For Thornton, every day away from Margaret had been harder than anticipated, and this only worsened after hearing what Mr. Bell had to say. The image of Henry and Margaret would come to his mind often, making him lose focus. What if it was too late when he came back to London?
He had been practically living in his office as a recluse, hardly even seeing his own mother, but all that work didn't seem to be enough to change the direction the mill seemed adamant in taking—which was down.
He had written letters asking for investments to everyone he knew, and had grown accustomed to reading a string of refusals with his morning coffee.
Around a week after Mr. Bell's visit, he received a letter he was particularly hopeful about—one from his father's childhood friend, Lord James Davenport. He opened it impatiently, and his eyes devoured every line:
Dear John,
I am happy to hear from you, although saddened by the circumstances. I am also somewhat offended that you have not written to me sooner. You know I cared for your father dearly and I know he would be very displeased if I were to turn my back on his beloved son .
I would prefer to meet in person, so we can discuss with more clarity what we can do to pull Marlborough Mills out from this unfortunate situation. Of course, this also gives me the perfect excuse to see you. How long has it been? At least 6 or 7 years! An unforgivable amount of time.
I have encolsed an invitation to our annual ball, I think this is the perfect occasion for us to talk. London will also be a welcome distraction for you—as I am sure these past days have been stressful.
Please send my kindest regards to your mother and sister. See you soon.
James Davenport.
Thornton leaned back against his chair and sighed in relief; surely something good would come out of this. With renewed confidence, he decided such news earned him some respite. He went back into the house, his mother—who was sitting on the couch—immediately stood up at the sight of him; her wrinkles deepened with worry.
"John, what is it?" she asked. She was now unused to seeing him in the house.
"Good news, mother," he answered simply, too exhausted to explain anything else. "I will tell you everything at dinner. I need to rest for a bit. Could you tell Anna to wake me up in an hour?" he asked, suppresing a yawn.
"Of course," she said.
Thornton walked towards the staircase and made his way up to his room almost dragging his feet.
Mrs. Thornton sat back down with a sigh. She hadn't failed to notice that her son hadn't slept nor eaten properly for weeks, and seeing him in this deplorable state was affecting her too. She would say nothing to Anna, if he became upset she would take the blame, but he needed to rest—the mill was a priority, but that stopped the instant his health became compromised.
Thornton entered his room and let his body fall onto the mattress, he was out cold the instant his head touched the pillow. When he woke, he felt disoriented; his room was dark. What time was it? Suddenly, his confusion turned to alarm—how long had he been sleeping? He exited his room and hurried downstairs to get an explanation.
Mrs. Thornton spotted him from the sitting room, and she closed the book she had been reading as he approached her.
"Oh, you're awake," she commented calmly.
"Well, not thanks to Anna. Where is she? Why didn't she wake me?" he asked in exasperation. "I had to be back to work…" he paused to look at his pocket watch, "ten hours ago!" he exclaimed in surprise.
"Don't take it out on Anna. I didn't tell her to wake you," she explained seriously. "John, you have been overlooking your health most irresponsibly."
"I won't fight with you, mother," he said after taking a deep breath. "But, you know the mill is in serious trouble, and it requires my attention more than ever."
"Yes, John… but I have seen how business and money can extinguish a life," she said, alluding to what had happened to her late husband. "The mill is not more important than you."
Thornton looked down, understanding his mother's reference. Anna came into the room, interrupting their conversation.
"Oh, Anna! I was about to call you," said Mrs. Thornton, "Could you please prepare a bath for my son?"
Anna nodded, and left the room.
"Take care of yourself, John. I couldn't bear to lose you, too," she said standing up and caressing his cheek lovingly.
"Very well, mother," he said obediently, feeling guilty at having upset her.
"I am still looking forward to your news," she said. "Wash yourself and let us talk it over dinner."
Thornton nodded and headed back to his room—the bathtub was already prepared. As he undressed he looked at himself in the mirror and didn't recognize the reflection; he realized why his mother had been so concerned. He bathed, shaved and changed into fresh clothes; when he came back down, he was feeling like a new man.
His mother smiled when he saw him coming into the dining room—she was already in her seat.
"My son has decided to come back!" she exclaimed, making him chuckle softly.
