beyond price. You were aptly named.”
Margaret shivered pleasurably. Leave it to Gervase to remember that. “Would you take it amiss—if I asked you to hurry?”
“Not in the least.” Was that amusement—even laughter—she heard underlying his voice? But he redoubled his efforts, his clever fingers making short work of the task and within minutes, her heavy velvet gown lay puddled on the floor, where it was soon joined by her petticoats.
He had her down to her combination when she decided a change in order. Turning around, she gave him her most winsome look and reached for the sash of his robe.
“One moment, my lord. As it is the Christmas season, I see no reason why I should be deprived of unwrapping a gift as well.”
He smiled, spreading his arms obligingly. “As you wish, ma belle. Although I might add that yours is by far the easier task.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she murmured, undoing the casually knotted sash with a flourish. The robe fell open over loose dark pyjamas, and for a moment, she paused, caught up in a sudden memory of Alex, who had always worn nightshirts. Then she set it aside—a different man, a different time—and pushed Gervase’s robe down his shoulders until it slid to the floor.
Emboldened, she tackled his pyjamas next, removing his tunic... and pausing once again, this time in pure feminine appreciation of what she saw. The broad chest, lightly dusted with bronze-gold hair, the flat, well-muscled abdomen tapering to narrow hips...
Hers for the asking—and the taking. Lust speared through her at the prospect, sharper and more intense than any she’d ever experienced. The natural response of a widow who’d missed the physical side of marriage, or something more—something connected to the man now standing in front of her?
Gervase was no less affected by their proximity—she could tell as much by the way he was breathing, deeply and far more quickly than usual. Smiling, she laid her palm upon his naked chest, enjoying the warmth of his skin and marveling at the steady but gratifyingly accelerated rhythm of his heart.
“What a piece of work is a man!” she murmured, only half in jest. “In form and moving how express and admirable... the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!”
“Not exactly original, but thank you all the same,” Gervase remarked, an amused glint in his grey eyes. “Now, with our mutual admiration duly expressed, shall we dispense with the rest of these inconvenient garments?”
“Growing impatient?” she teased, regarding him provocatively from under her lashes.
He huffed an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, my darling, if you only knew!”
He pulled her closer to him as he spoke, and within minutes, her combination and his pyjama trousers were on the floor with the rest of their clothes. Margaret bit back a startled gasp as Gervase lifted her off her feet in one swift motion and bore her to the bed. Astonishment and laughter tangled inside of her, the latter prevailing as he lowered her to the mattress.
“How masterful you are, my lord,” she whispered, sliding her arms about his neck and drawing him down to her. “I declare, I’m all aflutter!”
He gave her that irresistible dimpled smile. “Do tell. No, on second thought,” he laid a gentle finger over her lips, “it can wait. I can think of a far better use for that lovely mouth.”
He kissed her again, with the same hunger he’d shown in the gallery and the single-minded focus she’d seen him bring to so many things. Closing her eyes, Margaret gave herself up to it, losing herself in the taste, scent, and feel of him. Almost to her chagrin, she heard a small whimper break from her when he pulled away, but then his lips were blazing a fiery path down the line of her throat and further down into the cleft between her breasts. When that clever mouth closed over one of her nipples, teasing it erect with his tongue, then tugging gently, she gasped and tightened her grip on his shoulders as sensations rippled through her in a series of tiny shocks. His hands were occupied as well, his long fingers tracing sinuous patterns down her belly and over the curve of her hips before coming to rest at her mound.
Margaret stifled another whimper as he stroked her there, then trailed his finger over her moist seam, coaxing her folds apart. What had Alicia said, about Gervase being thorough in attending to a lady’s pleasures? He was certainly that—and more. She could lie here all night if she wished, blissfully adrift on the sea of sensations he was arousing in her.
But Alex had taught her to give pleasure as well as receive it, and Margaret considered herself a quick learner. Besides, she’d never been one to lie passive and inert during lovemaking. Intimacy was to be savored and shared, not merely endured. Releasing Gervase’s shoulders, she let her hands explore what she could of him: the thick brown hair that was softer and finer than she’d ever imagined, the surprisingly sensitive nape of his neck, the expanse of his back, the lean, smooth flanks...
