Thursday: June 8, 2006 (continued)

"Shit."

John ran both hands through his hair and slumped against the wall of the phone booth. He waited a full sixty seconds to make certain Margaret had left. If he followed her now, there was no way in hell he'd be able to let her go again. Not until he dragged her upstairs, and explored every single inch of her mouth, her skin, her soul. That day she'd turned up in his office with her fiery temper and stupid idea of fake dating, John had followed her simply because he was curious. He liked challenges, but Margaret Hale was so much more than that. She was the first woman to pique his interest since college, and he knew she was attracted to him, even if she refused to fully admit it at the time. It had been a sort of dare to himself, and to her, to see what could happen if they tried. But Margaret had hit him like a runaway freight train. There was no going back from this, and he didn't even care. Love had never been something he thought he'd want or need; until now.

If you love her, then you can fucking wait for her.

John shook himself and straightened. He pulled his handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his mouth and chin, a little jolt of satisfaction tugging at his gut when he saw the bright red lipstick now smeared on the white fabric. Patience was not one of his strengths, but stubbornness was. He shifted uncomfortably and shoved his handkerchief deep into his back pocket. He didn't know how he was going to make it through the next few hours, let alone the next few months, without telling Margaret exactly how he felt and what he wanted. He stepped out of the phone booth, his whole body buzzing with adrenaline and tension, and marched for the stairwell. He took the stairs three at a time. He needed to move, to think, and to stay as far away from his girlfriend as humanly possible until he had a better plan.

Or any plan at all.

If he had to wait, then damn it, he'd wait. But he was pretty sure it would take every single ounce of stubborn willpower he possessed.

I want to marry him. Margaret was unable to form any other coherent thought for a full five minutes. A chorus of exuberant voices wafted over her. I want to marry him. Edith and her bridesmaids were all talking at once, each with their own ideas for how, when, and where Margaret ought to propose to John. But Margaret herself heard none of it. Bloody hell, I want to marry John Thornton. All she could hear was an odd rushing sound in her ears and the excited, almost painful, thud of her heart against her ribs.

She wanted to marry John Thornton and she wasn't supposed to want to marry anyone. It was mad and rushed and probably the stupidest thing she'd ever considered doing, but there was no turning back; not when John had found his way into the most vulnerable parts of her, as if he belonged there. He'd grabbed onto her soul and refused to let go. He didn't let her hide, or lie, or pretend with him. If we do this, we do it for real. No faking, no lies, no mess. John saw her, the real her, and wanted her anyway.

Margaret sat up straighter. "He loves me."

"What's that, darling?"

Margaret felt like she couldn't breathe, the truth so simple and so heavy, her lungs refused to expand. "He loves me." No one in the limo heard her the second time either, but it didn't matter. John loved her, and she loved him. It would be stupid not to marry him as soon as humanly possible.

"Migs, what do you think about proposing during the speeches? I think it would be a perfectly divine moment to—"

"Turn around," Margaret interrupted. "Right now."

"Turn what around?"

"The bloody limo. Turn it around," Margaret said again. "I want to go back."

"But…whatever for? Migs—"

"I need to ask him. Right now."

"Now?"

Edith and her friends all stared at her for a terrible silent moment. Margaret sucked in a small breath as the predictable eruption of exclamations were all hurled at her at once.

"Well, that's a ruddy terrible idea—"

"You don't have to do anything now—"

"She can't propose tonight. We've got it all planned for the speeches—"

"I personally think the bouquet toss would be best."

"No one really cares—"

"Meggie, maybe take a deep breath and think about this a little more, yeah?"

"I think entirely too much," Margaret said, with an odd sort of confidence. Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe it was John himself, or maybe she really had lost her mind. "I trust him, and I love him." She smiled, the words making her shiver. "And he loves me."

"We know he does." Juliet and Telulah wrinkled their noses, giggling. "We've all seen how he looks at you."

"Love or lust." Amelia shrugged. "It's all the same."

"It's not like that." Margaret raised her chin. She knew John wanted her—the last two days were more than enough proof of just how much—but it was so much more than just sex. For him and for her. "Turn the car around or let me out, Eds. I need to talk to him."

"So, ring him up, and get it over with," Amelia said, rolling her eyes. "No need to go screeching about Manhattan ruining Edith's hen-do."

"Are you mad?" Gemma turned on her. " She can't ask him to marry her on the telephone."