"I admit that it appeared I had been living in the jungle," he jested, taking his seat.
Anna came into the dining room immediately after to serve supper. They both thanked her and she retired.
"So about these news you have…" began Mrs. Thornton.
"Well, there is nothing certain," he said, not wanting to give her any false hopes. "It will all be clearer in two weeks time—I need to go to London first."
"London?" Mrs. Thornton's thoughts immediately turned to Margaret.
"Yes, Lord Davenport—do you remember him? Father's friend—has expressed some interest in the mill's affairs," he said, cutting the chicken fillet on his plate.
"Of course I remember," she said, although she didn't find that answer completely satisfying. "Is that all?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Should there be more?" he asked in return, a little amused.
"No, I suppose there should not," she said, realizing her son wasn't planning on sharing anything concerning Miss Hale.
Mrs. Thornton's suspicions had only increased after Margaret's departure; all of the past events bothered her… their strange behavior during their final day together, the noises she had heard in the middle of the night—which had sounded nothing like Anna's sleepwalking—, the markings in Margaret's neck and in her son's face, and the final and most damning piece of the puzzle— the coachman's account; just a couple of days after Margaret left, he had come to her, talking about how Thornton had asked for them to give another turn even after reaching the house.
"What are you thinking, mother?" he asked, noticing her expression.
"Nothing," she lied, thinking that it was best to keep these suspicions to herself—at least for now. "So, you think Lord Davenport is willing to invest?" she asked, changing the subject.
"That is indeed my hope," he admitted. "Although I have to be prepared for the worst."
"Of course," she agreed. "How long will you be away?"
"A night," he replied, not feeling comfortable with the idea of leaving the mill unattended. "I still have a little over a week to settle the most pressing affairs prior to my departure, but I must ask you to keep an eye on things while I'm gone. I dare say if there's anyone who knows this mill better than myself, it's you."
"You can count on me," she said, touched by her son's trust.
They finished their meal and talked about other subjects. Apparently Fanny had fallen and broken her wrist a couple of days ago—where had he been? Lost to everything around him, save for thoughts of the mill and of Margaret… he felt very guilty. He needed to establish a healthier balance in his life.
When they retired from the dining room, Mrs. Thornton noticed that his son was heading towards the main entrance.
"Where are you going?" she asked from the bottom of the staircase, reproach was clear in her tone.
"To the office," he said, looking back at her; his hand already on the handle.
"John, please," she begged. "Whatever it is, it will still be there in the morning."
After seeing the genuine concern in her eyes and assessing all they had talked about, he decided that it was better to go back to bed. He had slept throughout the afternoon, but he was still feeling tired. His extended nap hadn't been enough to make up for all the sleep hours he had skipped.
"Just for today," he conceded as his hand fell away from the door's handle.
They both went up the stairs and bid each other good night as they went into their rooms.
Thornton changed into the oriental breeches he wore to sleep and got under the sheets. He allowed himself to enjoy the feel of the soft mattress against his body. His back was particularly thankful for the attention after having been bent over a desk for days on end.
As he closed his eyes, he thought of Margaret. Was she thinking of him? Or—as Mr. Bell had implied—was her heart already taken by Henry?
Should he pay her a visit while in London? He missed her terribly. But he had promised himself he would seek her out until the mill's problems were resolved, and his situation was no better than it had been when she left—the sight of her might only weaken his resolve.
The best course of action would be to attend Lord Davenport's ball, convince him to invest, save the mill, and then come back for her in the hopes her feelings had remained unchanged. His willpower needed to be stronger than ever. Thinking of the feel of her hungry lips against his made this decision torturous. How could he voluntarily deny himself the opportunity of her closeness while in the same city?
Throughout the past month, he had been constantly assaulted by the recollection of his encounters with Margaret—particularly the second one. He couldn't shake away the vision of her face as he brought her to ecstasy; the image never failed to arouse him. He wasn't proud when forced to address the needs that the memory of her writhing body provoked, but, at the very least, doing so temporarily succeeded in keeping his mind focused on work.
When he finally drifted off to sleep, he found her there, already waiting for him.
