Roses and Lace

Chapter 8

In the study, Margaret stepped over to the desk and began rifling through papers, blushing furiously. "It's a matter of... I have a sum of some... I have the figure here somewhere... but I believe it is some eighteen thousand pounds. At present the money is sitting idly in a bank and earning very little interest. I believe that you could take that sum and put it to work in Marlborough Mills and return a much greater rate of... interest."

John had stepped close to her and took her hand. "Margaret!"

She looked up and met his eyes. He was staring at her with a slow smile. "It's purely a business proposal," she continued quietly. "You would be under no personal obligation. Indeed, it is you who would be doing me the..." He took her other hand. "...favor."

To see him gazing at her with such warmth, with such... love. Margaret closed her eyes and bowed her head. Without even realizing what she was doing she brought his hands up to her lips and kissed them.

"Margaret," he leaned close and murmured into her ear, "Margaret, take care. I shall claim you as my own in some presumptuous way. Send me away at once, if you must."

She looked back up at him, waiting, and he lowered his face to hers. Their lips met.

After a delicious silence, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "John." It was good just to speak his name. She felt his arms wrap around her all the more closely.

"It was just so," he whispered. "The day of the riot."

Margaret smiled into his shoulder. "I must own that I really did not have such feelings for you then, John. I only felt responsible because I had urged you to put yourself in danger."

"Aye, even at the time I knew you did not care for me as I did for you. But when others put the idea into my head, of what it meant for you to hold me like this, I could not shake the notion."

She pulled away slightly to look at him again. "It means something now, John. It means everything."

And then he had to kiss her again. Some minutes later Margaret pulled away.

She had never been prone to fainting spells, but here, with John, with such... intimacy... she was beginning to feel quite short of breath, as if the room were spinning around her. He was still holding her close, and his lips were trailing around her ear, down to her neck. "I have to sit down." She was almost gasping.

They made their way to the settee. She could feel him watching her, and he was still holding her hand, but Margaret could only sit and breathe. She felt the way she had at that Shaw Christmas party years ago, when she had inadvertently drunk too much sherry.

After a moment, John said, "I have something to show you." He pulled a small notebook out of his waistcoat pocket. He opened it and took out a couple of pressed flowers, small yellow roses. He handed them to Margaret, and she puzzled over them a moment.

"...From Helstone!"

He was smiling again, gently, almost shyly. "...Aye. I had to get out of Milton, just after the mill closed, had to clear my head. I wanted to see the place that made my... my Margaret. Even though you were hardly mine."

"I love them, John." She cradled the delicate, dry flowers in her palms, but then John put his warm hands over hers.

"Nay, I didn't say they were a gift. I treasure these. If you want them, you'll have to earn them."

Something sparkling in his eyes, laughing at her.

Margaret had never imagined him to make a joke.

"And how, sir, do you propose I do that?"

"You'll have to use your fine imagination."

Margaret was not dizzy any longer. She put her arms around his shoulder and planted her lips upon his mouth. Then, remembering how it had felt, she pulled herself even higher against his shoulder and traced her lips around his ear, and then it was his turn to gasp.

He pulled himself away from her with an oath, holding onto her arms and gazing at her in wonder, then he plunged back in for a long, slow kiss.

She felt it down her spine, all the way to her toes, a tingling warmth from the inside out.

Finally he pulled away to look at her, something suddenly serious in his eyes. "Margaret Hale," he said slowly. "I haven't even properly asked you yet... Will you do me the honor of being my bride?"

Margaret smiled. "Yes, John Thornton. Yes. If you will do me the honor of being my husband."

Even though they were no longer even touching, Margaret felt such intensity meeting his gaze... But she didn't want to look away. She couldn't stop smiling.

Eventually the sound of a knock at the study door made itself clear to them.

"...Miss Hale? Mr. Thornton?"

It was Dixon, very slowly opening the door, evidently giving the pair a moment to compose themselves. Her supercilious expression told them that she suspected exactly what they had been up to and did not remotely approve.

"Luncheon is being prepared in the dining room, Miss, and Mrs. Shaw says to request if Mr. Thornton would please stay to dine with the family."

Margaret rose from the settee still holding Mr. Thornton's hand, of which Dixon took pointed notice. "Certainly he'll stay, Dixon." She looked at him swiftly. "You will stay, won't you, John?"

He smiled down at her. "I must. I must speak with your aunt."

They left the study in a state of bliss, utterly unperturbed by Dixon muttering to herself behind them. ...Miss Margaret, back to Milton, that wretched place, and what would her mother think...