“We were.” Margaret stared across the room only vaguely noting the light-hearted conversations going on around them. “It will be four years tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow is your birthday, is it not?” Abigail frowned.
Margaret grimaced. “It is.”
Abigail’s expressive eyes stared at her sympathetically. “Four years is not so very long. I can see by your face that you loved your husband. Were you in love with him, as well?”
“I was.” Of course, she had been.
Abigail touched her hand. “You must take time tomorrow to memorialize your loss. Perhaps go somewhere alone and celebrate the years you spent with your dear Lord Asherton. And then, afterward, perhaps you will not find the celebration planned for tomorrow night by your brother and my cousin to be so tedious.” She smiled apologetically.
“So, they are planning something? I had asked Penelope not to.”
“I believe it was your brother who insisted upon the event.”
Margaret groaned a little and then laughed. “Well, I thank you, anyhow, for warning me. And perhaps I will take your advice.” She had done her best to try to ignore the significance of tomorrow’s date.
“My love.” The Duke of Monfort approached to stand at his wife’s side. “Lady Asherton.” He bowed.
“Your Grace.” Margaret nodded. If one had never seen the man with Abigail, they would assume him to be cold and without feeling. He stood taller than most, slim yet quite imposing. Only when his gaze fell upon his duchess did his aristocratic features soften.
“It’s getting late. Shall we retire for the evening?” The loving concern in his voice confirmed the rumors Margaret had heard earlier. Of course, his duchess must be carrying. As Abigail smiled up at the duke and then took his arm, allowing him to lead her out of the drawing room, a pang of wanting hit Margaret so acutely that she forgot to breathe for a moment.
Left alone for the first time all evening, Margaret wandered toward one of the terrace doors and slipped outside. The air was not as cool as it normally was this time of year.
Today was October 14th. Tomorrow would be the 15th. She had been a widow for four years. A thirty-year-old widow.
Perhaps that was what was the matter with her. She leaned against the stone half-wall that surrounded the terrace and stared into the darkness.
“Am I being overly sentimental, Lawrence?”
“Aren’t women supposed to be?”
Margaret nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d spoken to her husband aloud when she was alone, on some occasions, but never when anyone else was present.
“Overly sentimental, that is?” Lord Rockingham stepped out from the darkness on the opposite side of the barrier, but his face remained in shadow. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than the brash and handsome young man from earlier that day.
“I thought I was alone.” It was embarrassing to have been caught speaking out loud to her dead husband. And for her behavior earlier that day. She’d enjoyed herself immensely but had she sacrificed her dignity for it?
Moonlight caught his eyes as he stepped closer and then rested his arms atop the half-wall beside hers. Although they stood on opposite sides of the barrier, his face was not far from hers, and she caught a whiff of his scent on the breeze.
“But you were not talking to yourself,” he observed.
“No.”
“Your husband?”
Margaret continued staring off into the darkness but felt him studying her. “Yes.”
“Does it pain you to remember him?”
Margaret turned to meet his gaze. Oh, he was so young. He would not have experienced much tragedy in his short life, if any at all.
“It hurts more to know that I am forgetting him. I am moving forward with my life and of course, I must… but it is confusing sometimes.”
“And my uncle is a part of that. A part of moving forward?”
She nodded. Close up, she could see the hint of whiskers poking through taut, smooth skin framed by a chiseled jawline. Long lashes fringed eyes that reminded her of diamonds and when her gaze landed on his lips, full for a man’s but still masculine, her breath caught.
Oh, but Lord Rockingham truly was a beautiful human being.
“What would your Lawrence say about Uncle George?”
Margaret watched his mouth as he spoke before forcing herself to contemplate an answer. Such an inquiry might have been considered impertinent, but his voice expressed sincere curiosity.
She turned away and stared up at the sky. This time, she noticed a few stars and the cloud drifting near the moon.
And she wondered.
She had considered this question before and had not been able to come up with a satisfying answer. Lawrence would want her to attempt to have another child. He would not want her to be lonely. But what would he have thought of George?
“I don’t know. He died thinking I was going to become a mother.”
“But you are not.”
She sighed. “I lost our son a week after he passed.”
His jaw clenched a few times and then he turned his head to study her. “Tell me something about Lord Asherton. Was he an adventurous gentleman? A studious one?”
For an instant, the memory of the man Lawrence had been before they’d married flickered in her mind. “As an earl, he was not allowed to join the efforts against France and he admitted to being disappointed.” It was something he’d only spoken of a few times. “But afterward, in the months before our wedding, he traveled the continent. He shared some of the devastation he’d seen there. War’s aftermath changed his mind.” The experience had been sobering for him. “Lawrence was adventurous but also serious-minded.”
Hardly anybody ever spoke of him anymore. Lawrence had been a much different man when they married than he’d been when he had become ill. As he worsened, his illness had consumed their lives and her most vivid memories were of his last days—the pain—how disappointed he’d felt to realize that he would never know their child.
“I would imagine your husband was madly in love with you.”
Margaret straightened her shoulders. It was an odd way to state Lawrence’s emotions for her. They’d experienced love, yes. It had never been mad, however. It had been steady, kind, and warm.
She recalled how Hugh looked at Penelope and how Monfort spoke to Abigail and a soft smile tilted her lips. Lawrence had never been mad about anything.
“He was my best friend.” The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
Rockingham nodded. “So perhaps he would approve of your choice of husband. I’m certain my uncle will make for a good friend.”
Margaret did not argue with him. It was what she’d intended, wasn’t it? It was what she’d had in mind when she’d allowed him to court her. She’d wanted a gentleman who would treat her well and make for an excellent companion; a gentleman with whom she could share intellectual conversations and attend cultural events in London.
So long as he could give her a child.
But then she realized her gaze had settled on his lips and a disturbing memory upended her conviction—the memory of a man’s mouth exploring her skin as though he would starve if he could not consume her. The memory of his hands touching her, grasping at her, igniting sensations she’d only dreamt about.