Throughout the following days, he managed to set up a healthier routine. He still worked more than average, but he forced himself to adhere to a schedule which permitted him to eat properly and sleep sufficiently—he even made time to visit his sister. He was also more careful with his appearance; after all, showing up at Lord Davenport's ball looking like the caveman he had seemed prior to his mother's intervention could only hinder his chances of getting any assistance. All in all, this change didn't make his job any easier, but it certainly made it more manageable.
By the morning he was set to depart, he had addressed the mill's most urgent matters and had left his mother and overseer with very specific instructions of what needed to be done during his absence. He sincerely trusted his mother's judgement, so in that regard he was at ease when he boarded the early train to London. What worried him now—and the only thing that kept the temptation of visiting Margaret away—was the impending meeting with Lord Davenport.
When he got to the hotel, there was a lot of people roaming about the reception expectantly; they had probably been turned away. Thornton hoped that his reservation request had been received on time. He made his way to the old man behind the reception desk. They politely greeted each other and Thornton provided his name when asked.
"Mr. John Thornton… Thornton… Thornton… Ah! Here you are!" said the receptionist as he browsed the list of reservations; his eyes narrowed behind tiny spectacles. "We received a message requesting a room for one night… You're fortunate, sir, for we just had a cancellation that made this possible. Every hotel in London is fully booked with months in advance—we welcome so many tourists during this season!" he explained as he wrote down some details in the record book.
Thornton nodded as the old man chattered away, but he did find his remarks out of the ordinary—fortune hardly ever played a role in these matters, especially when there were so many others waiting for a room to vacate.
"But we want to ensure the comfort of Lord Davenport's special guest," he added, as he handed him a key. "Room 5, sir—up the stairs, second door to the right. A coach will be waiting for you at six."
Suddenly Thornton understood what had happened, and it made more sense; Lord Davenport had intervened so he could have prioritary treatment… it made him a bit uncomfortable. He put that feeling aside, knowing that the mill was the only thing he should be thinking about. He thanked the receptionist and made his way up.
He had brought a small suitcase with him, just enough to fit in some undergarments, a fresh shirt, his formal attire and sleepwear. As the evening approached, he changed into his elegant suit. He showed up at the hotel's door a few minutes before six; the coachman was already waiting for him.
It didn't take long for them to reach Lord Davenport's estate, but once they were there, they had to get in queu—the coaches in front of them had to drop off their occupants by the entrance. Slowly, they made their way forward. Thornton stared at the ladies in huge dresses struggling to make their way down their carriages in exasperation. He took a deep breath to calm down… he was just five coaches away from the entrance now.
Thornton forgot about his impatience when he caught a glimpse of a woman in red getting out of her coach. He had never seen a lady wearing red at one of these events, wasn't that frowned upon? Fanny would be better informed… Was it red though? He leaned into the window to get a better look… He couldn't see her face clearly, but he could tell she had dark hair and a lovely figure. But, such a bold look at a place like this? The vixen could only have but one purpose: snatching a rich husband. He stared at her, hypnotized by the sway of her dress as she made her way through the door.
When she was gone, he chastised himself—what would Margaret think? It worried him that one of the possible answers was that she wouldn't care anymore; maybe she only wanted to be with Henry… He shook his head, trying to get rid of those painful thoughts; he needed to concentrate on the mill and nothing else.
He got off the coach with renewed resolve—tonight there would be no thoughts of Margaret, only of Marlborough Mills. He straightened his jacket, and walked towards the door, he was greeted by Lord and Lady Davenport.
"John!" he said, extending his arms to embrace him. "I am so happy you could make it!"
"I must thank you for responding to my letter," said Thornton. "And for securing my accommodation as well."
"Oh, it was nothing!" he exclaimed. "Darling, could you take care of greeting our remaining guests?" he asked his wife, but not really waiting for her to respond. "Let us move to the smoking room and talk there," he instructed Thornton.
They made their way across the ballroom until they reached the smoking room. On the way, Thornton saw a flash of the lady in red, but her face was covered by the group of gentlemen surrounding her.
"How fortunate! It's empty," he remarked, closing the door behind them. "Pray sit down and tell me all about it," he demanded as he brought out his pipe and lit it.