"That's literally the worst idea I've heard all night," Darcy piped in, lighting a cigarette. "And I've heard plenty."

"Well, it's still better than cutting our evening short for some mad dash of a happy ending."

"Oh, who cares about that?" Edith said, fluttering her hands dramatically. She picked up the phone connecting her to the chauffeur. "Carter, take us back to the Bronwyn. As quickly as possible. My cousin is getting married."

"Not tonight, she's not," Amelia grumbled.

"Don't be such a wet blanket," Gemma sniffed.

"This is True Love," Juliet said.

Telulah nodded sagely. "She has to follow her heart."

"Meggie's heart is in her pants and wants to get stuffed as soon as possible."

"My God, Darcy—"

"Can't you think about anything other than sex?"

"It's a bloody hen-do, remember?" Darcy blew out a cloud of smoke. "There's literally nothing else to talk about, you know? Besides, Meggie's about to have sex for the first time. It's exciting."

"You know, if all she wants is a nice shag, she doesn't actually have to marry him."

"I'm sitting right here," Margaret muttered. "Maybe talking to me, rather than about me, would be more productive."

"Or she could shag him and get herself pregnant," Juliet cut in, leaning across Margaret. "Then he couldn't say no."

"Juliet! That's a horrible thing to say."

"Why? It works."

"Rethink your priorities, Jules. Meggie would never—"

"Ever—"

"—do that."

"I'd become a nun first," Margaret said, and firmly pushed Juliet back into her seat.

"A nun?" Darcy and Edith shrieked in giddy horror.

"At the very least have a good shag or two before doing something so drastic."

"Well, maybe not a nun." Margaret could feel herself blushing again. After everything she'd done with John, taking holy orders would literally be the worst possible thing she could do. Still, she'd been trying very hard to not think about shagging him, without much success. The more she let her imagination run, the more curious and restless she became. She couldn't fathom a single scenario where a naked John wasn't the best thing that could happen to her. Preferably sooner rather than later.

Oh God. If she asked him to marry her tonight, they would definitely shag, and she was totally and utterly unprepared.

"Does anyone," she said hesitantly, a fierce blush flaming across her cheeks, "have any condoms I could borrow?"

Bess almost sent the incoming call to voice mail. It was late, she was exhausted, and she was right in the middle of watching her favorite period drama. The hero and heroine were about to kiss at a train station after nearly four hours of torturous sexual tension. Bess glanced at the caller ID and sighed. Something magnanimous—or maybe providential—made her pause her movie, ignoring her sister's protests, and pick up her phone anyway.

"This had better be about sex, or I'm hanging up."

"It is," Margaret said, laughing nervously. "About sex, I mean."

Bess pulled her phone away from her ear and stared at it for a second. Then she let out a screech and vaulted from the couch, escaping into her bedroom. "Wait, I was kidding and— are you serious? Marg, what the hell is going on? Is this for real? I swear to God if you're yanking my chain, I will skin you alive and turn you into a throw rug."

"Breathe, Bessie."

"Did you and John really have sex?"

"No! We…Not yet."

"Yet? Oh my God." Bess grabbed her chest, half expecting her heart would stop. "Are you …are you about to have sex?"

"God, I hope so." Margaret made a shushing sound as a garble of female voices crackled over the line. "Shut up, Eds."

"If you're about to have sex, does that mean I get to listen in?"

"I— no!" Margaret spluttered. "You're disgusting. I need some advice."

"Advice about what?"

"Sex."

"Are you a virgin?" Bess practically shouted, her voice squeaking into its highest register. "Holy shit, didn't you have sex in high school? Do you even know how to—"

"I know how it works, Elizabeth Higgins," Margaret said waspishly. "And no, I didn't have sex in high school. Not that it's any of your bloody business, but apparently all my sexual escapades or lack thereof are the business of all and sundry tonight. I swear this is the last time I drink champagne. I rang because I've never bought condoms before—" there were more giggles and more shushing from Margaret "—and Edith and her friends are incredibly unhelpful. Six sexually active women, and not one of them in possession of a condom that isn't expired or damaged from improper storage."

"Wait, wait, wait." Bess almost collapsed onto the floor. "You called me because you need help buying condoms?"

"I—" Margaret made a small noncommittal noise, that was half strangled, half like a laugh. "Yes."

"Oh. My. God."

"The entire bridal party is far too drunk to offer any kind of sensible advice, and you're the only other option besides the Internet."

"Are you drunk?"

