Thursday: June 8, 2006

The first thought that crossed John's mind the next morning was that he'd slept in. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept past six. The next thought was a jumbled mess of arousal and panic. Margaret was curled around him like a cat, her head on his chest, her body wedged tight against him, one leg tangled between his. And because it was the morning—

"Shit." He tried to shift his lower body away from her, but as soon as he managed an inch, she just snuggled closer. He tried to think. She was too warm, too close, and smelled too damn good for any mental effort on his part to bypass his body's natural reaction. Shit, shit, shit. If he didn't get his sorry ass out of this bed, he was going to royally embarrass himself. And humiliate her. Still he hesitated, enjoying the feel and the smell of her. His hand slid slowly over her back and she inched closer.

The bright silence was broken by the telephone. Margaret gasped, jolting awake. She scrambled towards the phone, half crawling over him at the same moment he rolled to grab the handset, tipping her dangerously towards the edge.

"John," she yelped and grabbed onto his outstretched arm, knocking the phone to the floor as he shifted, catching her around the waist before she fell out of bed.

They stared at each other for a beat, then two, the phone now silent. His thumb brushed over the patch exposed skin just under her ribs, almost against his will, feeling goosebumps erupt under his touch.

"Maggie,"

Whatever rational part of his brain that was left melted away when she reached up and brushed her fingertips across his lips. Yesterday morning, she'd kissed him, gentle, shy, and curious. It had been a soft thing, like a door slowly opening onto a new possible world. But there was nothing gentle about this kiss. This kiss was hard and hungry, all heat and sweat and desire. He half expected her to push him off of her, and shrink away with the same panicked deer-in-the-headlights horror from two nights ago when he'd first kissed her.

Only she didn't. Her hands tangled in his hair, her tongue sliding against his in equal desperation. Desire slithered along his muscles and bones, twisting itself over in a painful knot. He knew he should stop, but couldn't; knew he should hold back and didn't. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head in one hand, his mouth moving instinctually from hers to her jaw, neck, and shoulder, following the lingering floral scent of her perfume. He didn't hear the noise he made, or the sound of her cellphone. Goddamn, she was perfect and smooth and tasted of—

He froze when he felt her legs softly open wider under him. What the hell was he doing? He stared at her, every cell in his body screaming to keep going, to take, to touch, to explore. She was his girlfriend and he'd never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her right now. But he didn't want this to be something easy or cheap, simply because they were sharing a bed. He wanted her but—he didn't know what exactly he wanted. He wanted more.

"John?"

"I—" he shook his head and forced himself to move—slowly—holding her in place with one hand. If she moved, he wouldn't be able to stop himself again. He awkwardly half slithered, half fell out of bed, stumbled to his feet, and leaned against the wall, his breath coming in hard gasps, his eyes still glued on Margaret. "I'm sorry."

She sat up, her eyes and hair shining in a slanting beam of early morning sunshine. One sleeve of her nightgown had slipped off one shoulder, the soft fabric clinging to every perfect curve. John swallowed back another rough curse and forced himself to walk into the bathroom. He flipped on the shower, the dial firmly pointed to 'cold', and stepped under the unforgiving stream. He didn't realize he was still wearing his damn boxers until they were completely soaked.

"Bloody hell," Margaret let out a whoosh of air. She flopped back onto the bed, the lingering smell of John's cologne making her cheeks flame, a new ache flushing through her. She groaned and pressed her hands against her cheeks, trying to hold back the torrent of impulses dancing around her head. She'd kissed John again and done it bloody proper this time. Like, full on, tongue-in-his-mouth, snogging. And then she'd—

"Oh my God," she groaned, pulling her legs tight against her chest. She did not need to spend anymore time on the memory of John Thornton in his tight black boxer-briefs, between her legs and—

Two firm knocks sounded and she yelped, yanking the covers over her face, as if the unseen supplicant at the door would know exactly what she'd been doing. And imagining of doing again. Margaret peeked out. Cheerful streams of sunshine spilled past the velvet curtains. The sun was clearly unaware of what had transpired. Three more knocks sounded at the door. "Who is it?" Her voice squeaked.

"Room service, Miss Hale."

"Room service?" She sat up. The sound of the shower stopped and she vaulted out of bed. "Yes, alright. Just leave it, thanks."