Gervase shivered as she skimmed her palm over the last... good heavens, was he ticklish there? Mischievously, she repeated the caress and received confirmation as his skin twitched beneath her touch.
He raised his head, his eyes wide, startled, and vividly blue in the lamplight.
“Discovered your secret, have I?” she murmured. “And after all these years too!”
His lips curved in a slow smile. “Shall I beg for mercy? Or just beg?”
She paused, considering. “Allow me to reflect upon that for a moment.”
Gervase shook his head reprovingly. “Far too slow, ma chere.” He surged forward, claiming her mouth once more.
Laughter rose within her again, bubbling out between kisses. Twenty-six years of knowing this man, and he could still surprise her... but then this Gervase was something of an unknown quantity—half a friend, half a stranger, and the best parts of both.
He lay on top of her now, skin to skin, his arousal hot and hard against the juncture of her thighs. But his gaze was soft as he stroked her hair back from her face, the touch of his hands and his lips infinitely gentle. She felt at once desired and cherished, treasured and as desperately craved as water in the desert.
His shaft nudged against her seam, and Margaret smiled, spreading her legs wide. Her body was ready for him now—primed and ready. Some things one did not forget, even after several years. Tilting her hips upward to meet his advance, she took him deep inside of her.
And the boy she had known forever, the man she was just beginning to know, shuddered as she tightened around him, his eyes going dark and dazed. A wave of tenderness suffused her. Cool, controlled Gervase... at this moment he was as unguarded as she’d ever seen him, as caught up in desire as she was. Framing his face with her hands, she brushed kisses over his brow, his eyelids, and finally sought his mouth again.
She felt his lips curve in a smile against hers, heard his low murmur in her very bones: “A thousand kisses buys my heart from me; / And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.”
Then he was moving within her, slowly but purposefully, building up an irresistible rhythm to which she eagerly added her own embellishments, variations on an age-old theme. And the ripples became a cascade, then a coursing river that bore them along like storm-tossed flotsam, towards a fathomless, ever-changing sea.
She cried out as the wave flung them into the heart of the thundering surf, and a moment later, heard his answering cry. Locked in each other’s arms, they trembled in the throes of their shared climax, then sank—together, always together—beneath the sounding sea.
Some time later, Margaret raised herself on her elbow and contemplated her lover, supine and apparently still asleep beside her. His brown hair was tousled, glints of bronze and gold showing where the lamplight touched it, and his lashes, surprisingly long and dark, lay in a soft fringe upon his cheeks. With that knowing gaze hidden and that sardonic mouth relaxed, he looked years younger, more like the boy she had first known.
Except that no boy could have taken her with such skill and assurance, or roused such a response in her. She’d thoroughly enjoyed the marriage bed, and Alex had been a gentle and considerate partner, but this had been something... other than what she was accustomed to. A passionate joining that had left her limp and boneless, with every inch of her glowing from Gervase’s ardent attentions.
Was it because of all those pent-up feelings on his part? All the times he’d had to hold back, during her engagement to Hal? And yet, even at the height of passion, there had been such care... and a melting tenderness that had made her want to weep.
She was just wondering whether to kiss him awake or turn down the lamp and let him sleep, when an arm reached up and drew her back down to the pillows. And a drowsy voice mused aloud, “I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I / Did, till we loved?”
“Awake, after all, I see.” Margaret relaxed into his encircling arm, feeling like the cat who had got the canary, the cream, and just about every other delicacy known to feline kind. “And now good morrow to our waking souls.” She stroked his hair. “Dare I ask if you enjoyed last night?”
His eyes flew open at that. “Good Lord, need you ask?”
The surprise in his voice was all the reassurance she needed. Smiling, she rested her head upon his chest. “Just had to make sure the pleasure wasn’t all on one side. I wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint you—not after all these years.”
She could not recall ever seeing him smile like this, all relaxed and unguarded, his body warm and slack in the aftermath of lovemaking. “You could never disappoint me, belle amie.” Touching her face, he quoted softly, “If ever any beauty I did see, / Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee.”
No doubting the sincerity in his eyes or voice. Margaret’s own eyes stung, and she looked down quickly. “I can’t believe how I missed all the signs!”
“Don’t reproach yourself too much. I am a past master at concealing what I feel. In this family, how could I be otherwise? Elaine knew, though,” he added, after a moment.
