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Authors: Patricia Cabot

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BOOK: Portrait of My Heart
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“What?” Pegeen cried, nearly dropping the silver-backed hairbrush she held.
“The cavalry,” Edward said. He sat on the edge of their bed, a few feet away from his wife’s dressing table, his elbows on his knees. His expression was one of abject misery. “At least, that’s what he said.”
“But Edward …” Pegeen stood up, the hairbrush hanging limply from her fingers. “But Edward, the
army
? He told you he’s joining the
army
?”
“The cavalry,” Edward said again. He watched helplessly as his wife, whom he’d interrupted while she was dressing for dinner, began to pace the length of their bedroom, wearing only a camisole and a new pair of French-cut pantaloons. In her hands, she clutched the hairbrush, as if it were some kind of link to the orderly existence she’d led up until he’d come in, a few moments ago, and delivered this unexpected piece of news.
“The cavalry?” Pegeen’s husky voice rose, a note of panic creeping into it. “The cavalry? My God, Edward, he’ll be killed. He won’t last a minute in the cavalry. He’s much too sensitive—”
Edward wondered if he ought to reveal to his wife the fact that her sensitive nephew had, in fact, fatally wounded a man in a duel just the day before. He thought perhaps he’d wait until she calmed down a little before doing so, however.
“What’s a boy like Jerry going to do in the cavalry?”
she demanded, storming past the bed and then doing an about-face, her long, dark hair swinging out behind her in a smooth arc, before storming off in the opposite direction. “He’ll be shot the first day—”
“He won’t be shot,” Edward said. “The Horse Guards employ swords, not pistols.”
“It doesn’t matter what kind of weapon he employs. He won’t be able to defend himself,” Pegeen cried. “He can’t even bring himself to shoot a pheasant. He’ll never actually be able to kill a live person!”
“Well,” Edward said, slowly. “Actually—”
“And India! My God, Edward! India! He’ll catch malaria and die, alone in a strange, hot country—”
“Pegeen,” Edward said, watching her as she paced back and forth across the rose-patterned carpet.
“You’ve got to stop him,” she said. “That’s all there is to it. You’ve got to forbid it, Edward.”
“I can’t forbid it, Pegeen,” Edward said tiredly. “He’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions.”
“A grown man!” Pegeen whirled on him, pointing the hairbrush accusingly at his chest. “A grown man! He’s a boy, Edward. He’s barely twenty-one. And if you don’t stop him, he’ll never see twenty-two!”
“Legally,” Edward said, “he’s a man now, Pegeen.” Edward reached out and gently pried the hairbrush out of her fingers, so she could no longer brandish it like a weapon. “We can’t stop him from doing anything he wants to do. And I don’t think the army is such a bad choice, really. It will teach him some discipline. And it will keep him away from Maggie—”
“Maggie!” Pegeen’s hands went to her burning cheeks. “Oh, Lord! I’ll never be able to forgive myself for that. Poor Maggie!”
“Forgive yourself?” Snaking out a long arm, Edward took hold of his wife’s hips and pulled her onto his lap. “What did
you
have to do with it? I don’t recall seeing
you
in that stable.”
“Oh, God!” Mortified, Pegeen hid her face against her husband’s neck. “How will I ever be able to face Anne—
not to mention her mother—again? How could he, Edward?” She banged Edward’s chest with a small, impotent fist. “How
could
he?”
Edward shook his head, although he understood perfectly well how his nephew could have done something so reprehensible … and tempting. Edward, who had actually been around to witness the process, had still been as surprised as his nephew at how well Sir Arthur’s youngest daughter had turned out. Had he been twenty-one and single, he’d have acted exactly as Jeremy had. He wouldn’t, however, have been so amenable to marrying the girl. That was the curious part of the matter, as far as Edward was concerned.
“Do you suppose,” Edward said, his chin resting on the top of his wife’s head, “that he’s in love with her?”
Pegeen’s voice was slightly muffled by the fabric of Edward’s shirt. “With Maggie? Oh, I don’t see how. She’s never been anything but nasty to him.”
“If I recall correctly, you were fairly nasty to me, too, upon first making my acquaintance.”
Pegeen lifted her head. “I wasn’t!”
“You were. You tried to hack one of my fingers off with a bread knife.”
“Oh.” Pegeen laid her head back down upon his chest. “Well, you deserved it.”
Edward raised his eyebrows, but wisely said nothing.
“You don’t suppose,” Pegeen said thoughtfully, a moment later, “that’s it, do you?”