Thornton did as he was asked and tried to summarize what had happened with the mill during the last couple of months—the riots, the delayed payments and shipments, and the loans from the bank. When he finished there was a brief silence, only interrupted by the sound of Lord Davenport smoking his pipe.
"I see," he said finally. "I can help you," he concluded, looking him straight in the eye. Before Thornton could relax, he continued, "but partially. I can give you 50% of what you need, as long as there is another—or others—willing to cover for the other 50%. You see how this would soften any possible loss."
It made sense to Thornton, but he had already been rejected by every possible investor in England—who could be up for it?
"I'm grateful for your offer…" said Thornton thoughtfully.
"You look defeated, John—you mustn't" observed Lord Davenport. "I know you have approached others and that you've been unsuccessful, but you forget something very important—now you have me to back you up. Write to them again, and be sure to tell them Lord Davenport is in this. Surely, they will be more willing to participate, don't you think?" he asked with a confident smile.
"I shall do so," Thornton replied, hoping Lord Davenport's prediction was true, as there was no other possible road for him to take.
"In fact, there are some people I could introduce to you now who could be interested. Ah! And the music has begun to play," he remarked as the first notes filtrated through the door. "Come now, John. Did you know that this orchestra is a regular at Buckingham Palace?"
John stood up and followed Lord Davenport as he talked about the orchestra. They arrived to a set of chairs that had been reserved for the masters of the house in the ballroom. Lady Davenport was already there, and she seemed a little upset with her husband—there was no doubt that it had to do with the way he had treated her at the entrance, but he was oblivious to it.
"Look at all these young couples!" exclaimed Lord Davenport as he occupied his seat and asked Thornton to sit beside him. "For now you should ask one of these young ladies to dance. You will grow tired of us, old people," he remarked, earning himself a murderous glare from his wife that went unnoticed.
"I'm afraid I'm not fond of dancing," he said, not feeling any interest whatsoever in the activity.
"Well, you should watch instead—maybe you can learn something," he said as he browsed the dancing pairs. "Oh, look at that couple!" he said pointing to the front.
Thornton's eyes didn't follow his finger, he was not at all curious about what was there.
"I know him—what's his name?—he's one of the best dancers every year. My darling, do you remember?" he asked turning towards his wife, for the first time actually expecting for her to say something back.
"That is Mr. Henry Lennox, my dear, the lawyer," she explained in a biting tone.
"Yes, yes, yes, the lawyer!" he confirmed.
Thornton's head snapped up and his eyes searched for him. Who was he with? A couple of meters away, he found Henry was facing their direction. He was dancing with the lady in red, who had her back towards them. Thornton sighed in relief.
The relief was gone the instant she twirled. The face had been a blur, but it certainly looked like… no… it couldn't be. The dance ended and the woman was escorted to the other side of the room—her back always towards them.
"Excuse me," Thornton said, as he stood up and walked around the dance floor to get a better view.
He saw Henry jealously surrender his spot beside her to another gentleman. As he turned her around to head back towards the center of the room he became certain—the lady in red was Margaret. As his heart hammered against his chest, he remained still, staring hatefully towards them.
Just a while ago he had been chastising himself for merely finding another woman attractive (who, now it turned out, wasn't even another woman!), and she was dancing with other men with no sign of remorse. As that dance ended and a third one began with a shorter fellow, his teeth clenched; why would she dress in such a provocative fashion? Of course men would swarm around her, drawn like bees to honey. As he stood there helplessly, he wondered if he should make his presence known.
Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, another gentleman took over for the fourth dance. Throughout the steps, the man picked her up by the waist and—to his complete shock—he heard her giggle. His blood boiled in response; his instincts commanded him to throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to his hotel room. Suddenly, the indecision of revealing himself was gone.
When the dance ended, he saw her make her way towards the refreshments table, and he followed from the periphery of the room. When she reached for a glass of water, he approached from behind. He admired her exposed skin from his vantage point, if only they were alone, he could sink his teeth into that tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. He inhaled her scent before whispering resentfully close to her ear.
"You do not waste your time, do you, Miss Hale?"
Margaret stayed in the same position, unwilling to face him.
"Mr. Thornton," she greeted, "I didn't know you would be here," she remarked, slightly turning her head in his direction.
"Evidently," he snapped.
