She didn’t recognize him.

Gabriel hadn’t truly expected her to after so long. After all, it had been thirteen long years, during which they’d both gone through a metamorphosis from child to adult. Margaret hadn’t seen him even once since that day they parted, and the simple fact that man and boy shared the same given name shouldn’t be enough to give him away. Gabriel was a common enough appellation, and he’d made certain to use his mother’s surname.

Anyway, the notion of true love for a twelve and thirteen year old was perfectly ludicrous. They had but experienced a whisper of what might have been. And nevertheless, love was not simply a matter of sexual satisfaction. He’d certainly had enough satisfaction throughout his life to know that sort of gratification was precisely just that: gratification. Not once since his sexual maturation had he longed to sit about conversing afterward. Not once since leaving Margaret Willingham had he longed for hours upon hours hidden away behind an unpleasant nest of thorns, with earth-damp bottoms, and a plethora of scuffs and scrapes. Not once had he wished for a sunny day to drag his lover onto the slopes, only to hear her giggle.

Simply because she still wrote his father was no proof of her continuing affection. She had known his father longer than she’d known him, and for all he knew, she had by now forgotten him. Still, he’d hoped there would be some glimmer of recognition in her eyes when they met.

Admonishing himself that it was preposterous to be disappointed over something so absurd, he closed the door behind them, realizing that in short time he would return as master of this house. Alas, it was quite evident by the crease in Margaret’s brow that she wasn’t particularly thrilled over the prospect of spending five minutes alone with him, much less an entire carriage ride to Gretna Green, or a lifetime under the same roof. And devil take the woman; she couldn’t have chosen a more effective way to get her point across than to wear a mourning dress to her own wedding. It had been all Gabriel could do not to howl with laughter when he’d spied her standing in the doorway of her father’s study.

Not that it wasn’t a perfectly lovely gown. Black as coal, the cut of her décolletage sent his pulses skittering like a green boy over his first kiss.

And nevertheless, if the truth be known, he was quite pleased to see shades of the mischievous girl she had been—if nothing else, in the simple fact that she'd chosen such a flippant manner in which to wed. Blackwood’s title and patrimony were not Margaret’s to give, or to keep, but the unentitled estates alone amounted to a good fortune. She knew full well that with her father’s name and money, she could choose any husband at will, and she was doing so with great abandon. Flouting in the face of convention, she’d chosen a lowly commoner to marry. She’d chosen Gabriel— only after he’d offered her a contract she couldn’t refuse. In short, for a girl in her position, he was a dream come true. He would take her bribe so long as she would have him. He’d use that money for some altruistic affaire, and stay out of her way. After all, why shouldn’t he give her this gift? He had no desire to wed, or start a family—at least not under his present circumstances. And she had no qualms at all over sharing him with other lovers. Her good name would genuinely help him, and in return he would give her absolute freedom—something he knew she’d coveted from the day she’d learned to run.

But there was a flaw in that plan. Having seen her up close—so close he could have brushed his lips against hers—he wasn’t any longer so certain he could agree to remove himself from her day-to-day routines, or to allow himself to consider the lady with her own stable of lovers, discreet, or otherwise. Lady Margaret Willingham—the woman she’d become—wasn’t simply lovely, she was positively delicious.

Unfortunately, she didn’t appear to return that sentiment. She led the way to the carriage, back straight, chin high, and he wondered what, exactly, was the source of her annoyance. Was it because he hadn’t allowed for a meeting beforehand? Or could it be because she was disappointed with the candidate she’d unwittingly chosen?

The first possibility bothered him not at all. The second sat like a thorn in the sole of his foot.

After helping her aboard the carriage, Gabriel climbed aboard behind her, seating himself in the facing seat.

With much aplomb, she cast him a haughty glance and knocked on the rooftop, signaling the driver to move along. But, for an instant beforehand, he had the feeling she was this close to calling it off—damned be her inheritance. He rested easier once they were on the way.

Really, they hadn’t all that long to travel. From London it would have been a tedious, four-day journey, but from Blackwood, it was but a six-hour trek. He withdrew the timepiece from his pocket, glanced at the hour and felt reassured there was time to spare.

Silvery moonlight sluiced into the carriage as it turned onto the north road, illuminating Margaret’s face along with the blush of her cheeks. Even by the dim light in the carriage, it was more than apparent that her color was high, and he smiled, wishing he were privy to her thoughts.

There was a time in their lives when he might have had to put a hand over her mouth to keep her from regurgitating all her thoughts, but even then, he’d longed to know more.

He shifted in the seat, sighing.