She pulled on her wrapper and opened the door, glaring at the silver tray sitting on a cart in the hall. A large intricate silver pot stood on a lacy doily with two blue-patterned porcelain teacups, complete with saucers and two tiny golden spoons. Next to it was a small covered china sugar bowl, and a tiny pitcher of cream, damp with condensation.

Who on earth had sent them room service? Her ears strained, catching at the soft sounds of John moving in the bathroom. What had possessed her to kiss him like that? And why had he stopped? "Oh, for heaven's sake," she grumbled. "It's not like you haven't seen the man naked before." And that was precisely the problem. She jumped when her mobile began to ring again. "What?"

"Aren't you just a sparkling ray of sunshine," Darcy chirped, sounding far more awake than was acceptable. "I just sent you love birds coffee. You're welcome."

"I don't drink coffee."

"You could say thank you." Darcy chuckled. "You missed hot yoga this morning."

"Did I?" Margaret rolled her eyes. "What a pity."

"Having another go at Johnny, were you?"

"I—" Margaret almost dropped the heavy tray. "Don't call him that."

"You didn't miss much. The yoga instructor was a dish." Darcy continued. "Other than that it was all 'breathe in, breathe out' nonsense. I think I pulled a muscle in my arse. I'm limping."

"I'm going now,"

"Oi, Eddy wanted to make sure you remember dance lessons—"

"Oh God." She'd forgotten about the dance lessons. "Must we?"

"No more skiving off." Darcy clicked her tongue. "Speaking of, where'd you and your American run off to yesterday?"

"Nowhere," Margaret growled, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Yesterday had been a small miracle and she didn't quite understand what it meant yet. She sipped hurriedly at her coffee, "This tastes like tar."

"Best drink up," Darcy snorted, "Since we missed lessons the other day because of great-step-aunt-what's-her-name, we've got to pull a double session before the hen-do."

"Eds knows I hate dancing."

"It's just a waltz. It's not like she's got us learning the bloody tango, yeah?"

"Well, you don't have to waltz with Henry Lennox."

"God, I forgot," Darcy burst out with a shriek of delighted laughter. "Go then, Meg. What's wrong with Henners?"

"Everything."

"He's lovely and—"

"Arrogant,"

"—rich"

"He's a prat."

"Maybe but he's proper and British—"

"I don't really do proper, yeah?" Margaret knew Darcy was egging her on, but she couldn't stop herself. "Eds thinks we can both just get married to James and Henry and be all neat and tidy, but if I'm going to marry anyone it'll be—" she broke off almost dropping her cup of coffee.

"John?"

"Goodbye, Darcy." Margaret snapped her phone shut in an odd sort of panic, her neck and cheeks flushed and sweating. Without thinking, she drained her cup of coffee, choking a little. What was wrong with her? One twenty second snog, twisted up together in bed, didn't equal a lifelong of blissful marital happiness. She most definitely did not want to marry anyone. Not even—

"Maggie,"

"John!" She jumped, her cup clattering down onto the table. He stood in the bathroom doorway, still wearing those bloody black boxers, which were now wet, and—Her eyes widened. Bloody hell. Don't stare, don't bloody stare. He raised his eyebrows. "H-hello."

"Hi."

"So we've got brunch and then dance lessons today."

"Do we?"

"Well, not 'we', precisely. Me—I do. Edith's gone and booked us for most of the afternoon, but you don't have to come if you'd rather not, which I'm sure you'd rather not, because who wants to watch ruddy dance lessons?" Words were unscrupulously pouring out of her mouth. But if she stopped talking, she was terrified she might start kissing him again, which would definitely be unwise in their current state of undress. "So maybe you could ring up the Depot and get some work done, yeah? And then after that is the stag and hen-do, which is basically spending the evening bar hopping and making rude jokes. I know you'll hate it, so never mind I said anything about it, actually. You definitely won't want to do that either so—"

"But you want me."

Margaret swallowed. She—she did want him; wanted him far more than she understood. But she couldn't say it. Not out loud. He was still watching her in that infuriating way he always did, a tiny mischievous smile on his face. Like he could see something about her no one else could, and it fascinated him. She stared back, unaware she was moving closer, until she could almost feel the heat rolling off his skin.

"Give me seven minutes."

"Really? That's," she licked her lips, "that's fast."