“Suppose what’s it?”
“Well, you said she’d hit him … .”
Edward nodded. “Yes. Every bit as forcefully as I did, I think. Though she misaimed, and got him in the mouth. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Miss Maggie Herbert with her hand in a splint upon the morrow.”
Pegeen winced. “Oh, Edward, really, I wish you hadn’t. It was hardly necessary for
both
of you to punch him.”
“If you’d heard him, Pegeen, you’d have hit him, too, I’m quite sure,” Edward assured her grimly.
“Well, in any case,” Pegeen said, managing to sound somehow dignified, even though she was perched on her husband’s
lap in nothing but her underwear, “I imagine that Maggie’s resistance to his, er, charms might be what attracted him to her in the first place. I can’t imagine any woman has ever resisted Jeremy before, let alone
struck
him. It must have been quite novel for him.”
Edward grunted. “Novel enough to make him want to
marry
her?”
“People have married for far stupider reasons. Why shouldn’t Jeremy want to marry someone who treats him as an equal, and not like some kind of god, like all of those girls he met last season in London, who did nothing but fawn over him just because he’s got a title and some wealth?”
“I highly doubt,” Edward said, “that Maggie’s punching Jerry in the face was what induced him to suggest they marry. I believe it had more to do with her suddenly comely appearance. You’d be surprised, my dear, what a long way a pretty face can go in making a man forget all his firmest resolutions.” Edward lowered his head to nuzzle his wife’s neck. “For instance, I merely came in here to tell you that our nephew’s joining the army, but now that I find you so fetchingly garbed”—Pegeen, giggling, didn’t protest as Edward lowered her onto the wide canopied bed—“I’m quite certain you and I are going to be late for supper again.”
A few miles away, Maggie Herbert was doing anything but giggling. She was trying to brave the wrath of her parents, which, since Jeremy had only left her father’s library approximately twenty minutes earlier, was still palpable.
“I am not,” Maggie’s father began, from behind his massive mahogany desk, “going to ask you, Margaret, if what His Grace just came in here and told me was true. I am going to trust that a man like the Duke of Rawlings has no reason to be going about making up tales about his neighbor’s daughters.”
Maggie, standing before her father’s desk with her hands behind her back—she didn’t dare let him catch a glimpse of her newly bandaged finger—glanced nervously at her mother, who had sunk into a green leather armchair a few feet away, looking a bit pale but nonetheless more composed than Maggie would have expected, under the circumstances.
“And there’s no use looking to your mother for support, in this, young lady,” Sir Arthur said, as gruffly as he was able, which, since Maggie’s father had never been much of a disciplinarian, was not considerable. “She and I stand united in our mutual shame for you. You have disgraced this family, and, I must add, heartily embarrassed the house of Rawlings. I have no doubt that Lord Edward shares my disappointment in the behavior of both you and the duke … though I must say I feel the burden of the blame lies primarily with you, Margaret.”
Maggie opened her mouth to protest this unfair accusation, then noticed her mother’s small headshake. With an effort, she kept her tongue.
“You have always proven something of a trial to the young duke,” her father went on, “though you’ve been asked repeatedly to refrain from teasing him. His Grace’s childhood was not the happiest, due to his father’s unfortunate choice of a bride—”
Maggie rolled her eyes. She had heard this particular story too many times to pay attention to it. On and on her father went, about how Lord Edward’s elder brother, John, had married a vicar’s daughter, Lady Pegeen’s elder sister, Katherine, a mistake for which he’d eventually paid with his life. No mention was ever made of where Jeremy’s mother was now, but snippets of conversation that Maggie had overheard as a child led her to believe that Katherine was not only alive, but living in London, forbidden by Lord Edward from ever seeing her son. The reason for this seemed to stem from Lord John having been murdered in a duel over her.
“I’ve no doubt that this incident today,” Sir Arthur continued phlegmatically, “like similar incidents in the past, is a result of your tricking His Grace into behaving with impropriety—”
Again, Maggie drew a swift breath to defend herself, and again, her mother shook her head. Gritting her teeth, Maggie lowered her flashing eyes to the floor, so her father would not notice their mutinous expression.
