Margaret clutched her side as her head rang with the sounds of laughter and clinking crystal. She stood on her toes, her fingernails scraping the wallpaper as she craned her neck. For all the effort, there was still only a scant view over the people milling about in the rosy candlelight.
Finally, in the corner, she saw the golden flash of ringlets she'd been looking for. Her look of hopeful desperation settled to a disappointed frown as she watched a young woman twirl into her handsome suitor's arms. Whoever it was, Margaret mused as she sunk back to her heels, she was certainly not Mrs. Fanny Watson. With Dixon occupied in the kitchens, Fanny had, against all odds, become her sole hope of relief.
Slumping against the wall, Margaret resigned herself to immobility. Her restless eyes, as hungry for distraction as her stomach was for food, settled on a peripheral corner of the dancing area. Despite the servants' attentions, one of the golden ropes had slid down, opening the velvet drapes. The accidental moonbeam filtering through painted each couple whirling past with an ephemeral streak of silver. The effect was utterly romantic, though she'd never been one for dancing.
She dismissed the notion of a turn about the floor as quickly as it came. Mr. Thornton, also lost to the crowd, had no doubt been entrapped into conversation with the other mill masters. His absence was just as well, as Margaret could never hide anything from him. At present, her greater problem was the inability to breathe.
Her eyes closed as the shrill words which precipitated her present distress echoed in her mind.
"Honestly, Margaret. Any lady who is anyone at all should be laced far tighter than this!"
It had been but ten past seven when the young Mrs. Watson had barged in that morning. A portmanteau of dubious articles in tow, Fanny appointed herself to the task of scrutinizing every aspect of Margaret's gown. First, there was the make of the bustle, which was woefully small. Equally insufficient was the length of the train, a "dreadful" inch shorter than Fanny's own had been. To remedy these horrid follies, Fanny had supervised zealously, having Jane fetch useless odds and ends from every corner of the house. Dixon had, rather presciently, left half an hour earlier for the flower arrangements.
By eight o'clock, Dixon had returned, ready to lace Margaret in as usual. Fanny, however, would have none of it. With a look of abject horror, she held up the corset with two fingers as though it were a piece of refuse, declaring loudly that only a proper lady's maid could be trusted with the task. Shoving Dixon aside, Fanny presented Margaret with a boned article of gold brocade. It was quite small, French, and the same as used by a one 'Lady de Clare.'
Much to Fanny's abashment, Margaret had long been inured to such nonsensical requests, remembering well her years at Harley Street. She never been in the habit of lacing tightly, more mindful of her daily walks than of fashion. This day would be no different.
What Margaret was less prepared for was Fanny stomping so petulantly that Mrs. Thornton had poked her head in to investigate. The old woman cast only a warning look before ducking out, much to Margaret's gratitude.
Under normal circumstances, Margaret did nothing she did not wish. Under normal circumstances, she'd also not heard two hours straight of Fanny's incessant prattling on top of a sleepless night. Therefore, Margaret soon found herself listening to a sermon on the virtues of a 'presentable' figure as Fanny yanked at the laces. By the time Edith and Aunt Shaw arrived in a flurry of embraces, she had already stepped into her gown.
Soon after, the carriage had arrived. The dawn chill still permeated the courtyard as Margaret stepped out, hesitating momentarily on the landing. Clearly enjoying the opportunity to fuss, Dixon made a show of adjusting the late Mrs. Hale's small diamond brooch pinning Margaret's cape. "I cannot believe it is the last morning," the old woman had said with sad fondness, "that you will be Miss Hale."
And so it was that Miss Margaret Hale became Mrs. John Thornton. In the end, she had gotten her wish for a simple ceremony. Corset aside, her gown was modest, its cream satin accented with wispy golden ferns. Her bouquet was of Michaelmas daisies, their lavender almost white against the sun-bright centers. Those little yellow circles were almost the hue of Helstone roses, for which it was now too late in the season. The service itself had passed in a blur of stone and grey and 'amens.' It was only when John had slid the band on her finger, his eyes shining with nervous joy, that Margaret gave her heart permission to soar. Doubt and pride had, for years, kept it anchored. But at last it was real: He was hers and she his.
