Margaret tried not to pace but couldn’t stop. The clock struck five, and they’d yet to arrive—Philip Goodman and her “spouse to be”—whoever he should be.

Her stomach fluttered over the import of what she was about to do: wed a perfect stranger. But, it couldn’t be helped. There was no use fretting over it now. She only wished Mr. Goodman hadn’t waited until the eleventh hour to introduce the man; so much could go wrong!

Goodman was supposed to have conducted the initial interviews, and then allowed Margaret to interview thereafter. And it had gone exactly so with the first three, then suddenly, Mr. Goodman had come into her house with an exclamation of glee, and he’d informed her that their search was over. Wonderful, she’d thought. Wonderful!

But, of course, she was supposed to have interviewed him thereafter, then, one mishap after another ensued—most notably, a delay in his arrival from London—and now she didn’t even know what he looked like.

Pacing the hand-tufted fine-wool Persian carpet, she tried to recall everything Mr. Goodman had said of him—considering the circumstances, not very much, and perhaps if she knew more, she wouldn’t be so ill at ease. As it was, she only knew that his name was Gabriel S. Morgan, and that he and Goodman were personal friends, acquaintances since their days at Eton. She also knew he was an attorney. He was kind, if not precisely warm. He didn’t aspire to having any children, and neither did he spend much time at White’s. He wasn’t very old. He’d made himself a small fortune, and would be quite contented with the sum she’d offered. More than anything, he wanted the distinction of her name.

But she didn’t know much else.

Evidently, Mr. Goodman had gone to Mr. Morgan for counsel and had left his office with the perfect spousal candidate—Mr. Morgan himself. In fact, Mr. Morgan had helped to draw up the necessary papers to ensure Margaret’s position in this conjugal union, and he had given her every concession and more. She might have even doubted the arrangement, save that she trusted Mr. Goodman’s judgement to the utmost degree and, well… she had a nose for such things.

At any rate, she’d never be so witless as to simply take a man’s word in this matter; she’d also had the papers looked over by an objective party, and despite that they’d been found to be in perfect order, she’d attached her own addendum. Once everything was settled, there hadn’t been any need to continue her search. Gabriel S. Morgan came highly recommended. And still, Margaret would have felt so much better had she at least been able to interview the man herself. And now here they were, and still she had yet to set her own two eyes on him.

Perhaps the man was a horrid little troll? Short and squat, with a florid face and a bulbous nose?

Perhaps he was afraid that, if she saw him, Margaret would be repelled by the prospect of marrying him? Well, she would have set his mind at ease; she didn’t have any intentions of carrying on with him as though they were man and wife. She was wedding him for one reason, and one reason only: to save her inheritance.

Glancing up at the clock—one quarter after the hour—her sense of unease intensified.

Famous!

As it was, they wouldn’t be arriving at Gretna Green until near midnight. And that wouldn’t do at all. They simply must be wed before the midnight hour.

At long last, there was a knock at the door, and the sound gave Margaret no small measure of relief. Praying it was Mr. Goodman with her unspeakably wonderful troll, she rushed toward the foyer, swinging the doors open to find that her manservant had already answered, and was even now allowing entry to her long overdue guests.

Philip Goodman was the first to enter, brushing the night’s fine mist from his black wool coat.

Her fiancé came next, and Margaret, much to her dismay, found she could but gape, mouth wide, from the doorway of her father’s office.

Oh, dear. He was no troll.

In fact, whatever Gabriel S. Morgan lacked in breeding, he made up for in looks. He was a fine, fine specimen of a man, with his shining black hair. Also, in total defiance of convention—something that rather appealed to her, if the truth be known—he wore the hair unfashionably long. But—and this was quite important—his physicality alone strictly violated the terms of their agreement. In no uncertain terms, she had specified that he must not be overly attractive, only marginally so. But then, she should have guessed that a man might not be so fine a judge over another man’s looks.

Or, it was also possible that Goodman knew this violated her terms, and he had openly defied her. Now, what else should she worry over?

Recovering herself, Margaret drew in a breath, unaware that she did so.

Perfectly oblivious to her presence, the two men bade Godfrey to announce them while Margaret attempted to find her voice, to reassure them that it wasn’t necessary, that she was already very aware of their presence. Alas, words wouldn’t seem to come.

Bronzed and well hewn, Gabriel Morgan’s face was a stunning contrast to the pristine white stock he wore. Dressed in a somber black evening coat and trousers, he cut a dashing figure. And, good Lord, his eyes—he glanced her way suddenly—uncanny blue, they hinted at the most devilish of thoughts. Their sudden scrutiny left Margaret, once again, breathless.