"I've had a few drinks, but trust me, I'm far more lucid than anyone in Manhattan tonight. "

"Okay, back up—I don't even know where to start here." Bess sighed and collapsed onto her back, watching the ceiling fan spin frantically. "God, being right is fabulous. Okay, so I'm assuming you've put your tongue in his mouth, yes?"

Margaret let out an impatient huff. "Obviously."

"Yes!" Bess squealed, kicking her heels. "How was it? Is he any good?"

"He's so bloody amazing, I'm currently standing in a chemist's shop looking at an entire wall of condoms. Why are there so many options? Do we really need twenty different kinds of condom?"

"Oh my God!" Bess squealed again. "What's he taste like?"

"Bessie—"

"Do you have any idea how fucking long I've been waiting for this moment?"

"Are you quite finished?"

"Marg, I'm never going to finish saying 'I told you so' on this one. Sex bomb, for the win."

"It hasn't actually happened yet, and if you don't start helping me, it might never happen. I will go to my grave a frigid, unsatisfied old maid and I will blame you."

"You'd really let me stop you from getting laid by John Thornton?"

Margaret grew quiet, and then she said, "No," in a firm way that sent shivers over Bess's skin. "Not you or anyone else."

Bess sat bolt upright. She'd never heard Margaret talk like that. "This is actually serious, isn't it?"

"This is, quite possibly, the most important night of my life."

"Oh." Bess let out a whoosh of breath. "You're going to marry him, aren't you?"

"I—how do you do that?"

"Goddamn. Really, Marg? Is he it for you?"

"Yeah. He is. Mad, isn't it?" Margaret's voice choked a little. It sounded raw, scared, almost hopeful. "I know you think I'm crazy, Bessie, but I—"

"I don't." And Bess meant it. For most people, it would be certifiably insane, but for John and Margaret, this somehow made perfect sense. Bess didn't believe in soulmates or fairytale romance, but she did believe that sometimes there was only one way for a story to end. No matter which story they were in, John Thornton and Margaret Hale belonged to each other. "I suggest non-latex, just in case you're sensitive. Latex can dry you out. Skip the flavored shit and the fancy ribbing until you figure each other out. Which takes time, so plan on being patient with yourself, and with him. Get the 24-count box if they have it. You might not come up for air for a hot minute. Make sure to grab some good lube too. Store brand is perfectly fine unless you're particularly sensitive down there. Spit works in a pinch when you're desperate. Remember to use the toilet after, or you could get a UTI. A shower is nice too. Sex is messy and never like you see in the movies or in books. "

Margaret was silent for a moment, then coughed. "That was terrifyingly specific." She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "I might puke."

"Don't puke on John. That will definitely kill the mood." Bess could almost hear Margaret roll her eyes before her friend hung up on her. Bess leaned back against her bedroom door and started laughing. This was almost better than a Victorian train station kiss. She clicked through her contacts and hit dial, grinning. "Tucker Williams, you owe me three hundred-fucking-dollars."

Margaret spent the remainder of the drive in a buzz of excitement, verging on panic, wrestling between the violent urge to throw up, and the desperate need to take Amelia's advice and ring John right that minute and blurt out the entire truth. She barely listened as the group continued toss out one ridiculous suggestion after another, their voices pitching higher the more alcohol they consumed. By the time they reached the Bronwyn, they were all too drunk to do anything but giggle hysterically or walk sideways into things. Because she was the maid of honour and the least drunk, Margaret found herself herding six very rowdy, very inebriated women into the Bronwyn at half past midnight.

"Please, pick up your feet, Eds. I can't carry you."

"Oi, just leave her arse," Darcy said with a liquid grin. She collapsed into an armchair and curled into a ball. "Go have sex, Meg."

"That's a jolly wonderful idea," Margaret grumbled. "And I would, if you lot would please cooperate long enough to get upstairs into bed."

"Ma'am, is there a problem?"

"Yes, there is." Margaret turned on the unsuspecting night clerk. "I've decided to marry my boyfriend and I don't know if that makes me incredibly stupid or incredibly desperate or incredibly normal. I've no idea what to do now, except I bloody can't wait one more second or my ovaries will probably explode." The clerk glanced over at the doorman, who was trying to compose himself. "Don't you dare laugh. I'm supposed to have sex tonight, and they," she gestured to the sprawl of drunken women, "are reducing the likelihood of that actually happening to almost zero."