“Elaine?” Margaret echoed, incredulous. “Good heavens, for how long?”
“Long enough. Since Hal’s death, certainly. Possibly before.”
“But why didn’t she—”
“Because I asked her not to,” Gervase broke in. “And she respected the confidence. Recollect, ma mie, that you were to be my sister-in-law. And then...”
His voice tailed off, but she waited, sensing that there was more to come.
“I had a plan,” he resumed at last. “I was going to wait another five or six months, until the year of mourning was up. And then—I meant to ask you... if you would consider letting me court you—”
She winced. “And then I eloped with Alex. Oh, Gervase...”
“Bellamy was a good man,” he said on a sigh. “I tried to be happy for you. I did manage it, after a fashion, because you deserved to be happy. Even if it wasn’t with me.”
Margaret swallowed, more moved than she could say. Throughout her life, Gervase had been a friend, an ally, and a frequent thorn in her side. Not until this moment had she realized just how dear he could be. That he could have loved her, deeply and selflessly, for so many years... “I’d often wondered why you never married. There must have been dozens of women who’d have jumped at the chance to be your wife.”
Gervase shook his head. “A solicitor isn’t many women’s idea of Prince Charming. Nor would I have wished to marry someone who only wanted me because I was a duke’s son. Finally, I thought it would be unfair to propose to any woman for whom I could not feel strong affection. Under the circumstances,” he added, a touch dryly, “I cannot bring myself to regret that decision now.”
“Nor I,” Margaret admitted. “In fact, I suspect I’d have been rather jealous if you had taken a wife.” She trailed a finger down his sternum and glanced at him from under her lashes. “I was even a little jealous of Alicia tonight.”
“Alicia?” Gervase sounded genuinely bewildered. “Good God, why?”
“Well, she’s—grown up to be very beautiful, hasn’t she?”
“I suppose,” he conceded with a benign indifference that set any lingering fears at rest. “If one favors blondes. My preference is for something more... vibrant.” He threaded his hands through her hair, admiring the strands in the lamplight. “Silk shot through with fire. Exquisite.”
“You wax poetical,” she teased, though the compliment warmed her to the core.
“Or a good chestnut horse, if you prefer,” he resumed blandly.
She poked him in the ribs, and he laughed outright, a rare sound that delighted her. How many women had had the chance to see him so: open, uninhibited, and completely irresistible?
“Seriously, darling, why would you think I’d ever be attracted to Alicia?”
She savored the “darling,” but explained, “I couldn’t help but notice that she was flirting a bit with you, during charades.”
“She was flirting a bit with all the men, during charades,” he corrected. “I took it as no more than a bit of practice on her part—like a kitten trying its strength on someone. It’s Brother Reg’s attention she really wants, but unfortunately, she’s chosen the wrong tree to climb.”
Margaret tensed. “What do you mean, exactly?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual.
He shrugged. “I’ve never seen Reg in love. But if I had to imagine him with a woman, it wouldn’t be your sister, lovely as she is. It would be someone bold and dashing, who’d take to army life straightaway. Someone who could ride as hard, shoot as straight, and live as rough as any soldier. And look striking while doing it,” he added with a faint smile.
So even Gervase, with his quick perceptions, had not figured everything out; she did not know whether to be relieved or sorry. “Sounds like a veritable Boudiccea—or an Amazon.”
“A Hippolyta, as opposed to a Helen. That might suit Reg down to the ground. And she’d probably be like Mother, in personality at least.” He paused, then continued not unkindly, “While I can’t predict what will happen between Reg and Alicia, I have some difficulty imagining her getting all she wants from him.”
He spoke more truly than he knew, Margaret reflected somberly. “Poor Alicia.”
Gervase stroked her bare back. “I know it’s not easy seeing your sister in such a situation. But we cannot always protect those we love from disappointment—or heartache. Sometimes all we can do is be there... to help pick up the pieces.”
Who’d picked up his pieces, she wondered with a rush of self-reproach, all those years when she’d been engaged to Hal, then married to Alex? Elaine, perhaps—but knowing Gervase as she did, she suspected he’d borne most of his heartache alone and in silence. Suddenly remorseful, she wound her arms about him, letting an embrace say what words could not.
