“Good morning, Your Grace.” George stepped beside her and bowed in Abigail’s direction. “My dear Lady Asherton, you look very pretty today.”
Appreciation warmed his eyes, which were the same gray as his nephew’s but not quite as bright and with deeper creases at the edges. George was truly quite a handsome man, not even for his age but handsome in his own right. Margaret reminded herself again that she was lucky to have captured his attention.
“Thank you.” George never failed to comment on her appearance. “I’m looking forward to spending time outdoors. Before moving to London, I walked beside the cliffs all the time.”
“I forget that you spent most of your childhood here,” Abigail volunteered. “Ah, there’s Monfort. I was beginning to think he had changed his mind about coming. He tends to get distracted by business, even at house parties.”
Monfort had been known as the Duke of Ice before he’d married Penelope’s cousin. Their union had surprised all of the ton as Abigail had been ruined beyond all hope when she’d first come out. And although pretty in a simple way, she was not at all considered a beauty.
She possessed a particular quality that managed to be even more attractive than superficial looks. Even before she’d become a duchess, she had shown kindness and empathy for those around her. She exuded… comfort. As the aloof-looking gentleman joined them, placing a hand at his wife’s back, Margaret considered that Abigail’s gift had been exactly what the tragic duke needed to melt his heart. With one infant in their nursery, it was rumored another might be on the way.
Margaret hated the pang of envy that shot through her.
“We best be on our way!” Hugh announced as he and Penelope strode across the lawn. “Otherwise, it will be nightfall before we even get to the path.”
Penelope slapped his arm, but everyone laughed and began walking along a route that was nostalgically familiar to Margaret.
“Have you missed living in the country? Near the sea?” George took her arm and led her at a modest pace, allowing many of the others to proceed ahead.
Margaret averted her gaze away from the gentleman walking a few yards ahead of them with a pretty girl on each arm. She would not notice how his thighs filled out his breeches nor how he moved with devil-may-care ease.
“Margaret?”
“Oh. Oh, yes. I love living in London and having my own residence.” She chastised herself for becoming so easily distracted… by the hills and the sunshine. “And I refuse to impose myself upon my brother and my sister-in-law for more than a few months out of the year.” She inhaled deeply. The air was never this fresh, this clean, however, in London. “But, yes. I do miss it.”
George patted her hand. “Cragg House is not far from the sea, and it is much closer to London. I am anxious for you to become my wife, so that you can take it in hand.” He described some of the aspects he liked about his home and many that needed updating or repairs. “The decor requires a woman’s touch. I shall give you carte blanche with my bank accounts.”
“I will not spend all of your money.” Margaret laughed, a sense of unease flickering in her mind. “I hope that is not the only reason you would take me for your wife.” She lowered her voice, hoping to draw some sort of romantic declaration from him.
“Of course not, my dear.” He glanced down at her. “I admire a great deal about you, Margaret, and above all, I look forward to the day you become my wife.”
Looking into his eyes, Margaret couldn’t help but believe his sincerity. She squeezed his forearm beneath her hand and added daringly, “And the night.”
This time, his glance was more curious. “But of course.”
What did that mean? But of course. She would be encouraged by it if he’d spoken with even a hint of ardor in his voice or if he’d touched her with anything other than a grandfatherly pat.
“Do you—”
“Oh, look! There it is!” Miss Drake shouted from ahead. And indeed, the sea had come into view. Some of the younger people skipped and even the other couples who’d been walking more slowly increased their pace.
“It is closer than I imagined,” George commented.
“It is too steep to descend here. The path itself is farther along the cliffs.” Margaret sighed. Every time she made an attempt to discuss the particulars of what marriage between the two of them would entail, something or someone effectively interrupted them.
She would find another time, when they were not in the company of all the other guests. She was a widow, not an innocent, so it would not be considered extraordinary in any way.
She studied those walking ahead, feeling oddly left behind. Off to her right, standing near one of the steep drop-offs, Danbury had one arm draped around Penelope and the two of them gazed off into the distance together. Penelope tilted her head to rest it on her husband’s shoulder and he pulled her closer.
Margaret tried picturing such a scenario between her and George but despite taking considerable license in her imagination, she could not. A certain, almost animalistic spirit glinted in Hugh’s eyes when he was with Penelope. He spoke of her with emotions much stronger than fondness.
Had Lawrence looked at her that way? She thought that perhaps he had, in the beginning. Their marriage had relied greatly upon friendship.
None of this had mattered before she’d crawled into bed with George’s nephew. She’d been quite content to only hope her marriage to George would allow her another chance at becoming a mother.
And that was what she wanted above all. Of course, it was. She ought not to push George to be someone he was not. She did not require romance or passion, or great intimacy. She’d been happy to accept George’s proposal in the hopes of entering into a comfortable and affectionate relationship.
And motherhood.
She swallowed hard, conflicted by her thoughts.
“You are still intent upon hiking down?” George frowned down at her. But it was not a disapproving frown. It was a concerned one.
“The path is not overly steep. I beg of you not to worry. I’ve done it hundreds of times before.”
“I enjoy worrying after you.” He glanced at the group sauntering ahead of them. “I suppose the younger people will benefit from our chaperonage, then. Someone needs to keep them from running along the beach like a group of banshees.”
“Oh, but isn’t that the purpose of going down?” The thought had her itching to remove her boots and stockings and dig her toes into the warm sand. But she would not. Not today. She was not one of the young people, and she would be expected to set a dignified example for the young ladies in mixed company.
Perhaps she would venture down the cliff on her own some other day, while the other guests were involved with some other activity or perhaps after they had all returned to their own country estates for the winter months. If the weather remained unnaturally warm, she would run along the sand, even venture into the water barefoot.
She’d not actually waded into the sea for a very long time.
Since before she’d married, in fact. And certainly not after Lawrence had taken ill.
Nor after she’d become a respectable widow.
She and George walked the remainder of the distance in silence, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts. It ought to have been a comfortable silence, but it was not, on her part anyhow.