"That's what she said."

Margaret's eyes widened and she hurried passed, snatched up her makeup kit, and escaped into the washroom. She very carefully locked the heavy door, almost slumping against it, shivering at the gravely sound of John's laughter. She groaned and slammed on the tap, gasping when she stepped under the ice cold stream of water.

An hour later, John sat next to Margaret in the dance studio, the two of them wedged between one of the blond brigade and the curly redhead. Brunch with the bridal party had been a mostly casual, almost silent, affair between them, with Margaret attending to her family's constant bullshit, and John trying to say nothing, trying to sort through his own goddamn tangle of thoughts. He sighed. All he really wanted was five minutes with his girlfriend. Alone. And maybe a condom or two. John shifted and shook himself. It was probably a good thing they were stuck at the damn dance lessons.

They were watching the hard-ass dance instructor work with one couple like lambs waiting to be slaughtered. It was a simple turn and spin combo but the groomsman's feet kept getting tangled. His partner was growing visibly frustrated when he stepped on her feet for the fifth time. John snorted.

"Stop laughing," Margaret whispered, nudging him in the side. "It's not that easy."

"But it's not that hard."

"You're rude,"

"I'm honest."

"At least he's trying."

"That's what she said."

"John Thornton," she hissed. Her cheeks turn red and she was trying not to laugh. "Be nice."

"Why?" He chuckled, taking her hand. He couldn't get the feel and smell of her body against his out of his head. He couldn't stop himself, and was tired of trying. "That man's got no sense of rhythm."

"Like you could do any better."

"I can."

Margaret raised her eyebrows, "You said you don't dance."

"I don't," he shifted, pressing closer against her. "But I could still do better than him."

"I'd pay money to see you try."

"You can't afford me." John's eyes flicked over her. Whatever this purple flimsy shit she was wearing was, it definitely wasn't a dress. His free hand twitched closer to her legs, itching to slide over the bare skin of her knees. He knew she was watching him, and crossed her legs. He swallowed a groan. "What about you?" He forced his eyes to her face. She was grinning.

"The last time anyone successfully forced me to dance I was nine, and it was awful."

"Why?"

"Arthur Wiggins wasn't keen to dance with me and announced it to the entire class. They all laughed at me and the teacher refused to let him switch." She shivered, and leaned her head against his shoulder in an easy intimacy that sent a wave of heat down his spine. "Even Edith laughed. So I left and never went back."

"Assholes."

"We were children," she poked him. "My ego was bruised but I survived."

John frowned. It was a small thing, but for some reason it pissed him off more than it should. How many other shitty things had she survived? And how many more were waiting for her? His grip on her hand tightened but he forced himself to change the subject, "What's this do-hickey thing you have to do next? After lunch?"

"The hen-do?" She chuckled. "It's like a girls' party while the men go stag. A bachelorette thing, yeah?"

"Shoot me now."

"You don't have to go with them, you know," she said softly. "I really don't mind if you'd rather work a little."

John shrugged and glanced away. He caught sight of Henry Lennox moving closer. The man had been eyeing John and Margaret all day, like the it-girl in high-school eyeing her ex-boyfriend after he dumps her.

"Are you dancing with the shit-head?"

Margaret squeaked, and shot him a dark look, "John Thornton."

"He is," he said, smiling. He could listen to her say his name all damn day. Preferably somewhere dark and private. John lowered his voice, "What's his deal?"

"Nothing. He's,"

"A dick."

"Well no—I mean, sometimes, yes, but—"

"He's got a thing for you."

"He might." She squeezed his hand, "I've got you now, love."

John stared at her, his thoughts instantly swirling into an incoherent jumble at her words, the gentle endearment cutting through him like a knife to the chest. She did have him. She would always have him, if she wanted him. His hand tightened around hers, the weight of his sudden clarity making it hard to breathe.

"John?"

"Next I need Margaret Hale and Henry Lennox, please," the dance instructor called.

"Margaret," Henry Lennox appeared in front of them and held out his hand, his razor gaze fixed on John, almost in a challenge. "Shall we?"

John stared back and narrowed his eyes in a silent warning. Let the little shit-head try and lay one finger on her without her permission, and John would break him. Margaret cleared her throat, and squeezed his hand, her expression almost bashful. He sighed and reluctantly let her slowly pry her fingers free. She dragged them along his, as if she'd rather do anything than let go.