He smiled then, making her feel just a bit disoriented. And warm! With no more than a glance and a slight curve to his lips, he’d managed to steal her thoughts, make her head reel and her heart leap. In fact, she had the very sudden and disconcerting sensation of having walked straight into a brick wall. She, who had sworn men were all little different, had somehow, in the space of but seconds, found herself completely abashed over how very different this man seemed to make her feel.

Too warm.

And heady.

And dizzy.

Oh, yes, positively dizzy.

She was going to have to work at remedying such things—perhaps build him a small house elsewhere on the property, where she wouldn’t have to see him every morning for breakfast. Because then, however would she eat?

Even now, her stomach was in a roil.

Resisting the urge to fan herself, Margaret pushed away from the door frame, focusing her gaze on Philip Goodman, giving him a scolding glance. “Finally!” she said, admonishing both.

“Do you gamble?” she asked her fiancé, without bothering to look at him. She snatched her gloves from the table, and determined to wrest some measure of control.

“No, I do not.”

“Good.” She tugged on her white gloves. “Do you have any concerns at all over any of my provisions?”

He gave her a single, exaggerated shake of his head as she finally addressed him. “Not unless you’ve added something I’m not aware of.”

His voice was too silky, and none of her questions had the least bit of effect to rattle him. His composure made her feel hot and bothered. In a matter of seconds, she wanted to tug off her gloves and slap him with them, Mr. Goodman as well.

“Well… do you now have one, or have you ever considered acquiring a mistress?”

“Acquiring?”

“Well, yes, isn’t that what you men do—acquire things?”

He arched a brow. “No mistress for me,” he said.

“Well,” Margaret countered. “You’d best be considering it, Mr. Morgan. I am not in the market for a lover.”

Both his brows shot up at her plain-speaking, but Margaret didn’t give him any time to respond. She turned to address her butler, keeping her gaze carefully averted from Mr. Morgan. “Please have the carriage brought about at once,” she directed him. “We have no time to waste.”

“Yes, mum,” Godfrey said, and he bowed as he took his leave, completely unaccustomed to her temper and looking bemused.

She turned again to address Mr. Goodman, all the while studiously avoiding Mr. Morgan’s gaze, as she had already determined it to be most detrimental to her composure.

It would have been easier to face him had he been a toad. As for Mr. Goodman, she would have words with him later.

“We must take our leave at once,” she apprised both, trying to maintain some measure of aplomb, despite feeling scattered.

“Lady Margaret, please forgive our tardiness,” Mr. Goodman appealed. He removed his hat, shaking it off, and clutching it before him as he said, “I’m afraid we managed to run into a bit of bedlam.” He peered up at his companion uneasily.

Although she had the urge to, Margaret didn’t follow his gaze. “Bedlam?”

Mr. Goodman’s brows lifted. “Well, yes, but no worries, Lady Margaret... ‘tis naught for you to be concerned over. ‘Tis bedlam of a personal nature, I assure you. Quite personal—and tedious—and—”

“Never mind,” Margaret said. “I understand.”

“Thank you, mum,” Mr. Goodman said. “And now I should be pleased to have you make the belated acquaintance of Mr. Gabriel Ssss...” He received a very sudden, but discreet, elbow to the ribs. “Morgan!” he finished.

Margaret furrowed her brow. “Sssss Morgan?”

“No, just S,” Mr. Morgan interjected, and Margaret barely had the nerve to peer at him quickly out of the corner of one eye. “Gabriel S. Morgan.”

Mr. Goodman’s face was perfectly flushed. He looked chagrined, as well he ought to be. “At any rate, I’m so sorry for the delay.”

We’re all here now, aren’t we?” She smiled sweetly, and turned to her husband to be.

Mr. Gabriel Ssss Morgan smiled. “I’m afraid I cannot allow my good friend to take all of the responsibility. I know you requested an earlier meeting, but it has been quite a chaotic week for me. But, as you say, we’re all here now…”

Margaret dutifully proffered a hand, and Mr. Morgan clasped it within his own. His gentle touch sent a delicious shiver down her spine, and Margaret withdrew it at once, for fear that he might actually dare to kiss it. She cleared her throat discreetly and said, “Yes... thank you.” And then, she forgot what else she was going to say…

Mr. Morgan’s lips curved into a singularly beautiful smile, and Margaret was terribly flustered to find that her gaze focused unnecessarily on his mouth. Good Lord, what was the matter with her? She forced her gaze to lift to his eyes, feeling quarrelsome, though it wasn’t like her.

“You are… as lovely as they say,” Mr. Morgan said too pleasantly.