His tone made his displeasure clear; but Margaret was more confused than before. How could he be in London and not have told her about it? How long had he been in the city without letting her know? These questions made her angry; there were only two possibilities, either he had a very fickle heart, or he had been insincere from the very beginning.
This realization offended her, and gave her the courage she needed. She placed her glass on the table forcefully and turned to face him. She was stricken by how handsome he looked, but she fought hard not to show anything but contempt in her expression.
Thornton was taken aback by the confrontation in her body language. His gaze couldn't help but wander. Her eyes had a fire in them, and the blush of her cheeks matched that devilish dress—how could she be this beautiful? Slowly, he lowered his eyes to appreciate the quickened rise and fall of her breasts.
When Margaret noticed his attention was on her cleavage, she could almost swear he was able to see through her clothes. She hated that her reaction wasn't one of aversion—as it had been when he had caught Henry doing the same thing—, but one of anticipation. She needed to put a stop to this.
"Have you looked your fill?" she asked defiantly, making his eyes dart back up.
"Forgive me. After all the flirtatious behavior I saw, I presumed this was the kind of attention you wanted," he said with jealousy.
Margaret's eyes widened in disbelief and Thornton immediately knew he had made a big mistake.
She swallowed the retort that was burning in her throat, trying hard to keep her temper in check to not make a scene.
"Excuse me," she said instead, and turned around to leave.
She made her way through the multitude towards one of the doors that led to the terrace, angry tears threatening to fall. She needed some space. How dare he speak to her in such an insulting manner after all she had suffered? When the cold night air met her face she felt relieved.
The terrace had giant pillars delimiting it, so she took advantage of this, and walked towards the furthermost column to hide behind it. She didn't want to explain her altered state to any other guest who happened to be wandering about. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cold stone; she breathed deeply, trying to contain her emotions.
When she opened her eyes again, she jumped at the unexpected sight of Thornton—he had followed her, and was standing an arm's length away. There was a pained expression in his eyes.
"If your intent was to get lost in the crowd, you need a different dress," he observed.
"What more could you possibly have to say?" she asked, more comfortable in knowing that there were no witnesses. "Haven't you insulted me enough?"
"I should have not said those words," he said, taking a step closer.
She wanted to stay angry, but the look on his face and the tone of his voice soothed her against her will. Her heart raced as her whole body sensed his nearness. She needed to ask so many things, to clarify their current situation… His hands gently framed her face, and as he drew her face towards his, those loud concerns became distant and unintelligible echoes in the back of her mind. The only thing she needed was his kiss.
His thumb caressed her lower lip. When she closed her eyes in response, he knew her feelings hadn't changed. She was breathing heavily, her arms were to her sides, pressing back against the pillar. He had needed her so much. He kissed her with the ferocity of a carnivore that has scented fresh blood—one that had also been starved for more than a month—, and she responded in kind.
Their lips collided again and again, retracing the frantic dance they already knew. The feel of his tongue against hers sent an electric shock throughout her body that brought her to life. Her arms encircled his neck, pulling him closer, as his greedy hands grasped her by the waist.
"I have missed you," he whispered hoarsely between kisses, before moving lower to taste her neck.
She suppressed a whimper as her head fell back to grant him better access. She clutched him tighter when one of his hands cupped her breast, and he bent to bite the skin just above her bodice. She gasped.
"Margaret!" Henry's voice echoed through the terrace. "There you are!"
They both became very still. Margaret looked around with concern, but quickly realized Henry had only seen the edge of her dress from behind the column. She pushed Thornton away and walked around the pillar to reveal herself before he came any closer. Halfway, Thornton grabbed her by the wrist, forcing one of her arms to remain concealed.
"Henry, I was just getting some air," she said nervously.
"I have been looking for you everywhere," he commented. "You should come back inside. I would be honored to have another dance with you."
Margaret swallowed hard when she felt Thornton place his lips on her wrist.
"Oh, the first few dances have exhausted me," she said, her breaths betraying her excitement.
"You seem feverish," he said with concern, walking closer. "Maybe we should go, if you're not feeling well."
Margaret's free hand flew forward violently, commanding him to stop; he obeyed, confused by the motion.