"Wish me luck," she whispered.

"Kick his ass."

She rolled her eyes, blushing. Then she straightened her shoulders and marched across the studio floor. John barely noticed Henry's fumbling steps as the instructor explained the simple waltz, for the twentieth time, and counted off the beats. He didn't see anything but Margaret. Every move of her body was perfect.

"You two looked cozy," the redhead knocked her shoulder against his. "You're one lucky sod, you know?"

"I know."

"So what you going to do about it then?"

John didn't answer. Margaret shot a quick glance back at him, her cheeks flushed. Her expression softened, and she smiled. His hands curled into fists. By some miracle or some stupid dumb luck, he'd found her when he'd least expected it. And he'd be damned if he didn't find a way to keep her.

John Watson peeled himself away from his half dressed girlfriend when his cell phone began ringing.

"Leave it, Watson," Fanny pouted.

"Oh shit," Watson paled. "It's your brother."

"Don't answer," she shrieked, pulling the sheet up over herself. "He can't know I'm here."

But Watson had already flipped his phone open. He cleared his throat, and scrambled towards the bathroom, "Hello?"

"How long have you been dating my sister?"

"What?"

"Fan. How long have you two been dating?"

"Why the hell do you need to know that?" Watson grabbed his watch off the vanity. "At eleven in the morning on a Thursday—"

"Answer the damn question."

Watson slowly calculated on his fingers, shooing Fanny out of the bathroom, "Four or five months? Give or take. Why?"

"Have you slept with her?"

Fanny gasped and Watson shoved her out of the doorway, "Okay, no—stop," Watson slammed the door and leaned against it. "No fucking way I'm answering that question. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"When are you going to marry her?"

"I don't know. When are you going to marry your girlfriend?"

"I—" John stopped. A pause. "We've been sharing a hotel room."

"Who's we?"

"Margaret." John said. "Her family's got us in the same goddamn room all week."

"Oh, shit," Watson started to laugh. Suddenly his best friend's odd phone call made a lot more sense. He ignored Fanny's pounding on the bathroom door and flipped on the sink. John would skin his hide if he knew his sister was there. "This isn't about your sister. This about Margaret and your chronic sexual frustration."

"Shut up—"

"Let me guess, only one bed, right?" John's silence was all the confirmation he needed. Watson chuckled again. It was almost worth getting interrupted for this. "How's that going?"

"It's not."

"You're in the same bed as Margaret Hale and you haven't put the wood to her?"

"Shut. Up."

"You freakin idiot." In the seven years they'd known each other, his friend's iron control on himself when it came to women had yet to slip. Not even for Anne Latimer, who was rumored to be hot as hell and an easy hit. It was impressive, but it made John Thornton a testy bastard from time to time.

"Who's John talking about?" Fanny called through the door. "Is it Margaret?"

"Watson, is that my sister?"

"You know you make your own misery, right?" Watson stated, ignoring John's question. Silence. "Why the hell haven't you been laid yet? It's not even that hard, John."

"Oh my Lord, it is Margaret, isn't it? What does he mean he hasn't—"

"Are you done?" John growled.

"Sure," Watson grinned, enjoying this far more than he should. He yanked open the bathroom door and motioned for Fanny to be quiet, before slipping out into the hall. "How bad is it?"

"Watson—"

"On a scale of Shoot-Me-Now to I-Want-To-Pop-The-Question?" The line was silent for a moment and then John sighed. Watson's mouth fell open, "Oh, fuck."

"Yeah."

"You've been dating two fucking months—"

"One and a half."

"Holy shit," he breathed. "Really? You can't marry her right now—"

"I'm not going to marry her tomorrow, dipshit—"

"—You know you're fucked, right?"

"I know," John growled. "Asshole."

"Okay, stop." Watson started pacing the hall. "Stop the whole damn train."

"Why do you think I'm calling your sorry ass?" John snapped. Watson could imagine the look on his face. John rarely asked Watson for anything. They both knew exactly what this phone call meant, even if neither of them were saying it out loud.

"Shit," Watson raked a hand through his hair. Fanny's head popped out of the bedroom. She was wearing his bathrobe.

"What's happening?" She hissed.