The clerk cleared his throat. "Would you," he paused, "like some assistance? Into the elevator?"

She sighed. "Please."

It was almost half-one before Margaret finally made her way back to the Crampton Suite. The hallway was the eerie quiet that always comes in the small hours, when most of the world is still and silent and sleeping. The thick carpet muffled any sounds her feet made. She clutched her purse, her shoes, and her late-night purchases to her chest, oddly self-conscious every time the plastic bag from the chemist's shop crinkled. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She stared at the dark wooden door of her suite, hesitating long enough for her heart to start its frantic pounding again, the blood running about her ears in a terrible rush.

"Be brave, Margaret Ann," she said firmly. She took a deep breath. Then another. "And whatever you do, don't vomit."

She could do this. She could propose to John Thornton and then have sex with him. Or maybe the sex should be first and then the proposal? She let out a frustrated sound and shook herself. "Just do it already."

Her key slid into the lock with a silky snick and the lock clicked open almost silently. God, even the sound of the knob turning was sexy. The suite was dark, the soft glow of the city filtering through the thin linen curtains. Margaret held her breath as she slunk further inside, listening. The grandfather clock ticked too loudly for her to hear the shift of skin on cloth or the sound of John breathing. She frowned, moved closer to the bed, listened again, and then snapped on a lamp.

The bed was empty. On her pillow lay a folded-up sheet of yellow lined paper. She snatched it up and opened it, her frown deepening. The note had been scribbled in a hurry, making John's already atrocious handwriting so much worse. She squinted at the paper again. John had gone off somewhere. He'd probably left the note to explain why and when he'd come back, but she couldn't read a single word, other than her name at the top and his name at the bottom. Margaret groaned and sat heavily, her shoes, purse, and plastic bag slipping forgotten to the floor. Could this night get any worse? She grabbed her mobile and dialled his number from memory. It didn't even ring.

This is John Thornton. Leave a message.

"Bloody hell."

Apparently, it could.

Friday: June 9, 2006

A sharp knock woke John with a jolt. He sat up and almost hit his head on the truck sun visor. He blinked into the slashing bright morning and swore. Everything hurt. He blinked again and glared at the man still knocking on his truck window. The man was older, wearing all black, and a priest's collar.

"Are you alright, son?"

John nodded and shoved his truck door open, forcing the priest to step back. Every bone and muscle complained as he unfolded himself from the truck cab and stretched.

"What were you doing in there?"

"I was sleeping, Father."

The priest raised his eyebrows and glanced at John's wrinkled shirt and suit pants. His jacket and tie were still in the truck. "Would you care to explain why you're sleeping in my parish parking lot?"

"I'm trying not to ask my girlfriend to marry me." The priest looked a little startled and John could've bitten out his own tongue. But it was still the truth even if the man didn't seem to believe him. "I'm dead serious." John yawned and rolled his stiff shoulders. "I'm not drunk or high. Just stranded." He felt like shit and probably looked worse. He hadn't planned on sleeping in his truck. Or driving halfway to New Jersey. Or running out of gas before he found a gas station. Or for his phone to die shortly after. But he'd done it. At least he'd had the forethought to leave Margaret a note explaining his absence. "I went for a drive to cool off and ran out of gas."

"What did she do?"

"Who?"

"Your girlfriend." The priest smiled. "The one you're running away from."

"I'm not running away, Father."

"So why are you running?"

"Because she's the best damn thing that ever happened to me." John shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. He didn't normally spill his guts to strangers, but priests were different. "I want her to say yes, not scare her off. I don't have much of a plan other than that, so I went for a drive."

"Does marriage scare her?"

"It would scare anyone who'd only been dating two months. Barely two months."

"Does it scare you?"

"Nothing about life with Maggie scares me." John's voice softened. "She makes everything better, including me, and I'm kind of an asshole."

The priest raised his eyebrows again, but he was smiling. "Come inside, son, and we'll get you taken care of." He motioned to the church office, where two elderly women stood peering suspiciously out of a large bay window. The priest waved, and they jumped, then scurried away. "Mary Theresa makes tolerable coffee and then we can see about gas for your truck."

"Now float from Warrior Three to Triangle Pose. Ground yourself with a belly breath...in and out."

Margaret glared at the yoga instructor who stood in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. Offensively bright sunshine spilled into the room, framing him in an obnoxious golden glow. She wanted to wipe the ridiculously smooth smile off the man's too cheerful face. She tried not to topple over as she yawned. Again.

