A/N: There is an M rated version of this chapter on A03. This chapter contains implied sex but no graphic details. I've updated the rating to reflect this.

John had never enjoyed receiving house guests.

The letter from Spain had arrived almost two months ago, informing John that Manuel, the eldest child of Señor Barbour, would be coming to England. He planned to spend time in London before traveling to Milton for around a week in order to conduct business on Señor Barbour's behalf. John had responded, with Margaret's urging, to offer their hospitality for the duration of the younger Señor Barbour's visit.

What a mistake that turned out to be.

John had first met Manuel three, nearly four, years ago on their first trip to Cadiz. John had worked with him often, for Barbour & Co was a family-run endeavor and Manuel acted as his father's right-hand man. He seemed a hard worker, though John knew little of him outside of work. The elder Señor Barbour was a warm man, though serious and deeply religious, keeping his children close to him and raising them to follow his own example.

However, as soon as Manuel Barbour arrived in Milton, it was clear to John that without the calming influence of his family the man was - well, John could not find the words. He was twenty-eight years of age and unmarried (and according to the more scandalous parts of Dolores' letters to Margaret, a terrible womaniser). Judging by the girls in the yard and their fluttering lashes, Manuel Barbour was considered to be a handsome man, though personally, John could not imagine how such a self-satisfied face could ever be appealing.

"Margaret!" Manuel exclaimed on arrival at Marlborough Mills.

He swept forward, holding her shoulders as he kissed her on both cheeks. Margaret responded to his greeting in Spanish, which she had begun to study when Arthur was a baby. This apparently delighted Señor Barbour, who spoke back to her excitedly in a language John could not understand. He felt quite the gooseberry as his wife gestured this way and that, telling him things as her face shone, clearly proud of her new skill. John was proud too, for she had taught herself with remarkable determination and passion. She had had nobody to practice with, for he certainly could not even begin to make his tongue work round the words she had tried to teach him.

"John!" Manuel finally seemed to notice he was there. He extended a hand, and John shook it perhaps a little tighter than was needed. Manuel did not wince, merely matched his strength while staring him straight in the eyes. "Good to see you again, my friend."

"Señor Barbour." John nodded.

"Please! Señor Barbour is my father, call me Manuel. We are practically family! Now, where is that boy of yours? Dolores demanded a full description of her nephew as soon as possible, including a sketch if I feel up to it. She is disappointed not to be accompanying me, but she finds herself in a delicate condition once more."

Margaret's eyes widened, for she had not yet received word that she would soon welcome another niece or nephew. Margaret's glance darted towards her husband; they had a secret of their own that they had not yet shared.

"Oh! She has not told me yet!" She exclaimed as they walked back into the house. "How wonderful. Of course, she must rest. Come, let me take you to Arthur."

"I'm going back to work." John called after them.

Manuel waved him away with a smile. John skulked back to work, scowling at his papers for the entire afternoon. When he returned to the house slightly earlier than usual to spend some time with his son, he was irritated to find Manuel crawling around the nursery with Arthur perched on his back. The child squealed with delight as Manuel made ridiculous horse noises, Arthur's pudgy hands smacking together with glee as they galloped around the floor.

Traitor.

If there was anyone who would have no patience for Manuel Barbour's false charm, it would surely be Hannah Thornton. She did not fall for false flattery or the thrill of a foreign accent. No, she would surely loathe this man just as much as John did.

Then why did he find his mother engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with the man after dinner? Margaret too, both of them hanging on the man's every word like he was some oracle. John retired early that night.

The following evening, Margaret had arranged a formal family dinner to welcome Manuel to Milton. Watson was away on business, so Fanny arrived without accompaniment. She was downright giddy when introduced to their guest.

"This is John's sister, Mrs Watson." Margaret said as she made the introductions.

"Please, call me Fanny." Fanny tittered as Manuel kissed her gloved hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine. I have heard much about you from my sister, but she did not tell me you were so beautiful."

Fanny's squeal could surely be heard across all of Milton. John gritted his teeth, nails biting into his palm as he observed the ridiculous display from the corner.

"Where is your husband, Fanny? Is he not joining us?" Barbour asked.

Fanny shook her head, seemingly irritated at being reminded that she had a husband - an old, boorish husband who was not nearly as charming nor as handsome as the man who stood in front of her, probably.

"Unfortunately, Mr Watson is away on business and won't return until next week." Fanny said, the grin on her face making it clear she did not find this unfortunate in any way at all.

"Then I shall keep you company." Manuel said earnestly. "A beautiful woman such as yourself should not be alone."

"Lord save us." John muttered under his breath, earning a rather pointed glare from Margaret from across the room.