"Henry, please. There's nothing to worry about. I just need to be alone," she said a little too quickly.
Henry's hurt expression confirmed how rude she had sounded.
"Forgive me. I will be inside in a minute," she said, trying to make up for her harsh words.
Henry nodded and headed back into the ballroom.
As soon as he was gone, Thornton pulled her back towards him, meaning to continue where they had left off. As his lips sought to recapture hers, Margaret kept the distance between them by pushing her hands against his chest.
"No," she said, placing her passion back on its leash.
This was a very dangerous place for a rendezvous. Furthermore, she couldn't allow herself to forget the fact that he had not kept his promise. She stepped away, not wanting his touch to distract her.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" he responded with another question, loathing the space between them.
"Why did you come to the ball?" she clarified. She only needed to hear that the reason was her.
"Business," he answered.
"Of course," Margaret smiled sadly and lowered her eyes. "So, you weren't expecting to see me."
His eyebrows furrowed as he noticed her change in mood. He stepped closer but she stepped back.
"Is this your idea of revenge?" she asked, looking back up at him.
"Revenge—what?" he asked in confusion. Her eyes made him feel as if he had somehow let her down.
"I caused you pain once, Mr. Thornton, and I regret it," she said, referring to the marriage proposal. "But, inflicting pain in return will achieve nothing."
"What a ridiculous suggestion! You can't possibly believe I have ever acted out of spite or on some absurd vendetta!" he exclaimed indignantly.
"I'm not a toy for you to play with when you're bored!" she exclaimed, talking over him.
"I can't claim to be an irreproachable gentleman. Not when you have seen me during my most uncivil moments—as I have seen you…"
She blushed at the reference to their escapades, hating herself for wanting him even now.
"…but, do you find me so despicable?" he asked.
"How else can I make sense of everything?" she asked. "You failed to keep your promise! I waited for you and you never showed!" she accused, rising her voice. "I don't want to see you again," she said bitterly before rushing back into the ballroom to find her family.
"Margaret!" he exclaimed, trying to stop her in vain.
Had she not received his letter? If that was the case, then whatever Mr. Bell had said now came into question—he knew the man didn't approve the match, but such deplorable behavior was completely unexpected and beneath him.
Thornton followed Margaret; he needed to settle this before the night was over.
"Oh, there you are, Margaret!" exclaimed Edith from her chair as she saw her cousin approach. "So many gentlemen have asked for you, where have you been?"
"I was just getting some air," she said.
"And who's the gentleman behind you?" asked Aunt Shaw.
Margaret turned to see Thornton was standing there. He had followed her again… why couldn't he just leave her be? She was forced to make introductions.
"Oh, this is Mr. John Thornton from Marlborough Mills. We ran into him at the exhibition—do you remember?" she explained with all the civility she could muster.
"Oh, yes, of course!" exclaimed Aunt Shaw.
"Good evening," he greeted.
"Good to see you again," said Maxwell with a smile, a reaction completely opposite to his brother's.
"He and his mother also hosted Margaret before coming to London, isn't that right?" Henry asked seriously.
"Yes, we had the pleasure," he said, feeling satisfied that this made his rival uncomfortable.
"We must thank you for all those attentions, Mr. Thornton. You were so kind to our Margaret," said Edith.
"You must allow us to invite you for dinner tomorrow," said Aunt Shaw.
"Aunt, he's a very busy gentleman," said Margaret, not wanting to spend another second in his company.
"Oh, quiet, Margaret! I'm sure he has time for one dinner," she insisted.
"I thank you for your invitation, but I have plans to depart tomorrow morning—hotels are crowded this time of year," he said.
"Hotels? Oh, dear Lord, no!" exclaimed Aunt Shaw. "You must stay with us. We are indebted to you, sir, and we shall show you equal hospitality. Now you have no excuse!" she said with a chuckle.
"Well in that case, I can't bring myself to refuse," he said with a smile.
He briefly exchanged looks with Margaret—she wasn't happy—but he needed to find a moment alone so they could make things clear.
"Excellent," said Aunt Shaw.
"John, there you are, come here!" Lord Davenport's voice could be heard from a few chairs away.
He was calling to him at the side of a very important looking gentleman—of course! He was supposed to be here to find investors for the mill, not for Margaret. He should postpone those concerns until tomorrow.