Alas, too many years had passed, and perhaps the entire charade was something of a caprice. But, after all, what harm could there be in it? Margaret intended to marry, one way or the other, and he could far more easily protect her this way.

After a while, she dared to look his way, and Gabriel averted his gaze, worried that she would see the truth in his eyes.

Of course, he fully intended that she should learn his true identity, but he daren’t reveal it until after they were wed… just in case. Pride be damned—her father be damned, as well, for Gabriel could see in the stern lines of her face that she’d forgotten how to laugh.

On the other hand, how was it possible he could feel such joy over this happenstance?

Love?

Good lord. What was love anyway? He hadn’t spoken those words… but once… and it so happened they were spoken to her, but, in truth, whatever they must have felt as younglings could be nothing more than innocent affection.

Romantic love, he mused, was the stuff of faerie’s tales. Love was far staider and more practical. Love was an old man sending his child off to Eton to provide him a better life. Love was a mother who labored over a blanket for hours on end, to send it to her exiled son. Love was… a young woman who wrote endless letters, year after year, without any promise of answer. Love was… a willing sacrifice without promise of thanks or recompense. And if that were love, in truth, he supposed he loved her still…

She was worried, he could tell. She still had that telltale habit of flicking a fingernail. The clipping sound filled the carriage, its cadence falling in time with the beat of his heart.

How dearly he’d love to ease the stress from her brow…

He’d love to be wedding her, in truth, not only for the sake of convenience. The realization struck him as boldly as did the manner of her proposal.

But why shouldn’t he aspire to something more?

It had been years since they’d known each other, true, but he’d never once been tempted to marry before now, and that simple truth must account for something.

Maggie needed someone to love her… he wanted to be the one to soften those creases around her lips…

Tonight, lovely though she was, her hair was pulled back too tightly, with every curl put properly into place, but, somewhere, deep in her heart Margaret Willingham was still that carefree child, struggling to be free of her father’s constraints. And lord, what Gabriel wouldn’t give to hear that elfin lilt of laughter... to run his hands through her glorious spun silk hair.

A familiar longing embraced him as he sat in the darkness of that carriage, studying her, and as the journey progressed, he marveled that this… feeling… had remained so strong, so long—for his part.

He shifted in the carriage seat, stretching his legs, pretending a languor he didn’t particularly feel, and when their eyes met again, he forced a lazy smile, though the effect of her gaze, even under heavy shadow, sucked the breath from his lungs. Finally, after a long while, she deigned to speak. “Do you believe in frankness, Mr. Morgan?”

“Over duplicity, and ambiguity?” he asked with a quick smile, wondering over such a pointed question. “Yes, of course.”

“Then please forgive my plainspokenness… But I was wondering...” Her hand fluttered to her breast. “Well, you see... I know what it is I hope to gain from this union. And I know what it is Mr. Goodman claims you hope to attain, but I should like to hear it from your own two lips.”

For a moment, Gabriel was taken aback by the abruptness of her question.

“I was quite disappointed with the delay in our meeting because I fully intended to conduct my own interview with you prior to this engagement, however, Mr. Goodman seemed so reluctant to allow me to meet you, and now I must wonder why.”

Of course, Gabriel knew why. Philip had put off their meeting—at his request. He had been sorely afraid that Margaret would recognize him, but he wasn’t about to confess as much.

“I thought, perhaps, it might be because you were a toad,” she announced, and Gabriel nearly choked over her disclosure, but, evidently, she mistook the reason for his fit, because she asked, “Mightn’t you have believed the same had I been so disinclined to show my face?”

Gabriel covered a grin with his hand, leaning back into the shadows of the coach. “I see,” he said, and gave the impression he was thinking about her question while he recovered his composure. “Yes. Perhaps, I would have,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he dared to ask, “And did you find me a toad, after all?”

She lifted both brows. “Well, sir, I won’t be ill over my breakfast, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Once again, Gabriel nearly choked on his laughter. Still perfectly frank. He hoped she would never temper her sarcasm or lose that brilliant sass.

“And nevertheless, you did not answer my question,” she snapped, and her tone remained sober, despite his mirth. “What do you want, Mr. Morgan?”

“What do I want.”

“Yes, sir.”

“‘Tis simple enough,” Gabriel said. “You need my name, I need yours.”

The look on her face remained skeptical. “And you require nothing more?”

Gabriel shrugged, quite certain she didn’t wish to hear the truth. It was beginning to come clear that what he truly hoped for had little to do with influence or money. And it was only now, forced to acknowledge her question, if only to himself, that he realized as much.