He waved her away, "Are you sure it's not just blue balls?"

"My balls have been blue for months. Since the day I met her."

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

Watson stopped pacing and glanced at Fanny, who'd been following him, very obviously listening in. Her mouth was hanging open in delighted surprise.

"Oh my Lord,"

Watson pushed her back towards the bedroom, "Exactly how far are you willing to go for this girl?"

"I'm in New York for a wedding, asshat. I haven't done any work for three fucking days. How far do you think?"

"Holy shit." Watson blew out a heavy breath. He and Fanny exchanged a shocked look. "You're really going to marry her."

Fanny squealed. "I knew you would marry her."

"That's my sister." John growled. "Watson."

"It is. And I can explain."

"You better."

"Forget Fanny. We're talking about you wanting to marry Margaret."

John made a strangled sound, "She doesn't even like me."

"So be more likable," Fanny called, chuckling. "Maybe then you could finally get laid, big brother."

Watson swore he could hear John roll his eyes. Then his friend cursed. "She's already planned our breakup."

"Your what?" Fanny demanded. She grabbed Watson's phone and put it on speaker. "What the hell does that mean, John-John?"

"She thinks we're supposed to break up in January."

"Supposed to break up?" Fanny and Waston exchanged another look. "Explain."

"We agreed to date for six months, and that's it."

Watson snorted, "No way you agreed to that."

"Not exactly," John swore again. "I'm one hundred percent fucked right now. I have to ask her—"

"Don't do that," Watson interrupted.

"Shut up, Watson." Fanny smacked him in the chest. "Ask her, John. Now. If you love her and don't marry her, you're a goddamn idiot."

"She's not going to say yes if he asks now without any warning." Watson said and yanked his phone out of Fanny's hand. "She'll panic."

"I'm not going to sit on my ass and wait for her to stomp on my balls—"

"We need a plan," Fanny insisted.

"There is no 'we' here, Fan."

"Well, what are you gonna do, big brother?"

"The hell if I know."

"Are you asking us for help?"

"Fuck, no—"

"You called me," Watson said. "If that's not a cry for help—"

"I want perspective, not advice."

"Because you're in balls deep for this girl." There was no way in hell he'd let John off the hook now. Even Fanny had gone silent. "You'd ask her right now, if common decency didn't stop you." John let out a noise that was not quite a curse, not quite a grunt.

"Oh, he has it bad." Fanny started giggling.

"Shut up, Fan."

"On the upside, you're already dating her." Watson pushed Fanny back toward the bed. "That's the whole point, right? Convince her you're worth it, and then you ask her."

"Sure," John growled. "Easy as shit."

"Just don't blow it, and make sure to ask before January," Fanny called, still laughing.

"Go to hell."

"You're welcome, John-John."

"Watson, are you fucking my sister?"

"What do you think?" Watson switched off speaker, "Are you fucking Margaret Hale?"

John didn't answer.

"You love her, right?"

His friend was silent for so long Watson thought he might have hung up. But then he blew out a hard breath. "I do. It's her or no one."

"Then you can fucking wait for her."

The line was silent again. "If you don't marry my sister, I'll cut off your balls."

"I know." Watson grinned. "And for love of sanity, get your ass laid."

"I'm trying."

"Good luck," Waston laughed at the exhausted sound in his friend's voice. "Enjoy the wedding."

John swore again and then he hung up.

It was nearly six when their taxi finally pulled up to the Bronwyn. Margaret yawned. A few more hours and this day would be over.

"Tired are we?" James beamed at her, while helping Edith out. Her dress today was a flimsy puff of layers and fluff, which got caught on everything. But it was beautiful, like everything Edith wore.

"Just a little," Margaret murmured, glancing over to where John waited with the other groomsmen.

He was a head taller than most of them, his simple charcoal suit stood in sharp contrast to the more cheerful colors of the other men. She shivered, her skin itching and sweaty.

Between dance lessons, which had stretched on and on and on, and the plated luncheon at some posh restaurant, she'd barely had a moment to breathe let alone think about what was happening between them. John had disappeared halfway through her and Henry's lesson. When he'd reappeared, everything about him was different. His face, his posture, even his touch was different. He hadn't said a word during lunch, but his eyes and hands were saying plenty. He hadn't let go of her unless etiquette forced him, his touch steady and warm and determined. But she couldn't quite put her finger on what it all meant.