Only now, in this weightlessness of surrender, did it strike her in comparison how different the day might have looked had she accepted John years ago. She might have arisen to a sky that was sunny, rather than grey, before donning her favorite muslin. The six Boucher children would have worn eyelet as they skipped, scattering rose petals onto the red clay path. Nicholas and Mary would have been there—perhaps even Mr. Boucher. Her childhood friends, few though they were, would have lined the church road to greet her. And there, at the end, would have stood her parents and Fred, their smiles brighter to see her happiness than all the rest.
It was plain now that it was only ever fantasy. Without her parents—and worse, without Fred—it would never have been a true Helstone wedding. It was the Southern Margaret who had dreamt of it. She was not the woman who had made Milton her home at last.
"I dare not ask what you are thinking with that look on your face, Mrs. Thornton."
Margaret turned around to see Mr. Thornton—John, she corrected herself—standing not a foot from her. His eyes, alight like a sky on fire, could arrest her from across the room. At this proximity, she did not know where to look. As had become habit, she chose the floor.
Her instinct was a sobering reminder of how recently they'd abandoned their stubbornness. Their engagement had been but a month. Though unspoken between them, it was implicit that to marry sooner was worth every raised eyebrow and whisper. There was no rational explanation to the world that, abrupt as their love might seem, they'd waited years too long already.
Though brief, their betrothal had allowed them to make up for time lost. They'd walked unchaperoned in the parks—a pleasure they delighted to learn they had in common. As they strolled in the crisp air above the smoke and warehouses, it was Margaret who did most of the talking. Both John's presence and her return to Milton were still so incandescent, so exhilarating, that the words came freely. Among them was a barrage of questions about the welfare of hands and shop owners and masters alike. John answered each one patiently, his mouth twitching with amusement.
As was always his way, when he did speak, his thoughts were of the future: of the mill; of prospects. It was only when the wind was quiet that he would murmur of the past. That he could not sleep for days when she'd left. That he'd wanted to kiss her hand when it had brushed his that night at tea so long ago.
These revelations would come so unexpectedly and innocuously that Margaret almost did not hear them. Each word made her soul resound with 'yes.' Just the knowledge that he had shared a private thought was enough to warm her cheeks.
Still, the intimacy of the heart was not this—the sheer newness of him so close. From the moment she'd seen him looking down on the mill floor, she had measured his features, so sharply handsome that she could feel them as much as see them. The memory of her fingers grasping the nape of his neck the day of the riots, her cheek close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, always left her with a restless ache. She felt it again, and more acutely, as he strode toward her on the train platform, sleeves rolled and collar undone. By the time his lips had curved so tenderly against hers, defiant to all scandal, she was lost. Exhilaration coursed through her as he'd held her closer in their booth, every stolen kiss more urgent than the last. Her pounding heart was almost pressed to his when the ticket taker came. They'd had only a moment to collect themselves before pulling away.
Margaret quickly looked up, unaware of how long she had been lost in her reverie. For what she deduced was more than a few moments, he had been extending something toward her.
"They did not arrive in time for the ceremony, I'm afraid."
With an astonished breath, she touched the familiar glossy leaves. Little clusters of yellow petals were bursting from them, fully bloomed.
"How on earth did you get them?"
"New York. Last in the greenhouse, so I was told."
She held back a laugh at John's gruff tone, so at odds with the gentle earnestness of his gaze. He should be scolded for such extravagance, even if he had found the roses. Her roses.
"But how could you incur such an expense on my account? We have already spent—"
"It was worth every pound."
Margaret shook her head at his stern jaw and the rare smile that accompanied it. Any further argument would be half-hearted.
Realizing that John was still rather awkwardly holding the arrangement, she nodded at a nearby servant. As she placed the bushel of flowers into her arms, Margaret grabbed a few loose stems for herself. Already, she knew it would be her most cherished wedding gift.
"Fetch a vase for these, please, and put them in the sitting room." The young servant girl—one temporarily borrowed from the Watsons—bowed to her mistress and was off.
When Margaret turned back, John had himself become lost in thought. Like her, he had little interest in trite conversation and being the fixture of attention. He surveyed the throng of Miltoners hopping to a jig with mild apprehension.