"You said…" Darcy yawned so hard, Margaret's jaw ached sympathetically. "…You said you were hung over, Eddy."

"Of course, I am."

"We all are," Juliet grumbled. It was almost noon and noon hot yoga was just as awful as six-in-the-morning hot yoga.

"Right." Darcy groaned. "We're all knocked for six, so why the bloody hell are we sweating our arses off—again—at yoga and not sleeping?"

"Because there's no better cure for a hangover than hot yoga," Gemma chirped. Her impossibly perfect balance made Margaret wobble even more. "Everyone knows that."

Darcy rolled her eyes. She looked a little grey "Do they though?"

"Bring your feet together, gently resting your chin on your shins." The instructor shot a less than serene glance at Darcy and raised his voice. "Take a deep cleansing breath in…and out."

"I'll show you in-and-out, love," Darcy murmured. Juliet snickered.

"I'd take some of whatever he's offering." Amelia grinned.

Some of the other class participants shushed them.

"And roll down to the floor, one vertebra at a time, shifting seamlessly into Downward Dog."

"Isn't Emmett just divine?" Edith whispered to Margaret. "He's one of the best yogis in all of Manhattan."

"Divine, my arse," Margaret grumbled, her head throbbing. She didn't have enough caffeine in her system for all this nonsense. She hated yoga when she was fully awake and limber. Now she was horny, frustrated, nervous, anxious, and hungover. "If that man tells me how to breathe one more time, I'll rip off his bloody top knot."

"What's the matter, Meg?" Darcy shot her a sly grin, trying to mimic Edith's pose. She'd given up watching the instructor unless his bum was facing her. "Evening not go quite as you planned, did it?"

"I'm still a virgin, if that's what you're asking," Margaret replied, tersely.

"What?" Telulah, Juliet, Amelia, and Darcy all gasped at the same time.

"And breathe your way down into Child's Pose." The instructor's voice had gone up another level, and he shot them an openly disapproving look. Tosser.

"God, Meggie, what happened?"

"You happened." Margaret sat up, her knees popping painfully. "Pissed within an inch of your lives and not one of you could put yourself to bed properly. It took the desk clerk, the doorman, and two night janitors to get you lot into the bloody lift. And now my boyfriend has completely disappeared."

"Disappeared where?" Darcy flopped onto her hands and knees and crawled over to Margaret's mat.

"Allow your breath to bring harmony and clarity to your mind and body."

"If I knew where he was, do you really think I'd be here torturing myself with bloody hot yoga?"

"So, no sex?" Even Edith was ignoring the instructor now. "Not even a little bit?"

"Did he dump you?" Gemma demanded, her voice pitching into a squeak. She was immediately shushed again by the other class participants and her face turned pink with embarrassment.

"Piss off," Darcy grumbled at them and stuck out her tongue. "If John left Meg, I'll cut off my own nose. There's got to be a mistake."

"He left me a note." Margaret pulled the folded yellow paper from her pocket. She'd hoped being a little more sober might make John's handwriting more legible. It hadn't. "I can't make it out. I can't get him on the phone either." Not being able to read his writing bothered her, but not as much as him not answering her call.

"Poor Meg," Darcy chuckled and knocked her shoulder against Margaret's. "Now you know how Johnny boy probably feels."

"What's that?"

"Horny and frustrated." Darcy yawned, her smile sharpening. "I'd wager a hundred quid the poor sod has been waiting and waiting for you. Now it's your turn, yeah?"

There was just enough truth in Darcy's comment to sting. Whatever John's reasons were for leaving—and they were probably good ones—Margaret had worried herself, and her thumbnails, down to the quick.

"Bring your attention to your centre. Breathe in and out gently. Namaste."

"How do men even do this?" Margaret demanded, gathering her things. "I'm all for gender equality, but this is ridiculous."

"What do you mean?" Edith asked.

"Propose." Margaret pushed open the studio doors, the bridesmaids following in her wake as she made quick work of the two blocks back towards the Bronwyn. "The entire thing is driving me mad. I barely slept last night. I can't eat anything. I can't think about anything else. I've got to say something before my brain explodes, but every time I think about it, I want to puke everywhere. I keep wondering what he'll actually say. He could say no."

"Or he could say yes."

"Exactly!"