He shrugged, then softened as he took her in. She looked beautiful. It had been so long since there had been any cause to wear formal clothing, and he had forgotten just how elegant she was dressed in her finest. She wore a deep green silk gown that clung to her in a way that made John want to forget their guests and sling her over his shoulder like a beast. Her shoulders were exposed, and he could not help but lower his eyes to her full cleavage.

They had not made a formal announcement yet, but Margaret's course had not come for the past two months. She was fairly confident that there would be a new occupant of the Thornton cradle come winter. Perhaps that was why he felt so possessive; really, their guest had done nothing particularly offensive (besides existing, and having the gall to talk to Margaret), yet every time the man's eyes fell on her John wanted to rip them clean from his skull. She was his, the proof of that growing within her each day, further evidence upstairs in the nursery.

He swallowed; this was absurd. The man was no threat to him, to think such a thing would be to lay insult at Margaret's feet. No, he was harmless enough; a flirt, yes, but a business associate and near enough family. He emerged from his corner, swallowing down the annoyance and vowing to be more tolerant of their guest.

An hour later, that vow was becoming increasingly hard to keep.

Conversation flowed, dominated by their visitor. With every sentence, he seemed to grow more accomplished, more distinguished and more knowledgeable. John grew tired of hearing of his adventures across Europe, and of his plans to travel to America the following year. John picked at his food, glaring down at his plate like a fussy child.

A sharp pain to his shin alerted him to the fact somebody had asked him a question, and Margaret looked at him expectantly, her eyes glaring at him in a way only he understood, the rest of her face entirely pleasant.

Before he could say anything, a sudden wail rang out from upstairs, and Margaret leapt to her feet. John joined her, as did Manuel, and she gestured that they should both sit. She left the room with a quick apology, and John listened until her light footsteps had disappeared upstairs and in the direction of the nursery.

"Do you know, I do not think Margaret has changed in the years since I last saw her. Certainly, she does not have the appearance of a mother, nor the figure!"

John gritted his teeth, disliking how openly the man would discuss his wife's body in front of others. It was none of his business, and certainly not proper discussion at a dinner table. He cast an eye towards his mother who, infuriatingly, seemed to be oblivious to the insult.

"She looks well, aye." John said, begrudgingly agreeing with him even though he could do nothing but. "Motherhood suits her."

"These Milton women seem a rare breed." Manuel said, with an admiring glance to the two Milton women who surrounded him.

John's grip tightened around his glass.

"Margaret is not a true Milton woman." Fanny interjected, her smile as forced and as false as John had ever seen it. "She is from London."

"Hampshire." John corrected irritably.

Fanny shrugged, her smile not fading for a moment as she shooed John's meticulousness away with a dismissive wave of her hand. He was sure she would not be able to pick out Hampshire on a map if her life depended on it.

"Oh, it is all the same. Tell me, Señor, do you have plans to marry?"

"Fanny!" Their mother hissed.

Manuel laughed, shaking his head and smiling broadly at Fanny. John swore he could see a blush spreading across her cheeks, and he scowled. She was far too easily won over by good looks and an exotic accent.

"No, sadly not. I have never found the woman for me. Nobody who excites me, who captures my mind and my heart in equal measure. My mother says I am growing too old, but I will not settle for anything less than love."

Fanny looked utterly besotted by his words, staring at Barbour with wide, unblinking eyes and a dreamlike expression on her face.

John felt nauseous.

"You're not so old." Fanny said. "John was thirty-one by the time he married."

"Well, I hope I shall not be as old as that." Manuel joked. John did not smile. "You did well to find such a young bride. And one so accomplished as Margaret."

John was sure he heard Fanny mutter something under her breath - for even after all these years, his sister could not resist a quick barb at Margaret when the opportunity arose. It was not unusual in a marriage for the man to have some years on his wife; indeed, Watson was older than he was, married to his sister who was younger than Margaret. She had little place to judge him.

"We are well suited to one another." John gritted out, taking a larger swig of wine than was strictly necessary. "Age does not matter."

Margaret returned shortly after that, apologising for her absence.

"A bad dream." She explained, taking her seat beside John - she had always refused to take the other head of the table, leaving the space for Hannah. "Something about dragons."

The rest of the evening passed without event until John was required to offer Manuel a brandy after dinner as was traditional. John found it difficult to conceal his distaste for the man in private. He was too loud, too overt; everything John wasn't.

"How's business?" Manuel asked, sitting down and taking a deep drink from his glass. "It is certainly very busy here. I will have much to report when I return home."

"Your father seems pleased with our dealings."

"Si, si, he is. We are proud of our connections here, for your Marlborough Mills is getting a reputation in Cadiz, you know. The ladies cannot get enough of your fabric - Dolores might have something to do with that."

"Your father is well?"

"Si, but he tires easily. Mama wishes to retire to the country, for a slower pace of life. He is not ready to give up work; it is his life. His fourth child."

"I can understand that."

