| |
SOMETHING DISTRACTED Jasper from his chitchat with the other dukes, and he glanced over the hedge. Later he would not be certain whether it was some sixth sense or whether some small animal had nudged him in that direction. Had a bird chirped?
Margaret stood on the other side of the hedge with Mr. Owens. Now that she was not sitting, he could appreciate the manner in which her pale blue dress hugged the curves of her body.
Not that he was looking at her, though it wasn’t for lack of beauty.
His focus was on Mr. Owens.
The man knelt.
Mr. Owens did not appear like a man who would spontaneously kneel. He’d shown no interest in the vertebrae that favored ground habitation, and though a lesser man might fall victim to loose laces, Mr. Owens seemed too fastidious to embark into the world without careful checking and double checking of the state of his footwear.
Jasper told himself Mr. Owens might have experienced some cobbler issue that required him to kneel even though a perfectly good bench was nearby. Mr. Owens appeared fastidious, but any man might experience a cobbler issue. That’s why cobblers existed after all.
Somehow, Jasper didn’t feel reassured.
Jasper strongly suspected the reason for Mr. Owens change of pose, and he didn’t require the use of Belmonte’s navigation equipment to make his conjecture.
Mr. Owens must be proposing.
Jasper’s plan had worked splendidly: Miss Carberry had received a proposal. She wouldn’t marry Jasper, and he would be able to spend the rest of his life content that he’d not been forced into marriage.
Jasper had hoped the men’s interest might be piqued during the visit, but he’d only dreamed about a proposal. The house party wasn’t even finished, and the violinists hadn’t had a chance to play their full, romantic repertoire.
Jasper considered shouting to the gardener that a celebratory champagne was essential. He could almost taste the bubbles flitting in his mouth.
And yet, he didn’t feel happy.
And Jasper mostly felt happy. Not experiencing the emotion was a novel experience. But he was certain his heart never normally ached in such a manner, just as he would have remembered if he normally had a sour taste in his throat. No doubt eating would be a much less pleasurable occupation if that were the case.
“You’ve grown quite pale,” Brightling observed.
“Have I?” Jasper asked.
“Yes.” Brightling nodded seriously.
She was happy, Jasper reminded himself.
She’d wanted to spend time with Mr. Owens, and now she was.
This was what accomplishment felt like. If Jasper’s heart didn’t precisely soar, that most likely had more to do with the fact that Jasper was accustomed to being accomplished.
And yet, the man was dreadful. He was utterly odious. If he married Miss Carberry, he would no doubt take pleasure in belittling her and asserting his authority, meager as it might be. How could Miss Carberry continue her interest in ornithology and birds if her husband would not even permit her to leave the safe confines of his house? How could she do anything at all except display reverence to the man’s supposed intelligence and knowledge lest he barrage her with insults? How could she ever relax, knowing that simply reaching for the marmalade might lead to a tirade? To know that no moment was ever truly relaxing? To know she could never fully concentrate on her own interests again?
Women married people like Mr. Owens all the time. He didn’t want Miss Carberry to make their mistake. Marriage was not something that could be reversed.
But now Mr. Owens was planning to spend the rest of his life with Miss Carberry.
Jasper bit back a groan. He needed to see what was happening. He turned to Hammett. “Perhaps I’m not feeling so well. I’ll just nip back to the castle.”
“Morning nap?” Brightling asked dubiously.
“Perhaps!” Jasper said, forcing his voice to sound cheerful.
Unfortunately, Brightling’s eyes only narrowed. Perhaps cheerfulness was not something sick people strove to emanate. Perhaps some of them were simply grumpy.
Jasper felt grumpy.
He felt very, very grumpy.
Jasper gave an awkward wave to Brightling, then bounded to the flower garden.
If only his gardeners hadn’t made the place look so romantic. How could Miss Carberry do anything but accept Mr. Owens’ proposal?
Jasper hurried toward Mr. Owens and Miss Carberry. It was only when he neared them, that he halted.
This didn’t have anything to do with him. He had no claim on Miss Carberry. If she wanted to marry Mr. Owens, well, she could do that. After all, yesterday she’d enthused about what they’d had in common.