"Is this supposed to be English?" Gemma and Amelia had their heads pressed together. They were studying John's letter with a concentration that defied their mutual hangovers. "Well, that's his signature, obviously. So that there could be another 'J'…"

"Let me see it." Edith took the paper from Amelia and wrinkled her nose at the scribbled mess. "Oh, Migs." It was almost a sigh of pity. "Well, handwriting isn't everything, is it?"

"He could be tossing her over or asking her to have his babies, for all we can tell," Amelia said curtly.

Juliet, Telulah, and Gemma let out a soft 'aww, little babies,' and Margaret felt herself growing pink at the thought. "Never mind." She snatched the note back from Edith and shoved it in her bag, her eyes glued to her shoes. She moved quickly towards the Bronwyn entrance. She'd refused to let her thoughts wander that far but—

"Wait, darling, we need to discuss your proposal."

"Proposal?"

Margaret almost bodily smacked into Henry and James, who stood just outside the large glass doors of the Bronwyn.

"John proposed?"

"He proposed?"

James and Henry spoke over each other, Henry's face turning white, then red, and James beaming with his characteristic enthusiasm.

"That's brilliant, Migs." James grabbed Margaret into a hug and spun her around. "Good for you."

"James—"

"This explains everything." James pulled Edith into an exuberant kiss. "I thought something was wrong with the poor sod all through dinner yesterday. Didn't you notice how distracted he was, Edith? And all this time he was working up the nerve. Lucky chap. Marriage must be catching, eh?"

"Congratulations, Margaret," Henry said, woodenly. "I'm sure you know what you're doing."

"I—"

"Oi, come on Meg," Darcy said louder than was necessary, practically elbowing James and Henry out of the way, dragging Margaret after her through the lobby and towards the lift. The rest of the bridesmaids hurried after them.

"Oh my God, did you see their faces?"

"Poor Henry—"

"Don't 'poor Henry' him."

"Darcy," Margaret huffed, almost running to keep up with her. "What are you doing? I was—"

"About to blurt the whole ruddy truth out from some sense of misguided justice." She held the lift door open as Edith, Amelia, Telulah, Gemma, and Juliet piled in after them.

"Darcy, I'm not engaged and I—"

"Technically not yet. But they don't know that, and they don't need to know. A fake fiancé is better than no fiancé."

Margaret suddenly felt hot all over. The one thing John hated most was lying and this felt too much like a lie. He wouldn't like it. "Darcy, I can't lie." Not even to shit-heads who deserve it.

"So you better pop that question quick, yeah?"

"No, I—"

"Migs," Edith squealed, grabbing her arm, pointing as the lift doors started to close. Edith wedged herself between the door and the wall. John had stepped into the lobby, looking tired, a little wrinkled, and far too handsome for his own good. "Go on, darling. He's right there." Edith waved until John looked over.

"Maggie?" His face brightened, all the fatigue melting away.

"Oh." Margaret almost tripped as Juliet and Telulah practically shoved her out of the lift. "H-Hello."

"Hi." John glanced at the lift behind her, where the girls were wrestling with the automatic doors that kept trying to close, all while they attempted to listen in, without giving the appearance of eavesdropping. He frowned a little, but his eyes still burned with the same heated look from yesterday.

"Please ignore Edith and her friends," Margaret said with an exasperated sigh. "Where were you, love?" The soft endearment slipped out almost without her noticing.

"Did you get my note?"

"I did." She smiled. "What language were you attempting? Chinese or ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphs?"

John rolled his eyes. "I took a drive."

"All night?"

"Sort of." He shifted closer, forcing her to look up. "Not really. It was stupid, but I needed to clear my head."

"Did it help?" Her skin flushed as his blue-black gaze held hers. It was almost too much, too raw, too intimate.

"Not really."

"Could you two please stop eye-fucking so we can tidy up for the rehearsal?" Amelia called.

"God, shut up, Mia—"

"She was working up her nerve to ask him—"

"No, she wasn't. "

"Yeah, not with you ruining the whole moment, she wasn't."

"She was standing there like a besotted codfish."

"Shut up and let her ask him."

"Ask me what?" John's voice dropped low, and Margaret hoped no one else had heard him.

But she knew everyone was listening, everyone was watching, even the bloody desk clerks, bellboys, and lift attendant. She couldn't do this with an audience. This moment was supposed to be hers; hers and John's and no one else's. Margaret took a sharp breath, turned, and pushed the bridal party back into the lift. "Piss off." Then she glanced at the lift attendant. "The Bridal Suite, if you please, Gustav."