"We shall have to oblige them again at some point before the night is over, I'm afraid."
A flush bloomed on Margaret's face at the recent and rather embarrassing memory. After much toasting, and the newlyweds' refusal to kiss before the crowd, the Thorntons had conceded to a dance. Both of them had narrowly missed each other's toes on several turns.
"I fear we would both do ourselves an injury at that pace," Margaret teased. "But a waltz might have been agreeable had you not been engaged elsewhere."
"Already I am derelict in my husbandly duties, it seems." John eyed the small group of mill masters huddled in the far corner. As Margaret now understood too well, business was the inescapable fabric of Milton society.
He extended his arm with a wry smile, looking thoughtfully at the chaise beside them.
"Shall we agree to not dance, then?"
"That sounds more than agreeable, actually," she replied with a smile.
Bending her knees slowly, Margaret tried not to lean too much on his elbow. Just as she settled onto the cushion, another pang tore through her side.
She looked up after catching her breath to see John perched on the edge of the seat, his brow furrowed with concern.
"I am well, I assure you." With a wave of her hand, she bid him sit back. "The laces were tied a bit too tight this morning, that is all."
John frowned dubiously, looking across the room. "I'll venture to guess it was my sister's idea rather than your own."
A blush lit Margaret's cheeks, both at the accurate assumption of what caused her present condition and who was (partly) to blame.
"...And so she said, 'But why can we not have two carriages if a horse has eight legs?'"
Margaret cringed as she turned toward the familiar high-pitched voice. As often occurred at such events, a small crowd had surrounded Mrs. Watson. The Thorntons watched as her fan cut the air with a theatrical slice, almost knocking poor Mr. Watson to the floor.
"Fanny assured me it was how all ladies are wearing it in London," Margaret blurted, appraising her sister-in-law's ruddy cheeks and Watson's rather appalled expression. If only she'd found Dixon while she had the chance.
John raised a facetious eyebrow, his smile crooked. "To think that the most sensible and willful woman I know consented to such impracticality."
"My good sense was misplaced this morning amongst the hairpins, I am afraid."
Marriage seemed to have already brought an unexpectedly easy humor to the master of Marlborough Mills, Margaret mused. A glance at the party, still well and alive without them, was enough to sober her from a joking mood.
"But I suppose not much about weddings is sensible, is it?"
As though he were reading her thoughts, a look of tenuous strain returned to John's face. "A Milton wedding is not a Helstone wedding, I know."
"But you know I'd no longer wished for that."
"Yes, but you cannot truthfully tell me that this—" he made a sweeping gesture to the room—"is what you wanted, Margaret."
She could not lie to him, so she dared not answer. As predicted, Mrs. Thornton had balked at hosting only a small wedding breakfast. In the spirit of compromise, Margaret had ceded control of the domestic details in which she took little delight. Somewhere in the proceedings, the wedding 'breakfast' had lengthened into a fete that had well outlasted the daylight.
Watching her husband's pensiveness, an insensible fondness overtook Margaret. Not long ago, she had construed his silences with all the prejudice in her heart. It had taken too many of his kind gestures, once so willfully ignored, to see that his reserve was more often born of thoughtfulness than anger.
And, in truth, she did not mind the occasional tempest. All of London's gentlemen combined could not exhibit such passion.
"No," Margaret finally replied. "Marrying you today is all I wanted." She paused, his Christian name lingering on her tongue. Her fingers danced over his hand, which she found situated respectably on the cushion between them.
"And I cannot thank you enough for the flowers. I could not have wished for a better gift."
He brushed the apple of her cheek. "I was too overcome earlier to tell you how beautiful you looked today."
"I—I thank you. I was a bit overcome myself, even before the corset." Margaret bit her lip, already chastising herself for her inadequate response. He had always, unlike other men, praised her character over her appearance, a habit which only augmented the effect of his words upon her now. Furthermore, she could not return the compliment, lest she tell him how much the grey of his suit had brightened his eyes. If she could help it, he might never don black again.
He moved closer, the hand that had swept up her arm stopping below her sleeve.
"It is not right of me to say—"
"To say what?"
Margaret knew she'd sounded as curious as she'd felt. She forgot her embarrassment entirely as the thin silk of his lips traced the shell of her ear.
