He must be very careful with her, he thought. ‘Fragile’ was not a word one associated with Marguerite, but the dramatics of the past couple of weeks had taken their toll. On that awful night when Spencer died she’d been physically exhausted. Much as he’d needed her trenchant common sense to save him from his own private hell, he’d walked away from her. He had seen she had a tenuous hold on her pride because her bad leg had collapsed beneath her.
Later, when he’d tried to approach her to talk about their future, she had politely repulsed him. She was always “too busy” or “just going to see the marchioness about something.” So he had sunk further into the pit, wondering who was going to pull him out.
But of course he’d clambered up out of the pit all on his own. He’d done it before and he supposed he’d do it again if necessary, but he couldn’t quite forget that he had turned to her and she’d pushed him away. He had come to the depressing conclusion that she wanted out of their engagement. What else was he to think?
Now her mother, of all people, had handed him a lifeline. It wasn’t that Marguerite didn’t want to marry him—at least he hoped not—but that she’d been protecting him. Again. In her unassuming way she’d been protecting him all along.
“Let us sit here,” he said, guiding her towards a stone seat overlooking the lake. He laid his jacket down for her sit on, then sat down beside her. Taking her hand in his lap, he played with her fingers. “I cannot forget that night,” he muttered. “It rolls over and over in my mind. No matter what I am doing, whether I’m going over accounts or checking the breeding cattle, I keep recalling my brother’s words.”
“Which words?” Her brow creased in puzzlement, her soft brown eyes were serious and intrigued.
“He said he knew I’d always wanted to be him, the dashing one, the one who would have a title. He was wrong about that, but in a way he was also right. I’ve always envied him Trewbridge, ever since I was in leading strings. Despicable.” His head drooped. There. He’d told her his pathetic secret. What would she do? He listened for the telltale rustle of skirts as she rose to walk away.
She stayed. “There’s nothing despicable about it,” she retorted. “It’s perfectly natural. I’m sure England is teeming with scores of young men who yearn to be in their older brothers’ shoes.”
“Yes, but Marguerite...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t like or trust Spencer—my own brother. Never. What does that say about me?”
Marguerite clasped his fingers. “It says you were astute, even as a child, and that you have been proved right,” she said. “I know that sounds harsh, John, but it is the truth. Your brother was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a nice person.”
He tried to smile. “I knew you would not beat about the bush, my love. But Marguerite, I cannot come to terms with the fact that in the future I will inherit Trewbridge and all it stands for. How like Fate to give me what I want at the expense of another. That old adage ‘be careful what you wish for’ is so true.” His voice shook. “I-I’m frightened I’m not good enough...”
He felt his throat close and his chest tighten. Lord, please say he wasn’t going to blub. He tried to squeeze the hot tears back behind his eyelids but they dribbled down his cheeks and splashed on to Marguerite’s fingers.
“Hush, my love,” she said. “Hush.” And she lifted their clasped hands and kissed away the teardrops. He tried to control the trembling inside him but it burst through and his entire body shook as if he had the ague. All the fears and inadequacies washed over him in a wave and it was as if his body and mind knew it was safe to relinquish control around Marguerite. Safe to show Marguerite his fears.
She shimmied on to his lap and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She soothed him as she would a child. “Sssh,” she said, rubbing her hand up and down his back. “Sssh. In due course you will be an admirable marquess.”
“What about Trewbury?” he muttered, his face buried on her shoulder as she stroked the scar running down the side of his neck. “Finally, a place to call our own and now—”
“With help, I’m sure we will find a way to manage both properties, John.”
He shook his head. “Not just two properties, Marguerite. There’s the Scottish one as well.”
“Oh!” She began to laugh. “I had forgotten Malloch. But we will manage. We are strong people, you and I.”
She wriggled into a more comfortable position on his lap and he drew in his breath as the swelling inside his breeches grew. Hadn’t he embarrassed himself in front of Marguerite enough today?
But the little minx knew exactly what she was doing. She smiled at him, toffee brown eyes brimming with mischief. “Do you want me to get up?” she asked. “Am I too heavy?”
He hugged her. “Minx. I think we should be married very soon.” Lord, how he’d come to love her. She always knew the right thing to say or do to defuse a situation.
She nodded, a smile crinkling the corners of her mouth. Then her face became serious. “Are you sure I am who you want, John? I cannot imagine anyone less cut out to be a marchioness.”
“Oh you are definitely who I want, my pet.” He turned her face up to his and kissed her. He loved kissing Marguerite. Her innocence was outweighed by her enthusiastic participation. There were no coquettish games from Marguerite. He savoured the sweetness for a moment, then admitted, “I cannot see Trewbridge the same way as I did before.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “The rose coloured glasses are gone. It is a huge estate, a great responsibility. A millstone.”
She shook her head. “No, no. It is a beautiful place. You will love it again, my lord, when the grief wears off.” Then she shivered as a cloudbank rolled over the sun.
John stood up and held out his hand. “Not ‘my lord.’ John will do.”
“Oh yes. John will do very nicely.” She pretended to misunderstand and he laughed and picked her up and swung her around as he had on the day they’d gone to see Diabolo’s grave.
“You, my sweet, will keep me on my toes. I bless the day you snarled at me ‘are you not trespassing too?’”
She blushed. “I hoped you would forget our first meeting. I was not polite.”
He pulled a face. “Neither was I, telling you that you felt sorry for yourself and describing those awful scenes to you.”
She laughed. “How I hated you! I went home determined never to have anything to do with you again.”
“And yet—here we are,” he said. He bent his head and kissed her again. To have something to tide him over till they could be alone again.