“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.
Upon arriving at the edge of the cliff, where the path dropped into the cove, Margaret extracted her hand from George’s arm and moved away to stand by herself. “You mustn’t feel you need to come down simply because I am doing so.”
“I’m quite happy to, my dear.”
But Margaret would not wait for him to go ahead of her, nor would she wait for the younger set, of which a few of the ladies appeared somewhat reluctant when presented with the actual rocky path that wound through the steep terrain. Without saying a word to anyone, she marched determinedly toward the trail, hitched her skirt up, and carefully chose her steps.
She glanced backward when some gravel sounded behind her but rather than George descending, it was the other man who’d taken up most of her thoughts.
Her breath hitched, and she turned away abruptly. As much as she’d tried to forget everything that had transpired between the two of them, she’d failed miserably.
“My uncle has decided to remain at the top and has charged me with ensuring that Dear Lady Asherton does not plummet off the side of the path and meet with a violent death.” His voice taunted her. Unless that was simply Margaret’s imagination. She did not know him all that well, after all. Aside from those few minutes she’d spent in his bed, he was a virtual stranger.
And those other few moments in a dark closet.
She only knew the taste of his mouth and the texture of his skin. Her face flushed hotly as she inadvertently recalled the moment that the tip of his tongue grazed her palm.
A stranger though!