"To say that you look even lovelier when you are so pale."
Whether it was the depth of that inimitable voice or the shock of such a gesture in public, she was helpless when he cupped her cheeks in his hands and brought his mouth to hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before he, a mirror of her own frustration, delved into her with maddened impatience. The seeded pearls woven into her gown popped off with tiny pings, her petticoats bunching around his trousers as he pinned her to the chaise. Margaret's grip tightened, the pulsing between her legs quickening as his firm warmth pressed deeper into her skirts. She held back a sated moan, trying to remember how to breathe, as kisses seared ever lower on her neck. She cried out only when her breasts spilled from her bodice and into his hands, the sound of ripping fabric tearing through the air—
"Thornton!"
Margaret retracted her hand as if burnt. When she finally looked up, her husband was staring at her with a very unreadable expression.
With some apparent irritation, John waved to acknowledge the call. It was Slickson, a bit red-faced and gesticulating wildly.
"I am sure it is the same story about Henderson's that he's told but a million times." He put his hands on his knees with weary reluctance. "But I'd best pacify the man before the brandy unhinges him altogether."
Margaret nodded, both relieved and disappointed as he rose. When he looked back, however, his expression had changed. His eyes, those eyes, were a darker sapphire than she'd ever seen them.
"And perhaps when I return," John murmured, "you might tell me what has so quickly restored color to your cheeks."
He bowed slightly, with the same reverence as ever, before he turned. His aquiline profile darkened to a silhouette just before he strode away.
It was not until he was out of sight that Margaret slumped in shocked embarrassment. Her face had always been an open book, for better or for worse. Never had she had thoughts of that nature, corset or not.
Not quite that nature, anyway...But, regardless, he had seen them.
Placing the flowers she was still clutching onto the table beside her, she glanced at the clock above the chimneypiece. It was only ten past eight. Edith and Aunt Shaw were, no doubt, already hunting the room for her as they'd not fussed over her for some time now. Margaret turned back toward the party, bracing herself for more fatiguing socialization.
"Not enjoying the celebration, I take it?"
She nearly tore her neckline with the speed at which she turned toward the gentleman now standing above her.
If, she thought with growing consternation, he could be called a gentleman at all. Her eyes swept over a long velvet brown jacket and checkered pants. Both were too loose for what seemed to be a pair of slender legs. The ensemble clashed horribly with a black silken top hat and the sweep of ash brown curls brushing his shoulders.
"I am quite enjoying it, thank you."
The man's pearled smile widened, despite her clipped reply. "No need for ceremony, madam." He looked with amusement about the room.
"I share a similar disaffection for fetes myself, you see. Particularly those as ostentatious as these."
Margaret's eyes narrowed with deliberation. He was certainly not at dinner, and was unforgivably late. He had also missed their introduction and that embarrassing round of dancing. Clearly, she thought with some amusement, he had no idea that he was speaking with John Thornton's bride. Though she took no umbrage to his ignorance, nor his comment about the party, he seemed very free with his speech, this stranger. Very free, indeed.
She was toying with the idea of, rather rudely, introducing herself when he eyed the vacant space beside her.
"May I, then?"
Before she could reply, he took the liberty of sitting, rather languorously, beside her anyway.
The corners of his eyes creped as his smile deepened. "I daresay, a woman so divinely charming should not be left to languish in a corner."
Margaret offered a dry smile. When Henry had praised her at Edith's wedding so long ago, she had been blissfully unaware of the designs behind men's flattery. She was wiser now.
"Sir, you do not know me to call me 'divinely charming,' if I could ever own up to such a thing. I can also assure you that I am not languishing as I've no inclination to dance."
"Are you merely an observer of human nature, then?" The man's gaze drifted downward before landing on the arm of the chair.
Margaret stilled her wrist, hearing how audibly her fingers were drumming against the stiff cushion beside her. She folded her hands primly. "Perhaps, if such a classification satisfies you."
"Satisfy me?" The man released a throaty laugh, one too genuine for polite society. "Indeed, it does."