He stroked her back again, a more sensual caress this time, meant to arouse as well as soothe, and she arched into it, like a cat. Indeed, she wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find herself purring. But touch was a game that two could play. Remembering his secret, she trailed her hand over his chest, then let her fingers drift innocently towards his flank...
Only to find herself pinned to the mattress again with Gervase poised over her. In the lamplight, his eyes shone a winter-sky blue, so clear as to be guileless, but his wicked grin belied all that. Changing tactics, Margaret twined her arms about his neck and kissed him until they were both breathless and she could see heat smoldering behind those cool eyes of his.
Which led inevitably to a second round of lovemaking, gentler and more leisurely than the first, but every bit as delightful. Afterwards, entwined in a delicious lassitude, they slid into sleep together.
She woke to find the place beside her empty, but on stretching out an anxious hand, she discovered that the hollow where he’d lain was still warm. Blinking heavy eyes, she scanned the chamber, noting from the quality of light that morning was approaching.
Her lover was standing, magnificently and unashamedly naked, in front of the casement, staring out at the landscape. Still only half-awake, Margaret eased herself up on her elbows and admired the view: the broad shoulders tapering to the narrow waist, the sturdy upper arms, the smooth ripple of muscle beneath the lean back...
He spoke without turning around. “Merry Margaret, midsummer flower, gentle as falcon or hawk of the tower... it snowed again last night.”
Margaret did not ask how he’d known she was awake. “Heavily?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Let’s just say, I doubt that anyone in this house will be going anywhere today. Not unless they’ve taken complete leave of their senses.”
Their eyes met, then, “Reg,” they said in unison and laughed.
“Well, I was looking forward to a white Christmas,” Margaret said philosophically.
Gervase arched a dubious brow. “Even one with impassable roads and the unadulterated company of my family?”
“Don’t forget my family as well,” she reminded him. “One simply has to take the rough along with the smooth. Speaking of which...” She stretched luxuriously and let the sheet slip down just far enough to afford him a glimpse of what he’d so enjoyed the night before. Much to her satisfaction, interest sparked in his eyes. “Why don’t you come back to bed? You must be freezing, standing there without a stitch on.”
He hesitated, clearly tempted. “I should go back to my own room, before they come in to light the fires.”
“That won’t be for a while yet. Night’s candles aren’t entirely burnt out, are they?”
He left the window. “Not quite, but the sun will be coming up soon.”
“Busy old fool, unruly sun,” Margaret quoted, leaning back against the pillows and patting the place beside her invitingly. “Stay until dawn? My bed is far warmer than yours is likely to be right now. And I won’t even complain if you put those cold feet on mine.”
He gave her that dimpled smile. “Greater love hath no woman. Very well—I’ll stay.”
Margaret stifled a squeak as he climbed in beside her; yes, his feet were decidedly chilly, but the rest of him warmed up with gratifying speed, especially once they began to kiss again. And to caress and fondle, like two people starved of touch.
“She is all states and all princes I,” Gervase murmured low in her ear, as they came together once more. “Nothing else is.”
And for another glorious interval, nothing else was.
As promised, he stayed until dawn, slipping cat-footed out of her bed and donning his pyjamas and robe again.
Margaret had protested sleepily, but Gervase had remained adamant. “As delightful as last night was, I think it best if we are discreet. I don’t want to bring my whole family down upon you—which is what would happen if I were caught in your chamber.”
She could not suppress a slight wince at the thought. And she did want to hold on to the sweetness of their new relationship, keep it close and secret, at least for now. All the same, she was reluctant to see him go, and said so.
He stroked her hair, smiled lingeringly into her eyes before stealing a farewell kiss. “This isn’t the end for us, belle amie. It is barely the beginning.”
“Shall I see you at breakfast?” she asked hopefully.
“Very likely, if you can make it downstairs by nine o’clock.” He eased open the door, peered into the passage, then slipped out, throwing one last quick smile over his shoulder.
As it turned out, he was right to be cautious. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes later that she heard footsteps in the passage and Tilda entered with her tray.
“Brought your hot chocolate, my lady,” she announced brightly, seeing that Margaret was awake. “You’ll be glad of it this morning. The ground’s just covered in snow!”