In fact, what he hoped for went even beyond his growing desire for her. What he hoped for, in truth, was to put an end to this everlasting numbness that had settled itself into his soul. Desire. Titillation. He simply wanted to feel.

He couldn’t be trite enough to suppose that their parting thirteen years ago had, all by its lonesome, put the ache in his soul, but it certainly would have been a catalyst. He had become a cynic and a bit of a Cassandra, searching for the dark underbelly of every endeavor. His chosen profession certainly didn’t help—he witnessed the very dregs of society, and it brought him low. Did he think perhaps that rekindling an innocent affection could lift him from the doldrums?

“Mr. Morgan?”

Gabriel shook himself free of his reverie. “Isn’t it enough?” he asked, and when she still didn’t seem appeased, he said, “I stand to benefit greatly from your family’s reputation.”

Finally, perhaps satisfied with his answer, she settled back into her seat, and peered out the carriage window. But, of course, it was a lie, and with every mile they traveled, it became less and less the truth.

At his leisure, Gabriel studied the grown-up Maggie in profile. She had become such a stunning beauty, with her high cheeks and too kissable lips. And that wit—sharp as it ever was. Her hair was deceptively dark in the confines of the dimly lit coach, but Gabriel knew only too well the way it looked when the sun played on its unbound length.

He could spy her face at intervals by flashes of moonlight. And, after a while, she laid her head back against the bouncing coach and studied him under cover of shadow.

She was staring at his mouth, he believed, and God save him, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss those sweet, pouting lips as he’d longed to do from the first.

Only one thing now kept him from reaching out, cupping her face into his hands, and tasting the depths of her mouth; it was the simple fact that it wasn’t her body he wished to win, but her heart, as well. He had been fully prepared to follow her dictates to the letter, but he was no longer convinced it was propitious. Not for him, and certainly not for her.

Although perhaps he should, he wouldn’t feel the least bit of compunction over what he now resolved to do…

A passionless marriage would only serve to drive Maggie deeper behind that cold facade she wore all-too easily, and watching her now, he was blindsided by the undeniable truth: He did love her—as inconceivable as it might be—and he intended to employ every advantage to win her, beginning with the complexities of a wedding kiss.

“You know… I believe I’ve changed my mind,” he said softly.

Margaret blinked over the pronouncement and Gabriel had the almost irrepressible urge to reach out and lift her chin, then to lean forward across the short distance between them, and offer his lips. He longed to slide his own tongue across the seam of her mouth, slip inside to trace her satiny white teeth. He wanted to drink so deeply of the sweet elixir of her mouth, and never, ever to stop…

“What do you mean changed your mind?”

Margaret’s heart thumped madly as she awaited an explanation. And while she waited, she noticed Gabriel didn’t bother to arise from his reclined position—so rude. His manners were atrocious, and it didn’t matter that half the men she’d encountered were equally self-involved and dismissive; for some reason, his rudeness grated on her all the more—perhaps because she was about to bind herself to him inextricably. His gaze was unreadable through the shadows.

“I do have one requirement of my own.”

She lifted her chin, repeating the word. “Requirement?”

“A perfectly harmless one,” he reassured. “But a requirement, nonetheless.”

Capital! Margaret thought, her hackles rising. She’d taken such great care not to call her own such demands requirements, rather concerns, and perhaps it was all a matter of mincing words, but he clearly felt no such obligation to finesse his own.

He probably wanted more money. That’s what they all wanted—money. And, of course, the cad would wait until they had scant-few hours remaining—so, was that his plan all along? Wait until he had her boxed into a corner and then make unreasonable demands?

But then another thought occurred to her: Was this why Philip was in such a tizzy? Did he realize what this man intended?

Her sarcasm couldn’t have been more evident. “What requirement?”

His teeth flashed white. “Well, you see, it occurred to me… just now... as you were staring at my mouth—”

Margaret gasped. “Sirrah! I was not staring at your mouth!”

“—That I should very much like to kiss you... and yes, yes… I do believe you were, Lady Margaret.”

Horrified, Margaret inhaled sharply. She had, in fact, been staring, but she couldn’t very well admit such a thing. She withdrew trembling fingers from her lips, forcing her gaze to meet his, only to discover that they were twinkling with an unsettlingly familiar light. “How dare you make such a rude demand?”

One brow lifted. “Rude? Because I wish to kiss my bride?”

Margaret’s heart began to hammer in earnest. Bride? Was she blushing now? Her face felt mortifyingly hot. Sweet, lord—he wished to kiss her? The thought left her reeling. “You take this too far, sir. And no.” she said, shaking her head. “The answer is no. You are in no position to make demands.”