Though Margaret had inched away when he'd sat, she could not help but assess him more closely as he turned toward the light. With wisps of silver at his temples, he was years older than John, she surmised. The length of his hair was, upon closer look, less unseemly when accounting for the diamond shape of his face—an array of angles from valleyed cheeks to razor-thin lips. The narrow gracefulness of his features, rare in a man, were ill-matched with a pair of thick eyebrows that were two shades too dark. They served only to better highlight the uncommonly pale green of his eyes.
Leaning against the arm of the chaise, he surveyed the room. His features enlivened as he looked directly across from where they sat. "No doubt, that one provides enough entertainment for an entire West End production."
Margaret frowned as she witnessed the subject of his fascination. As luck would have it, it was Fanny, now fully in her cups and liberally sloshing her champagne onto a mortified Watson. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she attempted to spin her helpless husband round.
With a small measure of familial duty and general indignation at his impertinence, Margaret gave the stranger a warning glare.
"Though I am keen to observe, sir, I derive no pleasure in mean-spirited speculation—especially about my sister-in-law."
"Indeed not, madam. I meant no offense, of course." The man put a finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture of contemplation. His eyes, which apparently never ceased to rove, rested on Fanny's old piano in the corner of the room.
"Do you play, then?"
"I regrettably take little pleasure in it."
"Hmm." He propped his chin on the ball of his palm, scrutinizing her as though she were some marvelous puzzle. "Perhaps it is reading in which you find pleasure?"
Margaret raised a vexed eyebrow at his persistence. Something in the way he stretched the last word of his sentence sat undeniably ill. "I have read many books, sir."
"And I would wager you the best read woman in this room." He gazed at the ceiling, a rather quixotic look in his eye. "If women are to have the same duties as men, they must have the same nurture and education."
A dull stinging began in the corners of Margaret's eyes. While her father had seldom read to her, she remembered that passage particularly well. It evoked the smells of drying flowers and drier paper, scents too long missed.
"Plato. It is curious that a man in trade would consider such books worth his while." She paused, smiling. "Though, of course, there are some men in Milton who seek acculturation through the classics."
"You will forgive me, madam, but I do not recall saying that was in trade—nor that I hailed from Milton."
Margaret's cheeks were peppered with heat as she replied, trying to ignore his sly grin. The measure of his accent was obvious.
"No sir, I suppose you did not."
He cocked his head roguishly. "And you, my lady, are certainly not from these parts."
"I confess, I am not from the North, though I am proud to have called Milton home for some time now."
"Ah, how mysterious! And now, I believe, is the part where I inquire what brought you from—Hampshire, I would wager—to Milton?"
The faint smile that had unwittingly crept over Margaret's face faded. She'd no interest in recounting her early days in Milton to anyone, let alone a stranger. Those memories were heavy with smoke, confusion, and loss. The worst was the day her mother had discovered the truth impelling their relocation. There was no forgetting those inconsolable cries piercing the stuffy air of their Crampton home. It was the last time Margaret had heard her raise her voice.
"My father wanted us to come here," she finally replied. "He wished to enlighten the people of Milton." As she turned toward him, forgetting her resolve to maintain her distance, her eyes lingered on the roses she'd placed on the adjacent table.
"I wish he could have been here today."
From such a stranger, Margaret expected only a pithy comment. Instead, she found in his eyes a profound empathy wholly at odds with his previous commentary, shallow as it was. For all the shortness of their conversation, it unnerved her.
"Forgive me, madam. I meant to cause you no distress."
She nodded, compelled to say the only thing she could. "You meant no offense, sir."
"Oh, no apologies from you, madam, though I would say a change of subject is in order."
Margaret frowned. She'd already been away from the party far too long to have gone unnoticed. She smoothed her skirts, secretly musing about a way to politely extract herself.
As she was about to gather her skirts, something very soft brushed her hand. It was the smallest rose from the table which, to Margaret's dismay, the man held in his palm. Brushing it quickly over her knuckles, he raised the broken stem to his temple.
"Such pomp suits me ill, does it not?"
"I am not known for my subtlety sir, so I am inclined to agree."
"And I am known to respect a woman who speaks truly," he replied, still wearing the ridiculous flower.