“I have therefore given His Grace my sincerest apologies for your behavior, though he, tactful young man that he is, insists it is entirely his fault, and that you are blameless. Tomorrow, I shall extend a similar apology to Lord and Lady Edward, as well.” Sir Arthur, a portly man, placed both of his plump hands on his green leather desktop blotter and sighed. “And now, Margaret, your mother and I feel that the question of your future is at stake. I hardly need point out to you that the kind of behavior exhibited by you today would be quite out of place in the ballrooms of London. I have also heard you admit in the past, Margaret, that you are a young lady governed by your, um, impulses. If this is any
evidence of where your impulses guide you, then I can only say, a season in London would be a highly questionable undertaking. The introduction of any young woman into society is a significant financial commitment. There is lodging to be considered—we can hardly, after this, count on the kindness of Lord and Lady Edward for the use of the duke’s town house, as we did for your sisters—and all manner of gowns and hats and such fripperies to be purchased. This is a considerable expense for a young woman who will most likely embarrass us by throwing herself into the arms of the first man who asks her to dance—”
Maggie lifted her gaze then, to pierce her father with a furious glare. But he did not appear to notice the poisoned darts her eyes were sending in his direction. Instead, he said, “And so, after careful consideration, your mother and I have decided that you are
not
to have a season in London next winter.”
Since Maggie knew her father meant this as a punishment, she did not shout hurray, although that was her first impulse. Instead, she lowered her gaze once again, and tried not to smile too widely. “Yes, sir,” was all she said, and that sounded suitably humble.
“Now we come to an impasse, your mother and I. For while I feel—and I might add, your sister Anne agrees with me—that a few months in a convent might be just the thing for someone of your, er, temperament—”
Maggie lifted startled eyes toward her mother, who gave a barely perceptible shrug.
“—your mother disagrees. She seems to feel that part of your problem, young lady, is that you have the restless soul of an artist”—He made a face as he said the word
artist
, as if its pronunciation made a bad taste in his mouth—“and that it is our obligation as parents to try to rein in that restlessness as best we can. While I think the convent would be eminently. suited to this, your mother feels someone of your talent might be stifled in so stringent an environment. Accordingly, she has suggested that the art school in Paris you mentioned last month is the best solution—”
Maggie could not contain her feelings this time. She
whirled around to face her mother. “No!” she cried incredulously. “Really? Do you really mean it?”
Lady Herbert was a little better at disguising her emotions. “Yes, dear,” she said calmly, though her face was beaming with pleasure. “You’re to start in the fall—”
Maggie fell upon her mother’s neck in a rain of grateful tears. Her father, still seated behind his desk, cleared his throat several times before he again captured the attention of both women. “This is not meant as a reward, Margaret,” he reminded her severely. “You are to study hard, and any reports I hear from Madame Bonheur about any more, er, skittish behavior will result in your immediate removal … .”
“Oh, yes, Papa,” Maggie sniffled happily, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief her mother had extracted from her sleeve. “You shan’t regret allowing me this opportunity. I swear you won’t hear a peep from Madame Bonheur, except in praise.”
“I sincerely hope so. We shall be sending Hill with you, young lady, to keep an eye on you. Don’t think we’d ever allow you out of England without a chaperon.”
“Of course not,” Maggie said, from her perch on the arm of her mother’s chair. “Oh, Papa, you don’t know what this means to me—”
“No, you’re right,” Sir Arthur interrupted a bit testily. “I don’t. In my day, young women didn’t follow young men into stables … particularly not unmarried dukes! And they certainly didn’t go to art school, either. I don’t pretend to understand what’s happening to this generation, and I don’t expect I ever will. A woman’s place is in the home, keeping her husband happy and providing him with heirs. Your sisters all seem to have grasped that concept. It is my hope, Margaret, that when you’ve gotten this infernal interest in doodling out of your system, you will return home and settle down with a suitable fellow, like your sister Anne has. I don’t understand why you can’t be more like Anne. Anne never insisted upon attending school in France. English schools were fine enough for your sisters. And when they were through with their education, they married, exactly as ladies should. This unfortunate new propensity women seem
to have to want to pursue an occupation outside the home will be the ruin of all—”
“Yes, Arthur,” Lady Herbert said, reaching up to tuck a lock of her daughter’s hair behind her ear. “I know. But Maggie isn’t like our other girls. She’s special.”
“Especially troublesome,” Sir Arthur grunted, “is all I can tell that’s special about her. Now, if you two are done weeping, I’d like my supper. And what’s that you’ve got on your finger, Margaret? Some kind of bandage? What have you done to yourself
now
?”
After supper, Maggie repaired to her room with Hill, her mother’s maid, to start making a list of things they’d both need for Paris. True, she wasn’t leaving for another four months, but Maggie felt it was never too early to start planning for an extended trip abroad. Besides, she needed something to keep her mind off what had happened earlier in the day, and constant activity had a way, she’d noted, of keeping one from brooding.