"I'm afraid I must go," said Thornton bowing. "But I will see you all tomorrow," he added before walking away.
"He's on first name terms with Lord Davenport!" exclaimed Aunt Shaw once he was out of hearing range.
"Oh, many gentlemen are on first name terms with him," said Henry, trying to downplay this fact.
"I think we should go, it's getting late," said Margaret, wanting to deal with all her conflicting emotions in the safety of her bedroom.
"I agree," said Edith. "I already feel guilty at having left poor Sholto with the maid for so long."
Thornton saw Margaret's group retire from the corner of his eye, but he fought hard to keep his attention on Lord Davenport's good friend. Apparently, this other gentleman had faced a similar difficulty and was feeling empathic. He was interested in covering another 25%, which was excellent news.
Shortly after the guests started to leave, he also headed back to his hotel room; but not before thanking Lord Davenport again for reaching out. He had given his mill a chance at surviving the crisis and made the search for the remaining potential investors much easier.
For the first time in months, when he closed his eyes, it was only Margaret—not the mill—giving him trouble sleeping.
Margaret closed and locked the door behind her, not wanting even Dixon coming in to help her take off her dress. She needed to be alone.
Her skin was too sensitive, it had a memory of its own—it burned wherever his lips had been and it burned worse where they hadn't.
She got out of her dress, and placed it carefully on the sofa that was in the corner of her room. While she undid her corset, she suppressed her wish for Thornton's assistance. She shook her head and sped up the process.
When she finally got to bed, the pangs of desire were still hitting her with persistence. She knew what she needed to release that tension, he had shown her…
She slowly pulled up her nightgown—she only needed to mimic his moves. When her hand reached her inner thigh, she froze. She couldn't give into such a humiliating act… And yet the struggle made her feel like a small boat in the middle of a raging sea. The memory of every lick and bite struck her with the force of a wave, threatening to capsize what little restraint she had.
She remembered how he had brought her to the peak of pleasure, and the hunger in his eyes as he witnessed it. She just needed to feel that once more… She pictured him over her, commanding her to look at him as he touched her. When her hand found that spot between her legs, there was no turning back. She buried her face in her pillow to drown her moans as she brought herself the release she had been craving for.
When she finished, her temporary satisfaction was soon replaced by feelings of embarrassment and remorse. How could she ever get rid of these uncontrollable yearnings? Her doubts hadn't been so terrible when she could blame him for her own actions, but he wasn't here to be used as a scapegoat now. How could she ever see herself as a respectable lady again?
She fell asleep trying to soothe her guilty conscience.
The following evening, Thornton showed up an hour before dinner. He was greeted enthusiastically by everyone, except for Margaret and Henry. One of the maids escorted him to the second floor to show him his room.
"All of the guest rooms are on this side," she pointed out, as they made their way through the corridor—it was a fairly large house.
"Do you receive many guests?" he asked.
"Not really," she said, "right now there's only Miss Margaret. But it's best this way so you both get to have rooms with windows facing the main street—they get better lighting, sir," she explained.
So Margaret's room would be near his… Thornton knew this information would be useful. The maid opened the room for him and excused herself, telling him dinner would be ready in a few minutes.
When he came back down they were all in the sitting room, waiting to be called into the dining room.
"Mr. Thornton, we're so happy that you're here, truly," said Aunt Shaw, "please have a seat."
"Thank you," he said as he took a spot in an empty armchair facing Margaret.
Margaret had avoided looking at him since he had arrived. Her attention was fixated on her lap, she was afraid that Thornton would somehow know what she had done the previous night.
"Mr. Thornton, maybe you can help us settle a debate about Milton," said Edith, initiating conversation.
"What kind of debate?" he asked with curiosity.
"We have some divided opinions about its charms. Isn't that right, Margaret?" Edith continued. Margaret barely smiled, acknowledging the mention of her name. "I've only heard visitors' accounts, so I would be interested in hearing the perspective from someone who was born there."
"May I ask about what you've heard?" he asked with a smile, having an idea of the general opinion.
"Fair enough, well, Margaret didn't have a lot of kind things to say," she began.