Margaret's mouth twitched, despite his taking such liberties with décor that was not his. His lightheartedness was refreshing, however brash his speech. For some reason, that impish twinkle of his eyes, like those of an old storyteller, sparked a vague recognition.
She was still trying to make the connection when she felt cold leather brush the crown of her head. Fingers clad in the same material smoothed a curl behind her ear as silky petals tickled her earlobe.
"I think, however," the man murmured, "such ornaments suit you very well indeed."
It was as though heat radiated from his fingers as her head lightened with shock. He was nothing but an ill-mannered stranger. An ill-mannered stranger who had just touched her.
"I doubt it, sir, as I am too old for such decorations." She pinched the rose from her hair, peering archly toward the edge of the room.
"If you'll excuse me, I've not yet greeted the Beresfords of Lindon. They are my mother's family and would be most offended if I did not engage them."
Something like disappointment skittered across the man's features before his thin smile returned. "It would pain me to keep you, madam, especially from the esteemed Beresfords of Lindon." He winked.
"But please at least permit me the pleasure of assisting you up."
She was considering the tersest refusal possible when the stranger's wiry frame sprung upward, his offer seemingly forgotten.
"Ah—Thornton! I was just getting acquainted with your new bride."
Margaret looked up at the familiar arm silently proffered to her, appraising her husband's stiff jaw and posture. A spike of guilt shot through her as she grasped John's sleeve rather feebly. There was no knowing, she mused as she stood straight, how long he had been standing there.
"So I can see." John nodded curtly, sending a shallow wave of nausea through her. "Margaret, Mr. Thomas Everhart."
Margaret froze. Not only had he touched her, he had known, clearly, that she was Mrs. Thornton the whole time. Whether or not he'd introduced himself, she thought with a rush of ire and embarrassment, Everhart was not a name of significance. Not even Fanny, who could rattle off nigh every person of import from Milton to London, had ever mentioned him.
The man smiled, more eagerly than ever in the wake of John's frigid welcome. "Delighted to be properly introduced, Mrs. Thornton."
It was only after a lengthy pause that Margaret saw his outstretched hand. Remembering herself, she reached out with a hesitant motion she hoped was not obviously unschooled. Shaking hands was still an awkward convention to her.
Without warning, he bowed, rotating her palm toward the floor. Color dusted her cheeks as she again felt the shape of his fingers through supple leather. His lips, soft despite their thinness, dotted a kiss aimed perfectly between the lacework of her glove. In the span of a breath, he drew closer than before. She could almost taste the crisp fall air that still clung to him.
In a moment, the interlude was over and he stood tall again. Margaret resisted, with a modicum of difficulty, the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt.
John stepped forward, folding his arms across his chest. It did not escape his wife's notice that he had failed to extend his own hand.
"I had not expected to see you in Milton, Everhart."
"Always to the point, aren't you, Thornton?" said Everhart with a chuckle. "Why, I am here on business, my good man."
Margaret got the discomfiting sense that business, or talk of it, was not what prompted her husband's responding glare.
"I should have said I am surprised to see you here specifically—especially as I don't recall Mother sending an invitation."
Everhart shook his head with mild castigation. "Have you ever known me to bother with such formalities, Thornton?"
"Formalities or," John turned to Margaret, "what some might call common decency."
The warm blue of his eyes was now a clouded, defiant slate. He drew himself to his full height, his acid words still cutting the air.
Everhart tugged at his coat sleeve mischievously. "Well, I do admit I am not suitably dressed, though I did hope it would be overlooked."
"Your attire does not concern me. I also doubt that your business involves my mill, or my wedding for that matter."
"Come, come, Thornton. I only wished to congratulate you and Mrs. Thornton on your wedding day. I've no intention of discussing financial matters on such a happy occasion."
His eyes darted to Margaret, their depths holding an intent that now matched his twisted lips.
"I've also no intention of delaying you from any marital...bliss."
Margaret looked up at her husband with a desperate flush. His face was now a veritable storm.
"You will excuse us then," John grated, his arm tightening around Margaret's waist. "Our invited guests demand our attention."
"Why, of course." Everhart held Margaret's gaze for a moment too long before nodding at John. He pulled his loosened gloves tighter, caressing every crease of leather until it was again smooth. Margaret's stomach sank, feeling as though she were watching something she shouldn't.