The man nodded with a knowing smile. Darcy gave her a saucy wink as the doors slid closed.

"Maggie." John's hand slid along her waist, and she let him pull her against him. Her skin erupted with goosebumps, and that terrible delicious tug between her legs.

"Not here," she said. She took his hand and pulled him towards the stairwell.

The door closed with a firm thud. The clamorous murmur of voices and car horns and constant jazz music all fell away. John's grip on her hand tightened and he pushed her back against the wall. Then his hands were in her hair, his lips not quite touching hers. Waiting.

"Maggie." God, her name sounded like velvet and red wine and chocolate when he said it like that. "What did you want to ask me?"

"John." Margaret's mouth felt dry, and her legs turned boneless. She clutched at his arms, the silky thin hair and velvet skin melting under her fingertips. It was now, or never. She pressed her hips into his. "Make love to me."

He stared at her. Then he shuddered and let out a small, choking noise, looking as if he were almost in pain. His grip on her hair tightened. Margaret bit her tongue, as the rough action danced along her nerves, every inch of her body singing in anticipation.

"Cat got your tongue, Mr Thornton?"

"Right now?"

"Would you rather wait?"

John stared at her for another half second, a fiery look in his eyes. "Fuck, no."

Then he picked her up, braced her against the wall, and kissed her. It was like the morning before all over again; hard, hungry, and insistent. He wasn't hiding anything from her, or holding anything back, daring her with his hands and mouth to do the same. The only difference was, this time he knew he had her full permission, and he wasn't going to stop himself again. Time was superfluous, space inconsequential. Margaret gasped into his mouth when John set her down and slid his hands under her shirt hem, painting a trail of numbing sparks across her back, her stomach, and then over her breasts. He let out a sound that was more of a grunting groan than an actual word and she bit back a laugh.

"John." Margaret felt invincible with him. She could do and say and be anything she bloody wanted. She was herself and he wanted her just as she was. "Upstairs, love."

"Shut up and kiss me."

"Someone will see—"

"I don't care." His tongue and teeth continued to explore her jaw, neck, and collarbone.

"I will not shag you in the stairwell." She only just managed to pull away, pushing him back an arm's length, her breath coming in heavy gasps. John's hair stuck out at odd angles, a terribly smug smile on his stupid face as he shifted his hips up against hers; just enough for a breathy sound to tumble from between her lips. Bloody hell. "Seven flights of stairs, love." He frowned, looking a little dazed, almost like he was drunk. "It will take less than five minutes."

"Three if we run."

Margaret raised her eyebrows, but then she grinned, grabbed his hand, and started running up the stairs.

So much for waiting.

They made it to the third floor before John paused, twirling Margaret about in a half turn and then pushed her into a corner. He couldn't wait one more second; he had to make sure this was really happening. This time he kissed her slowly, languid, and liquid, almost all tongue, like they had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. If he was going to make love to Margaret Hale, he was going to make it last as long as possible. He grinned when he felt her legs tremble against him.

"You're a ruddy tease, John Thornton." Her face and lips were flushed pink, her hair a tumbling mess of curls.

"I'm just getting warmed up."

This—this was what he wanted. So much it was painful. He wanted her in his arms, his bed, his life, for the rest of his life. Whatever resolve he had before crumbled as she kissed him again. Everything about her was warm, and gentle, and softer than silk. And he hadn't even taken her clothes off yet. That thought almost popped him off right there. Goddamn. He was going to marry this woman. He couldn't wait anymore.

"Maggie, I need to ask you something."

"So do I." She tugged his shirt free from his pants, her hands sliding over the ridges of his stomach and chest. "Why do you have muscles I never knew existed?"

"I—" His brain furiously tried to reengage his ability to speak, but words slipped and slid away from his grasp. Her hands traveled lower, and John grunted. His whole body was a tight knot of desire, so hard it was painful.

"Are you alright?" She laughed softly into his ear. "Shall I do that again?"

"Shit." It was more of a sharp exhale than an actual word.

"Come on, love. Tell me."

Before John could reply, a sharp yapping sound shattered the heated moment. His head whipped around just as a small tan ball of fuzzy fur bounded down the stairs.

"Tiny! Come to mummy, darling."

And then Victoria Shaw appeared, tight curls bouncing around her red and sweating face. She and Margaret gasped at the same moment. That's when John realized he still had his hands up Margaret's shirt.

"Fuck."