“But, of course, I am,” he answered easily. “You need me.”

Margaret glared at the other occupant of her coach, his posture entirely disrespectful, and his request even more so, but, yes, it was true; she did need him. However, she was far too angry now, and much too offended by his impertinence to concede that fact.

For just one infuriating moment, she had the inclination to pound on the roof of the carriage and demand the driver take her home and cast this man off on the side of the road. But, really, there wasn’t time enough for such theatrics. One way or the other, she was on her way to Gretna Green with this… miscreant… whose arrogance she simply couldn’t abide.

Margaret continued to glower at him, wholly unsettled by their scandalous exchange. “Mr. Morgan. You should have spoken up long before now to voice your unreasonable demand—as any gentleman might have done.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head at her. “I’m sorry. Did Mr. Goodman mislead you? I thought you required a commoner? Everyone knows we commoners have little couth.”

“Yes, but—”

“Regardless, I don’t find it unreasonable in the least to wish to kiss my bride.”

“But, sir… I am not your bride.”

“Of course, you are—or will be, just as soon as we reach Gretna Green.”

Flustered now, Margaret straightened in her seat. She didn’t know any other way to address this issue than to speak frankly. “We are both quite aware that this is a marriage of convenience, sirrah. A kiss is only reasonable between lovers, and we are not lovers—nor shall we ever be.”

“I see,” he said, and managed to appear a little injured by her vehemence—how dare he make her feel like a shrew for having to point out the facts. He exhaled deeply. “Apologies, madam. I was blinded by your beauty, and I somehow managed to forget.” He straightened in his seat, stretching out his long legs before him, his tone hardly matching the nature of his words. “Thank you for reminding me,” he said. “But, in any case, I see now that the prospect distresses you, so, please, forgive my rudeness.”

He thought her beauty blinding? She didn’t want his inappropriate compliment to distract her from her anger, alas, it did. “It does not distress me,” she countered, her cheeks burning with chagrin. “I simply find your approach rather distasteful, Mr. Morgan.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” she replied fiercely.

“I only wonder what you’re afraid of?”

It was a gauntlet cast at her feet. One Margaret couldn’t ignore. If the truth be told, she had never considered herself so fetching that a man could ever long to kiss her. The simple fact that he did, somehow appealed to her, despite her mortification. And, truly, he wasn’t any sort of toad. She smiled, though her composure had hardly returned, and said with more aplomb than she felt, “Mr. Morgan…”

“Gabriel.”

“Mr. Morgan,” she persisted. “I am most assuredly not afraid of a kiss.”

“Of course not,” he said. “But do call me Gabriel,” he suggested. “After all, we are soon to be wed. What will the parson think if he should hear you speak to me so formally? After all, if we are not wedding for love—as must be the only case for a midnight wedding—mightn’t he wonder if you come to him compromised?”

Margaret furrowed her brow. “Compromised?”

“With child,” he explained somewhat more crudely, and Margaret frowned. Why did she feel he was baiting her? There was simply no mistaking the glitter of amusement in his bright blue eyes, and her flush crept higher with that realization. She was doubly unsettled to find her gaze returned to his lips…

Just a kiss, he’d claimed.

As it was, it would seem they were eloping—and why would anyone do so, unless they were… well, as he’d said, compromised? So often these weddings in Gretna Green were just the opposite case as hers. They were sometimes compromised, as he’d so brashly claimed, but more often than not, they flew into such a union at the detriment of their good fortunes. But, Mr. Morgan himself had tightened the language in their contract to be sure that she was well protected. Still, did she care so much what anyone thought? If she did, she might never have issued such a contract in the first place, and it was probably quite the talk of the ton already. But after all that was said and done, she couldn’t seem to help herself; why should she say no?

Indeed, what was she afraid of? He was going to be her husband, after all—what harm could come from a simple kiss?

Anyway, it wasn’t as though she needed to be in love with a man just to kiss him, she reasoned. And she wasn’t. But, of course, she wasn’t. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she believed in love. If one couldn’t touch it, or smell it, or see it, then one couldn’t be sure it even existed. “Very well,” Margaret relented. “A kiss... no more... after we’re wed—for the sake of the parson.”

“For the sake of the parson?”

“Yes,” Margaret said, and his lips curved into a slow grin, looking too much like the little boy who’d coaxed the mouse from the cat’s jaws, and she wanted to take it all back.

She wouldn’t, however.

For better, or worse, she owed the cad a kiss, and with their business concluded, she lapsed into silence for the remainder of the journey, wondering how it was that he’d managed to make her agree to such a scandalous proposal.