"Edith," Margaret interrupted. "I changed my mind after," she said bashfully, daring to rest her eyes on him briefly. "It took me a while," she confessed.
"Well, I must disagree… When I left I was still under its first impression," Henry interjected, "not a very favorable one, I'm afraid."
"It is an industrial town," said Thornton. "We're proud of our achievements in business and trade. We must make our own way up in Milton, things aren't handed out—but I can see how this rough environment could be unpleasant for people who are unfamiliar with hard work," he said.
Henry glared at him, and Margaret couldn't help but smile a little.
The maid came back inside to announce dinner and they all moved to the dining room. Thornton was quick to occupy a seat beside Margaret's. When they were all entertained commenting on the food, he turned to her discreetly.
"I must speak with you," he said in a low voice.
"Henry, could you please pass the bread?" she asked with a kind smile, ignoring Thornton's comment.
Thornton's jaw clenched. Henry, who was sitting right across from her, obliged. As she grabbed a bun from the basket and placed it on her plate, he insisted.
"It's important," he added, waiting for some response.
This time Henry noticed the interaction, and found it out of the ordinary. He couldn't hear, but the way he was looking at her unsettled him.
"Would you like some bread, Mr. Thornton?" she asked, ignoring him again.
"No, thank you," he said with disappointment.
If she didn't want to listen to him voluntarily, then he would have to find an opportunity to make her listen. Although painful, he would accept if her feelings had changed—but not if that change was based on a misunderstanding.
Margaret maintained the same invisible wall throughout the rest of the evening, even after dinner, when they came back to the sitting room. Thornton could only talk with her aunt and cousin, who were more enthusiastic about communicating.
A yawn from Aunt Shaw was the signal that it was time to retire. Henry left the house, but not before directing a menacing look towards Thornton—he hated that he would be spending the night under the same roof as Margaret.
The rest of the group headed upstairs and wished each other good night before separating. Aunt Shaw, Edith and her husband went to the rooms on the right, and Margaret and Thornton to the guest rooms on the left.
Thornton allowed Margaret to walk ahead, so that he could identify which room was hers. As she opened her door, she spared him one final glance before going inside without saying a word. Thornton continued walking ahead, knowing that there were still witnesses at the other end of the hall. He got into his room and decided to wait half an hour before making his move.
Margaret closed the door behind her, her head fell back against the door and she let out a breath. In spite of the previous night's efforts to quench her desire, it hadn't subsided. In fact, knowing that he was in one of the rooms close to hers made it even worse. She had been so nervous around him, thinking that maybe he would know what she had done—how foolish of her.
As she changed into her nightgown, she tried to ignore the wave of heat that seemed to have permanently taken hold of her whenever Thornton was near. She went towards the water bowl and splashed the cold liquid on her face, thinking maybe it would help cool her down. She dried the remaining droplets, and sat before the mirror to undo her hair. As she worked her way through the lengthy mane; her eyes got lost in her reflection, which was softened by the dim light coming from the oil lamp.
When she finished, she remained in the same position, staring blankly at herself. Her mind had been playing tantalizing images before her… him kissing and undressing her; their naked bodies writhing together, locked in a primal rite throughout which there was no language but that of touch, movement and shallow breaths. When she felt one of her hands make its way up her bare thigh, she squeezed her eyes shut, pulling herself out of the trance.
"No," she whispered tightening her hand in a fist. "It shall not happen again," she added, placing that hand on the vanity table.
How could she get rid of it all? She needed to be harder on him, remind herself how he had broken her heart—that should be enough.
When she opened her eyes, she wasn't alone in the mirror's reflection. She gasped, taken aback by this unexpected apparition. Thornton was right by the door, looking at her; his arms crossed. He was wearing his white shirt, which was loosened and partially unbuttoned. Was this a hallucination? She closed her eyes and opened them again… he was still there. She stood up and turned around violently—almost tripping—to face in his direction…
"What are you doing here?" she asked in alarm.
"I told you. We have something to discuss," he said calmly.
"How long have you been standing there?" she inquired cautiously after a brief silence.
"Not long," he answered. Margaret sighed in relief. "What shall not happen again?" he asked, making her tense up once more.
AN. Thank you again for all your observations and comments, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!