"Right then, where are you ladies off to for your hen-do?"

"That would be none of your business," Gemma raised her chin and dug a pink silk scarf out of her purse. The rest of the bridesmaids squealed in excitement—all except Margaret. In less than five minutes, Edith was sporting a fake tiara and a sash that read 'bride-to-be' in silvery gold glitter, the pink silk scarf tied around her eyes in a blindfold.

"You too, James," Rick Stevenson, James's best mate since primary, pulled a sleep mask from his jacket pocket. "One last kiss and then you're ours for the night."

Margaret glanced quickly up, and caught John staring. Then his eyes dragged slowly over her from face to feet. Her rational mind was desperately trying to keep whatever this was in the safe box of their original agreement. But how could she? He'd seen parts of her life no one ever had, and he was still here, looking at her like he didn't want to be anywhere else on the planet. In spite of all the wedding madness, Margaret didn't want to be anywhere else, either. Unless he was there too. Preferably in a dark corner. Alone. She blushed as his eyes traveled over her body again. Then they snapped up to her face, in a blazing heated look which made her squirm. As if he was thinking the exact thing she was.

"Hang on, Eds, I need the loo." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. John's eyes darkened as she gave him another quick glance before heading for the toilets. A strange heat pricked all over her skin. Still she waited by the block of pay phones for half a minute, nerves roiling in her stomach. She was losing her bloody mind. What if she'd just imagined that he—

And then John stepped around the corner, grabbed her by the waist, and walked her backwards into one of the enclosed booths, his mouth hot against hers. Oh. Oh.

"Maggie,"

Her name on his lips boiled under her skin, making her dress itchy and too bloody tight. She let out a little squeak of protest when he sank his hands into her hair, tugging at her curls.

"Don't," she said, her lips scraping over his. "My hair,"

"—is fine."

"But," He kissed her again, slower this time. His hands ran up her back, over her shoulders and down her ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. She sank into him, exploring the firm press and silky feel of his mouth. He tasted like the honeyed almond dressing from their lunch salad, with a hint of coffee and peppermint. "You said it was fine yesterday."

"It was."

"Then you said I was a mess."

"You are."

Margaret glanced up, studying him for a half second, then grabbed his tie and tugged his lips to hers, kissing the nonsense out of him. "Shut up."

"Make me." His deep voice took on a rough edge that made her insides flutter, his mouth roving over her skin. "I dare you."

"Impossible man."

He grinned, a hungry wicked look, and her legs trembled. But then a sharp knock on the booth door made them both jump. Amelia Nelson was standing outside the phone booth, one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised in disapproval.

"Oh my God," Margaret hissed. "What?"

"We're supposed to be celebrating Edith," Amelia said. She glanced pointedly at John, who hadn't let go. "Not snogging our boyfriends."

Margaret pressed her eyes closed, shame flooding suddenly over her. What was she even doing?

"Oi," Darcy appeared from around the corner. "Tongue wrestle all you want, doves. Mia's just jealous Meg's getting stuffed when she's not beat the gun for months. Wrap it up in five minutes, yeah?" Darcy winked, dragging a red-faced Amelia after her.

Margaret groaned and buried her face in John's jacket, trying to calm her pounding heart.

"Beat the gun?" He muttered, his breath hot against her ear.

"I—sorry," She swallowed, her mouth feeling like sand, keenly aware of every point of contact between their bodies. "It—well—it means,"

"I got it."

"Do you?" She raised her eyes, "Clever man."

"It's not hard."

"It was this morning." The words were velvety on her tongue and she watched his whole expression shift.

"It still is," He breathed, pressing his hips tight against hers.

"Oh," Margaret's lungs pinched as he kissed her again. Bloody hell. "John," She tried to step back, their breath heavy and too loud in the cramped space, "I—we have to go." The words coming out of her mouth were at odds with her body. She wanted more, needed more. "We should—"

"A little more," he growled, his cheek rough against hers. "Please."

She shook her head, but she kissed him again. And then again. And again. "I'll see you later."

"How much later?"

She laughed at the sudden petulance in his voice and pushed him out of the booth. "Later." Then she slipped around the corner, hurriedly tidying her hair, before he touched her again. If he did, she wasn't certain she could stop herself any more. And she didn't know what to do about that inconvenient fact.