His heart squeezed for a peculiar reason, and he lingered near the garden.
Mr. Owens remained kneeling.
Shouldn’t more have happened now? Shouldn’t they be embracing? If a woman had just accepted his offer of marriage, he’d want to kiss her.
Finally, Mr. Owens rose. His facial expression remained the same, and his manner retained their customary stiffness.
There was no embrace.
Then he tramped away, his back stiff, leaving Miss Carberry by the rose bush.
*
MARGARET’S HEART THUMPED oddly as Mr. Owens moved efficiently through the garden, away from her forever.
The man had proposed.
And she’d rejected him.
At some point she would regret this, but that moment hadn’t arrived yet. Her mouth dried all the same. Mr. Owens met all her qualifications for being a good husband. He was intelligent. At least, he was intelligent enough. Perhaps he wasn’t particularly kind, but perhaps that was an elusive quality in people. Her mother wasn’t particularly kind either.
And yet, when he’d knelt before her, the only question that had occupied her mind was how she could decline gracefully.
Even though she despised living with her parents.
Even though she had no other prospects. The Duke of Jevington might speak optimistically of marrying her off to one of his friends, but she possessed a more realistic appraisal of her qualities. Mr. Owens had been her best hope for marriage, and she’d said no, as if she received offers every day.
Heavens.
What would her friends think? What would her parents think?
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to flee to her chamber, but she had no urge to happen upon Mr. Owens as he continued his steady strides away, and she certainly had no urge to encounter her parents. How much might they have seen from the breakfast room?
She ambled toward a stone bench. As she rounded the rose bush, she nearly barreled into the Duke of Jevington.
The man was staring at her with an odd expression on his face, and she shrank back.
“Mr. Octavius Owens proposed to you,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
Oh, no.
He’d witnessed it.
“And you said no,” the duke said.
She nodded abruptly, not wanting to gaze into his eyes. The man had arranged all of this so she might marry someone... and yet, when she’d received an offer, she’d rejected it.
She could not spend the duration of their conversation staring at a rose bush.
He didn’t appear to disapprove of her.
On the contrary.
Something like joy moved through her.
Then the duke extended his hand, and she took it, disoriented.
He leaned nearer her, and the sheer movement caused her heart to spin. The world tilted and swayed, even though Margaret hadn’t taken a single step, much less fallen.
But his face appeared larger than before, closer than before.
And in the next moment, his lips brushed against hers.
And in the moment after that, his lips did more than brush against hers. His lips teased hers open, then everything was bliss.
The space between them narrowed. His scent of cotton and lemon drifted over her. She’d never considered the combination intoxicating before, but now it seemed an oddity that none of the smugglers during the wars with France had bottled up that combination.
He placed sturdy hands on her waist, and he stroked her hair, seeming to find wonder in it. The experience should have felt awkward and uncomfortable and perhaps even frightening. Kissing was certainly something she’d never done before, and the appeal had seemed questionable.
But this felt like none of those things. Instead, her heart seemed to have taken up flight as a hobby, because it soared through her.
She glided her hands up gingerly, placing her hands onto his tailcoat. The woolen fabric felt rough, despite the barrier of her gloves, and yet not touching was impossible. He narrowed the distance between them, and a moan fell from his mouth. His chest pressed against her, crushing her bosom, and emotions fluttered through her.
This was what a kiss was like.
This was why everyone spoke of the action with reverence.
But she shouldn’t kiss him.
The thought was absurd. If she kissed him here, in the garden, someone might see. Her mother would force him to marry her.
And unlike other people who kissed, then married, he wasn’t kissing her because he’d declared he’d loved her. After all, he’d arranged this whole event due to relief at not being forced to marry.
No.
If he kissed her, it was to impart some educational knowledge. That had been clear from the outset. She shouldn’t develop fanciful notions. Fanciful notions that might arise if she continued to linger on the loveliness of his scent, the strength of his arms, and the touch of his lips.
She pulled away abruptly. “I—I...”
Her mouth felt thick and useless. She wanted to bury herself in his arms again. She wanted him to continue to kiss her, but instead his expression shifted.