Manuel shook his head, lifting his brandy glass and draining the last of the amber liquid. He raised an eyebrow, a smile slowly spreading over his face.

"Ah, but there is more to life than work, my friend! Your wife, for example. Surely she is so much more interesting than any cotton?"

"Mmm."

"And soon you will have two children, no?"

"What-"

"You think I cannot see when a woman is expecting after being around my sister every day? Congratulations."

"It is early days yet. We've not told anyone."

"Well, I shall be the first to offer my good wishes." He smiled, and John nodded back, though his lips did not so much as twitch as his face remained stony. Manuel sighed. "If only I could find a woman like her. They do not seem common, for most unattached English women I have met seem dull and uneducated. Certainly, I have not met anyone like Margaret for myself."

"I don't claim to be any sort of expert on women. Margaret and I met through her father, some years ago now. We married two year later."

"Ah, but a man with a face such as yours, I am sure you had your pick of the ladies, no?"

"No."

"Ah, my serious friend! I am joking, only joking! I can see you are a man of good, ah how you say? Morals. You and I are not the same there."

John said nothing, not wishing to know any details of Manuel Barbour's immorality. He set his glass down.

"If you'll excuse me, I must rise early."

"Of course. Goodnight."

And so, John stalked out of the room and up the stairs. He would have slammed the bedroom door behind him if the noise wouldn't have woken the baby. Instead, he closed it gently, scowling deeply. He removed his cravat, tugging too tightly. He coughed as the force wrapped around his throat, and he had to remind himself to take more care in his actions.

When he had shed himself of his jacket, waistcoat and shoes, he sat down on the bed. Margaret would be getting ready for bed in her dressing room, or settling the baby in the nursery, and she would not thank him for his temper. He needed to steady himself; he had no wish to be short with her, for she did not deserve his irritation.

Margaret entered the room, still fully dressed. She eyed him with suspicion, crossing her arms once the door was firmly closed behind her.

"Explain yourself."

"Excuse me?"

"You have had a face like thunder for the past two days. I think your forehead may actually split in two with the force of your frown."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He muttered as he untied his cravat.

"Are you to glower for the entire duration of Manuel's visit? Your constant stomping is wearing out the floorboards."

"I am not stomping."

"You have been like a bear with a sore head ever since he arrived. I am tired of pretending not to notice. He is our guest, John; he is Fred's brother-in-law! It is unforgivably rude to treat him so coldly. He is family."

"I've been civil."

"Hmm." Margaret eyed him with suspicion. "I'm not sure that is quite what I'd call it."

She yawned widely, covering her mouth and stretching out her arm. She had been exhausted with this pregnancy, and the exertion of hosting their guest was clear to see on her face. She did not sit down, still standing and looking at him expectantly for an answer. His shoulders sagged under her gaze, finally caught in his childish jealousy.

"He's an idiot."

A little puff of laughter escaped his wife before she pressed her lips together. She walked over to him, reaching up to caress his jaw as she scolded him softly.

"John. That's not polite."

"And commenting on your figure at the dinner table, that's polite, is it?"

"When did he do that?!" Margaret asked with wide, horrified eyes. Her hands flew protectively to the slight bump of her stomach, well hidden beneath the tight boning of her dress.

"When you went to sort Arthur. Don't worry," John gritted out through clenched teeth. "He was most complimentary."

Her brow furrowed, her lips quirking upwards as she struggled not to laugh. He scowled at her response and she straightened her face, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. She found this whole thing funny. It was maddening; did she not see the way he looked at her?! He had never felt jealousy this ugly in their marriage, the primal urge to beat this apparent challenger into a pulp consuming him. Margaret did not seem concerned over his sudden brutishness, for she merely shrugged.

"Hmm, well, no. That is not polite, and I do not approve. But neither do I approve of you constantly glaring at him when the poor man has done nothing to cause such offence. Just a few more days, darling, then he will be gone. He is a flirt, that is all. It does not have any effect on me, but poor Fanny seems to be quite smitten."

"It's not right. She's a married woman."

"She's not even twenty-three, John, married to a man old enough to be her father that she cannot even stand to be in the same room as. I'm not sure I can blame her for having her head turned by a handsome man paying her such dutiful attention."

"Still. It in't right." He grunted.

She crossed to her dressing table, removing her earrings as she walked. He frowned; how could she brush this off as nothing? Did she not understand?

"It's nothing, darling." Margaret soothed. "Soon Manuel will return to Spain and Fanny will forget all about him. Forgive her reaction; you know she has always enjoyed flattery. That is all this is; flattery, and nothing more. Do not worry."

It wasn't his sister he was worried about.

"You remember when we were in London a few years ago, when you were near your time with Arthur? There was that girl..."