So Gervase had said. Margaret rose, a little reluctant to leave the warm nest where they had so recently lain, and located her dressing gown. Tilda moved about the room, tidying up with brisk efficiency and no sign of suspicion that anything unusual had occurred. Gervase, with admirable foresight, had draped Margaret’s discarded clothes circumspectly over a chair before leaving her chamber. She wondered if he’d made it back to his own room before his valet could notice that he’d spent the night elsewhere. Granted, if Farnsworth did suspect anything, he could be trusted to keep it to himself; discreet servants were worth their weight in gold! She smiled at the thought, hugging the memory of last night to her, happier than she’d been in years.
Pausing by the window, she looked out at a landscape blanketed in white. Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow... Gervase might disagree, but Margaret thought it a beautiful sight—as if the world had been made new while they slept.
The chocolate tasted especially good this morning, the toast positively ambrosial, and she enlivened her small repast by reading further into Gervase’s gift. Strange to think of Richard III as a harbinger of romance, but the wronged Yorkist king had certainly managed to bring Gervase and herself together. Who needed Shakespeare or Byron, with such a matchmaker?
Afterwards, she washed—and was unable to resist singing or at least humming in the bath—and then chose a pretty suit of heathery tweed, flecked in two shades of green. Gervase liked her in green, and it brought out the red in her hair. Silk and fire, he’d called it last night... she found herself smiling foolishly at the remembered compliment, and was still smiling when she left her chamber to go down to breakfast, well within the appointed time.
Gervase was already present, washed, shaved, sleek as a cat and looking twice as satisfied as he helped himself to ham and eggs from the sideboard. He glanced up as she entered, and smiled, the dimples forming deep crescents on either side of his mouth. That clever mouth that had done such interesting things to her last night.
Returning his smile, she joined him at the sideboard. “Are we the first ones down today?”
“Among the first. Lydgate mentioned that Father and Reg already breakfasted, and Mother is having hers upstairs, as usual.” Gervase removed the lid of another chafing dish, and scooped a generous spoonful of fried potatoes onto his plate.
“Quite the appetite this morning, I see,” Margaret observed as she filled her own plate.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, brushing shoulders with her on his way to the table.
There were plenty of vacant chairs, but she sat down beside him, close enough for their knees to touch and their hands to meet under the table—if they so desired. And close enough to exchange intimate glances that promised more of last night’s pleasure, as soon as they could safely manage it. For now, she contented herself with those and with the sight of his profile, admiring the angle of his cheekbones, the strong, sharp lines of nose and jaw, even the fine scrollwork of his ear. Mine, she thought with a possessiveness that surprised her.
Elaine and Alasdair were the next to arrive, both bright-faced and looking almost as pleased with themselves as Margaret suspected she and Gervase did.
Elaine glanced about the room. “Gracious, did everyone sleep in this morning?”
“Seems to be the most sensible choice, when one is snowed in,” Alasdair observed, glancing fondly at his wife, whose blush left no doubt as to how they’d spent their waking hours.
Was Elaine watching them more closely? Margaret wondered. She’d known—and kept—Gervase’s secret for years. Would she sense that things might have changed between them? Margaret lowered her gaze to her plate, took a sip of scalding tea, and carefully avoided looking at her lover, though she could feel amusement radiating from him like heat from a furnace.
The rest of the house party came straggling in soon after: Madeline and Hugo, Juliana, Jason, and Augustus. And finally Alicia, wearing a lemon-yellow morning dress that set off her bright hair to perfection.
They were all seated, laden plates before them, when Whitborough and his heir strode into the room. Margaret’s heart sank when she saw how her sister straightened in her chair upon her fiancé’s entrance. It sank further still when she looked more closely at the two men: the duke was smiling, his eyes alight with triumph, while Reg’s expression was a match for Gervase’s at his most impassive.
“Good morning,” Whitborough announced jovially, casting a sweeping glance around the table. “I’m glad to see so many of you here. Especially since there’s an announcement to be made.” He set a hand on his heir’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Reginald?”
“Indeed, sir.” Reg’s voice, like his face, gave nothing away, and Margaret watched with mounting dread as he approached her sister’s chair and lowered himself to one knee beside it.
“Lady Alicia,” he began formally, “if it is agreeable to you, I thought we might marry on New Year’s Eve, in the family chapel.”