Everhart bowed wordlessly to John, and then to Margaret.
"And until next time, Mrs. Thornton. I await a second conversation about Plato."
Before she could reply, he tipped his hat, as though to flaunt the impropriety of wearing it indoors. Neither Thornton moved until they heard the click of the closing door from the hall.
"Who on Earth was that man?" Margaret demanded in a whisper.
John rubbed his temple, peering into the hallway as though Everhart might re-materialize like some ghastly specter. "No one of consequence."
"It surely did not seem—"
He turned to her, severing her inquiry with blazing eyes.
"Seem like what? Though he had made himself acquainted with you, Mrs. Thornton, I would caution you against judging him based on a single conversation."
Margaret's veins ran hot and cold. There was now no doubt John had seen the exchange with the flower. Though it was unwanted, a man who was not her husband had touched her all the same.
But, indeed, she thought as she appraised the curl of her husband's lips, it was was unwanted. Her eyes narrowed decisively. Clearly, she'd been wrong to think him above such presumptions after everything they'd endured. The jealousy of his tone was too close to that of the other John Thornton—that man from long ago whom she had so tried to forget.
"You need not worry about judgment, Mr. Thornton. It seems you have judged me quickly enough yourself."
She had already taken a few steps away from him when she felt a light grip on her arm. Gently, he spun her back toward him, almost as if they were dancing. She watched agape as he brought the back of her palm to his lips. He had, she realized, never kissed her hand before.
It was, notably, the one that Everhart had neglected.
"I thought nothing could bring out my temper on such a day. I saw you sitting near another man and—" John shook his head. "There is nothing to excuse it. Forgive me, Margaret."
A swell of guilt overtook the effect of his tenderness. Sitting was all he had seen.
"I would be grateful, for reasons I will explain," he urged before she could speak, "if we could leave the matter for the night. But I promise that tomorrow I will answer your questions as honestly as I know you ask them."
Beyond her control, the tightness unwound from her shoulders at John's testing smile. He'd known well the effect those words, laden with sentiment, would have upon her. The words were precious all the same.
"Very well, then," Margaret replied.
They walked back toward the party arm-in-arm. She glimpsed a few of the guests departing, some of whom were weaving a bit as they entered the foyer.
"The celebration has been lovely," she supplied.
John stared straight ahead, as though at something she could not see. "Indeed it has."
Margaret plaintively surveyed his shuttered expression, having no other gems of conversation to mine. "There is still some packing to be done for our trip. I believe that Dixon has almost finished securing the trunks."
"I see."
"I—I hear there are some new shops in Portsmouth. I was thinking that perhaps we could—"
Portsmouth and plans faded instantly as she felt those long, broad fingers brush a delicate place beneath her jaw. She should be angry that he was not listening at all. Instead, she tried to keep her head from lolling shamelessly into his hand.
John averted his gaze, as though embarrassed. It was only after a moment that she realized he was staring above the scant lace at her neckline. Recalling what his imagined touch, his kisses, had felt like in that very spot made her feel warm—everywhere.
"I do not wish another moment of discomfort for you, Margaret," he murmured. "I will tell Mother we are to retire."
She frowned. "But what would she think of us?" And what of our guests?"
"Almost all the guests have gone," he replied softly.
The lulling rumble of his voice did nothing to diminish the pull of heat drawing her toward him again, nor the burn of his gaze.
A quick look about confirmed he was right. All the masters were gone. Other than Edith, Aunt Shaw, and a few of Fanny's loyal stragglers, there was no one left to miss them.
Her heart thundered. Despite her nerves, she could not refuse. There was also no consent she could give that could sound proper. So, with a shaking breath, Margaret said:
"You'd better go and tell your mother, then."
There was no hiding his relief with that perfect crescent smile, still present on his face as he bowed. Margaret looked away as soon as she glimpsed the grey satin gowned figure toward which John strode with purpose. It was never wise to risk censure from the Thornton matriarch.
Instead, she peered into the hall until she saw the first few steps of the grand staircase. It would be some effort to climb them in her state.
There was also the bigger problem, she realized fretfully, that she had no idea what would happen when she reached the top.