Pausing her ministrations at the dressing table, Margaret's shoulders tightened. The jealousy she had expressed that night had been spurred on by the emotions of pregnancy, but he had never forgotten the fierce look in her eyes when she had challenged him on what she had seen. He had not understood how she could accuse him of such a thing, for his devotion to his wife had made him quite oblivious to the attentions of other women. Now, he understood entirely.

She turned to him, jaw tight and face humourless, her eyes still blazing with that long ago fury. For all of her placating, it seemed that she too was still easily touched by jealousy.

"I remember."

"That is how I feel." He admitted. "In truth, I'd happily rip his head from his shoulders every time he looks at you."

"John, do you not understand? I do not see anyone but you. I think of nobody except you. No man could turn my head, nor flatter me." She kissed him, just once. "I hate to be sentimental, dear, but I only love you more with each passing day. Truly."

"You mean it?"

"You would doubt me? After all this time, after all we have been through together.." She took his hands, placing them on the rise of her stomach, and he pressed his palm flat against her, as though he would somehow feel the baby despite the early stage of her pregnancy. "This is all that matters, John. Our family. Any jealousy you may feel is entirely misplaced, I assure you. I see no other man than you."

He pulled her to him, crushing his mouth to hers. She gasped against his lips, her hands threading through his hair as he pushed her until her back met the wall. She eagerly met the intensity of his kiss, a welcome sting of pain as she pulled his hair, tugging him closer.

Sometime later, they lay entwined on the bed. Margaret rested her head on his bare chest, her hand reaching up and lost in his hair as she stroked the dark mass of his hair lazily.

"Oh." She sighed. "That was..."

"Mmm." John murmured sleepily, nuzzling against her warm skin.

"Perhaps you should be jealous more often."

"No."

"I'm only teasing." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "I am not sure my wardrobe could withstand much more of it. I am sure I heard tearing. How many dresses must you ruin over the course of our marriage?"

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, kissing her softly and delighting in her little breathy moan. She threaded her fingers through his hair, keeping him close. He smiled against her, his hands idly stroking the length of her body as they lay entwined.

"You must think me a beast."

"I think I know you well enough by now, darling. You've been furious since he arrived."

"I did not think he would be so candid."

"I think he is somewhat charming." At the sight of the look on his face, she smiled, shaking her head. "But that is all it is; charm. An act, I suspect. Dolores has mentioned to me more than once that she thinks he is lonely. He has lovers, she says.."

"Mrs Thornton! I did not think you capable of speaking of such things so casually."

"Oh hush, I am just telling you what Dolores told me. I am sure men speak of much worse after a brandy or two. Dolores despairs of him, truly. She would like nothing more than to see him marry and have children of his own. She says he is very good with Maria and the rest. You have to admit, he is wonderful with Arthur. I am sure marriage would suit him very well.

"Well, there's no wife for him here."

"I will be sure to tell him." Margaret teased. She yawned, curling closer to him. "I'm exhausted."

"Sleep. That babe of ours must be making you tired."

"Sick, mostly." Margaret groaned. "I shall be glad when this stage has passed. It is miserable, and even worse than last time. I do not know why there is such a difference, but I feel wretched."

He felt a stab of guilt; he had missed the entirety of the early stages of her pregnancy with Arthur, having been away on business. By the time he had returned, her sickness had passed.

"You're sure you are well?"

"Perfectly well. This is quite normal, I promise." She yawned. "Sleep, darling."

So he did.

Some months later, Margaret sat in the nursery, her belly enormous and her swollen feet raised in front of her. Arthur played at her feet, muttering to himself as he stacked little blocks of woods in a tower, watched by his besotted mother.

John cleared his throat, and she jumped.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Only a moment. This arrived for you, and I did not want you to have to get up."

"Oh?" She looked down at the envelope. "It is from Cadiz, but that is not Fred nor Dolores' hand. I wonder who it could be."

She opened it, taking out the letter. John watched as she read, noting the small smile that played on her lips.

"Who is it?"

"Manuel Barbour."

That familiar jealousy still poked at him, the memory of the man's visit fresh in his mind once more.

"What's he got to say for himself?"

"He is writing to tell us that he is to be married." Margaret said, turning the letter over as she continued to read the scrawl that covered both pages. "In the spring. He said he would like to invite us, but he knows that the baby will be very young and we will be unable to travel. He hopes that we will be happy for him; I am surprised he holds our opinion in such regard."

"That seems rather sudden."

Margaret shrugged, holding out the letter so that John himself might read it. He did not take it from her and she shook her head, rolling her eyes at his petulance.

"He says he met a woman in France, when he left England and began his journey back to Cadiz. How lovely. Dolores shall be so pleased that he has settled at last."

"What's her name?" John asked, walking over to Arthur and lifting him up, holding the child close to him and pressing a kiss into his dark hair.

Margaret folded the letter and placed it neatly back in its envelope, smiling as she watched the pair together.

"Marguerite."