“Who says?”

“I did,” confessed Mr. Goodman a little nervously.

“Thank you,” she said, petulantly, and her fiancé’s eyes twinkled with barely suppressed mirth. Even so, Margaret refused to allow herself the discomfiture of embarrassment. His eyes—up close, so vivid a blue it was unsettling—remained focused on her, and she had the strangest sensation of having looked into them before—a trick of the imagination, no doubt, as she would have remembered Mr. Gabriel Sssss. Morgan.

“You are quite welcome,” he said, and a shiver raced down Margaret’s spine at the timbre of his voice. Rich and low, it seemed to whisper straight into her heart, because the beat of it quickened unexpectedly.

Calm down, she commanded herself. Calm down. None of this is anyone’s fault. If she was angry, who should be the recipient? How could she have ever expected Mr. Goodman to know who she might find appealing? “I—yes, well, ’tis wonderful—fabulous—to finally make your acquaintance. But now that introductions have been made, perhaps we should be on our way?”

Mr. Goodman cleared his throat. “As to that, Lady Margaret... I am afraid I won’t be going along,” he announced.

Margaret tore her gaze away from Mr. Morgan. “Why not?”

Philip Goodman fidgeted very nervously. “Something has...” He peered up at Mr. Morgan uneasily. “Pardon me, Lady Margaret, but something’s come up—bedlam as I said.”

“Something?” Panic gripped Margaret at the prospect of sharing a carriage with Mr. Morgan. Alone. All the way to Gretna Green. “Something like what?”

“Lady Margaret, I promise to remain a perfect gentleman,” Mr. Morgan interjected, reassuring her. “I always keep my word. But, after all, we should soon be husband and wife, and therefore, we should have no need of a chaperone, don’t you agree?”

Margaret’s brows twitched. “Yes, well… of course,” she said, though she swallowed with difficulty. Quite certainly, if she could trust him enough to wed him, she must trust him enough to ride in a carriage with him. Alas, but that wasn’t at all that concerned her. No, it was rather the prospect of being alone with those bewildering blue eyes. It wasn’t until he winked at her that she realized she was staring again.

“Unless, of course, you do feel we require a chaperon?” he suggested with a devastating smile.

Margaret’s cheeks warmed. “No! No! Of course not.” She waved a hand, turning to Mr. Goodman. “We should manage just fine without you, of course,” she said.

“Jolly good,” Mr. Goodman said. “I believe I hear that carriage coming about as we speak.” He extended a hand to Mr. Morgan. “Gabriel,” he said. “Be well, my friend.” And then he turned to Margaret. “The next time we meet, Lady Margaret, I expect you shall be Mrs. Gabriel Sssss...” With a slight brush of Mr. Morgan’s shoulder, Mr. Goodman’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he shook his head, looking annoyed with himself, as he finished, “Morgan! Demme!” he said and popped his hat back upon his head. “In any case, felicitations to the both of you,” he offered. “And if you’ll please excuse me, I should be out of your way.”

He hastened quickly to take his leave, and Margaret blinked as she watched him go, afraid that he was developing a stutter. Poor, poor man. He was working too hard, and that was partially her fault. “Well, then,” she said to her intended. “Shall we go?”

He smiled yet again—that devastating smile, and said, “Ready when you are, my lady.” And for some reason, his agreement sounded entirely too suggestive. But before she could say anything, her heretofore unseen fiancé moved to open the door for her. “After you,” he insisted, and Margaret had the sudden, most goatish thought that if she would be forced to stare at another face across the breakfast table, it might as well be one so pleasing to the eye. And furthermore, she refused to feel guilty for entertaining such shallow-minded thoughts. Men were quite salacious and superficial all the time.

Still, her nerve nearly failed her. Resisting the urge to run screaming back up the stairwell, to lock herself away for the rest of her natural life, she smiled as she retrieved her shawl from the banister and took a deep, deep breath, preceding him out the door.

Only belatedly, she found herself wondering why he had agreed to her proposal. She decided that, perhaps he must be a spendthrift, anticipating an endless source of funds. And if that must be true, he was sorely mistaken, as Margaret was quite frugal with her finances, and she wasn’t about to hand him an open bank draft to spend on his vices. £4,000. That was all he was getting from her, once every year.

But perhaps he was, indeed, a womanizer, who’d found a commitment-free marriage perfectly desirable. Fine, then. She couldn’t expect the man to remain faithful when she never intended to share his bed—her face burned over the prospect. And, nevertheless, it was too late to turn back now. Marrying Gabriel S. Morgan was all there was left to do.