Not that Maggie was brooding over the Duke of Rawlings. Not at all. She understood perfectly what had happened between them, and felt nothing but the most excruciating embarrassment—and occasional burst of anger—because of it. It was all perfectly obvious. Jeremy, bored, had chosen to pass a little of his spare time attempting to seduce a girl with whom he’d been childhood friends. It was certainly nothing more than that, or wouldn’t have been, if Lord Edward hadn’t caught them.
Of course, there was the fact that Maggie had allowed it to happen at all to be taken into account, but that was fairly easily explained. She had always been a highly excitable sort of girl, and she had simply gotten carried away by the moment. Fortunately, she had been saved from ruin—this time—and had learned a valuable lesson in the meantime, which was that men were not to be trusted, and, more importantly, she was not to trust herself around men, either. Prevention of future, similar incidents would be all too easy. She’d simply never allow herself to be alone with a man again. That was all.
Problem solved.
Her first chance to put her new prevention plan into practice came a little sooner than anticipated, however. As she and Hill were cataloguing the contents of the wardrobe in her dressing room, Maggie heard a tap on the French doors to the terrace just off her bedroom, and when she went to open them, thinking it was her cat asking to be let in, she was startled to find the Duke of Rawlings standing in the moonlight, a warning finger to his lips.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” he whispered.
Maggie, one hand still on the door latch, the other on the frame, said, through suddenly bloodless lips, “Have you lost your mind? My father is downstairs. If he finds you up here, he’ll kill you.”
“He will not,” Jeremy said, looking perfectly unimpressed. “I’m his employer, remember?”
“Acting as your solicitor is his hobby,” Maggie said, with an imperious toss of her head. “He certainly doesn’t need the work. He is a man of independent means. Now go away.”
She tried to close the door, but to her fury, Jeremy insinuated a booted foot between the door and the frame, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not shut him out.
“Do you mind?” she demanded at last. “I never want to speak to you again.”
The moonlight was strong enough for Maggie to see the corners of Jeremy’s lips curl up. “That sounded very convincing, Mags. Maybe if you actually kept your mouth shut, the threat would carry some weight.”
Furious, Maggie hissed through clenched teeth, “I mean it, Jerry.
You
got me in a lot of trouble today—”
“I got you in trouble?” Jeremy interrupted with a humorless laugh. “Oh, I like that!
I’m
not the one going about, looking like that … .” He nodded at her meaningfully.
“Looking like what?” Maggie demanded defensively.
“Like every man’s idea of perfection,” he finished, though he clearly hadn’t wanted to admit it. “Now, are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to rush the door?”
“Don’t you dare!” Maggie’s cheeks were on fire. Over her dead body was there going to be a repeat performance
of what had happened that afternoon. “I nearly got sent to a convent because of you!”
Jeremy took a deep breath, as if fighting for patience. “Look, Mags,” he said at last. “I’ve come to apologize. Will you let me in? Or am I going to have to stand out here and shout until your father comes along and puts a bullet in my brain?”
Maggie’s heart began its unsteady rattle inside her chest once more. “I—” She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but it wasn’t Hill she was worried about. It was her bed, a very large, comfortable four-poster, looming just a few yards away. “It’s just that …”
Jeremy held out both of his hands. Even in the moonlight, they still looked menacingly large and masculine to Maggie. “If it’s these you’re afraid of,” he said amiably, “they’ll stay in my trouser pockets. I swear it.”
Maggie stuck out her chin. “I’m not afraid of you,” she lied contemptuously.
“Oh, I know,” Jeremy said with a smug smile. “I’ve got the bruises to show it. So if that’s the case, why not let me in?”
It was a challenge. Maggie could not back down from it, and still retain what little honor she had left. So, eyeing him distrustfully, Maggie called, over her shoulder, “Hill?”
From the depths of her dressing room came a muffled, “Yes, miss?”
Keeping a careful eye on the man on her terrace, Maggie asked, “Hill, would you be so good as to leave the rest until tomorrow? I’m afraid I’ve developed a headache. I want to go to bed now.”
Behind her, the middle-aged maid popped her head out from the dressing room. “A headache, miss?”
Belatedly, Maggie realized her excuse had not been a good one. Miss Margaret Herbert had never been ill a day in her life, and the entire staff at Herbert Park knew it.
BOOK: Portrait of My Heart
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