"What. Was. That?" Edith's hand clamped around Margaret's elbow and she dragged her into the large white limo now idling in front of the Bronwyn.

"Tell us everything," Darcy demanded.

"N-nothing. Just—"

"He was practically eating her face," Amelia finished her glass of champagne. "Honestly."

"So they were having a bit 'o fun before we all get pissed. And why not? It was hot." Darcy grinned and handed Margaret a tissue. "Wipe up, Megs. John's mussed your makeup."

Margaret swiped at her mouth and chin, the telltale smudges of lipstick making the bridesmaids giggle. "Shut up," she grumbled.

"Really, Migs, what's gotten into you?"

"John, I imagine," Darcy grabbed her own glass of champagne as the limo pulled out into traffic. "Right. This calls for sexy story time. Meggie first."

The bridesmaids all shrieked, playfully protesting, while Margaret felt her face begin to flame.

"Not Margaret. Edith. It's her night."

"You're all too naughty," Edith giggled.

"It's a hen-do," Darcy insisted, tossing her curls and shoving a glass of champagne into Margaret's hand. "What else are we going to do but get pissed and talk about sex? Go on then. First time you shagged a bloke."

"Darcy!" Edith and Gemma shrieked.

"Come on,"

"I don't even know—"

"Bollocks."

Edith giggled and sucked down her drink, "Well, you remember Tom Baker?"

"What?" Everyone except Margaret demanded. "You didn't."

"I did."

By the time they made it halfway to Time's Square, nearly an hour later, Margaret had had far too much to drink already and knew far too much about Tom Baker's manly prowess among the upper crust of girls at Edith's school. She also knew far too much about the uncomfortable truth about first time sex. In general, virginal sex sounded overly awkward and tense, massively uncomfortable due to inexperience and location choice, and pathetically short.

"But why shag in a car?" Margaret demanded. "That can't be pleasant for anyone."

"It's not really," Gemma frowned a bit. "A bit cramped if I'm honest."

"Hot sex is rarely all comfy and cosy," Darcy insisted, lighting a cigarette. "What more do you want?"

"A little romance might be nice,"

"And an orgasm."

"Practice makes perfect, you know."

"Sex is rarely about romance, loves. It's more about the moment. It doesn't have to be comfortable to be hot."

"What about you, Margaret," Amelia turned on her. "Who was your first? You never said."

"Oh—" Margaret almost choked on her drink, scrambling for something to say. She absolutely would not be telling them she'd not had a 'first time' yet. "Didn't I?"

"Oh my God," Telulah gasped. "Not that American,"

"Why not?" Darcy elbowed her. "We all saw most of him that first day—"

A round of squeals made Margaret scowl.

"I was certain it would be Henry. Why else would he hang around her so devotedly unless he was hoping for more?"

"Henry?" Margaret sputtered so loud the entire car fell silent as she finished her second—or was it her third?—champagne. "I should bloody hope not. My God, Eds, I've never even kissed Henry Lennox."

Amelia, Gemma, and Edith's mouths all fell open in identical stunned expressions.

"Not ever?" Gemma demanded. "He's lovely—"

"Migs, how could you tease him so? I thought for certain you two had something."

"Henry is a slinky git," Margaret continued, blinking slowly, her head swimming. Her kiss Henry Lennox? Her stomach turned over uncomfortably. "I bet he tastes like gin and cheap cigarettes."

"He does." Juliet flicked her hair over her shoulder, ignoring as they all swiveled to stare at her.

"Jules, have you—"

"What does John taste like, Meg?"

"He," Margaret blinked again, absently fingering her lips, a strange warmth flooding through her. "Like a peppermint coffee."

"God, look at her face,"

"Come off it, Mia. Let her be happy—"

"Well, how's the rest of him taste?"

"How the bloody hell would I know?"

The whole car fell silent again.

"Oi," Darcy leaned closer, "how have you not put your mouth all over that man?"

"Because," Margaret frowned. "I didn't want to until today, alright? But now I probably will, and I can promise you all, I won't be shagging him in a car or a broom closet or any other bloody uncomfortable place, thanks. We'll bloody use that giant bed—"

"Margaret Ann Hale," Edith squeaked, grabbing her arm. "Are you telling me that you and John haven't been shagging this whole time?"

"Of course we haven't." Margaret snapped. "I've never had John or anybody else."

Bloody hell. Well, there went that secret. Bloody champagne.

"Wait," Gemma whirled on her. "You said—"

"I never said anything. You just assumed."

"Well, yeah, because—my God, Meg, why haven't you?" Darcy demanded. Margaret shrugged and sipped at her now full glass. "Have you not noticed the way he looks at you?"

"I've noticed." She shivered. How could she not notice? Had he always looked at her like that? "I won't spread my legs for some random git just so he can break my heart and soul into a hundred pieces when he finally realises what a bloody mess I am."

Juliet rolled her eyes, "Sometimes, sex is just sex,"

"Well, it's not just bloody sex for me," Margaret half shouted back, her eyes pricking with sudden tears. "I can't dabble, alright? I never could."

"Well," Edith scooted closer, "What about John?"

"I—God, I didn't even like John Thornton before this."

And suddenly the whole mad story came spilling out of Margaret, almost against her will. She told them about meeting John for the first time, and hating him and being fascinated all at once; about being paired together in class for peer review, fighting over each and every opinion paper they'd written; about walking in on him naked at his house and how that made her hate him more; about how her father adored him; about asking him for help out of sheer desperation and him agreeing even though he had no reason to; about each of their lovely and unexpected dates since; about all of it. They listened in a kind of raptured silence only drunk people seem capable of.

"And now," Margaret stopped the words choking her. Somehow everything seemed oddly clear in her own mildly drunken haze. From their constant banter and belligerent flirting to the magnetic pull that had always been there since the day she met him, John Thornton had never been some random bloke who would break her heart. Everything about him turned her inside out and frightened her and made her feel more safe and more at home than she'd ever felt in her entire life. "I think I should marry him," Margaret blurted.

Edith was almost crying, like she always did when she was drunk, grasping at Margaret's other hand, "Of course you should, darling."

"Edith, you can't be serious," Amelia hiccoughed. "They've only been dating what, two months?"

"She can't marry a bloke she just started dating—"

"Who says Megs can't do whatever the bloody hell she wants? If he's the one,"

"—nobody should want to get married at eighteen."

"That's not our business, is it?"

"Half of all marriages end in divorce anyways."

"God, why would you say that Jules?"

"It's true—"

"Yeah, but Edith sitting right here about to get married. Where are your manners?"

"She knows,"

"But how do we get him to ask her?"

"Who?"

"The American. He's got to ask Margaret or—"

"What if he isn't the marrying type?"

"Bollocks," Darcy stamped her cigarette in the ash tray. "Of course he is."

"He is?" Margaret stared at Darcy trying to make her eyes focus. Would John even want to marry her? What if he wanted to break up in January, like they'd agreed? "Bloody hell," Margaret leaned her head slowly between her knees, her breathing suddenly too fast and too shallow, her stomach pitching. "Stop the car."

"What—oh, Migs, darling what are you doing?"

Margaret almost leapt out of her seat, opened the limo door, and stumbled out into the street. Horns honked and people hollered, too loud. Too many lights, and then a whiff of heated sewer mixed with too many people. The lights and buildings were all swaying, like they were tilting over. She gasped when her bum met the hot concrete.

"Meg," Darcy plopped down next to her.

"I want to marry John Thornton."

"'Course you do," she waved at the rest of the bridesmaids who were all leaning out of the limo windows, which still hadn't moved.

"But we're supposed to break up," she groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"Says who?"

"We did. Or I did. I don't know."

"Right." She shook her head and helped her to her feet. "Look, Meg, if you love that man, then tell him."

"But if I do that then," Margaret stared at them all, "then I have to ask him to marry me."

"Why not? Gender equality and all that, yeah?"

"But, I don't know anything about proposing to anyone."

"That's why we're going to help you," Darcy beamed, looking at the rest of her friends. "Right, loves?"

They all stared back for half a second before exploding with a chorus female support.

"Of course we'll help—"

"God, yes. Should she do it at the reception?"

"I can't wait to see his face—"

"It's so romantic, Migs—"

Margaret sat stunned. Oh God. She was actually going to do this. She was going to ask John-bloody-Thornton to marry her. And hope he didn't run the opposite direction.

"I've lost my bloody mind."