Chapter 7
Marguerite took another turn around the small but impeccably groomed garden, even the lush scents of roses doing nothing to calm her mounting irritation.
Why, Walker might not have come to the town house to see her at all—not that she wanted him to! He’d come to visit with Jared or Donovan and since neither of them were here, he’d probably left by now or Lindsay was regaling him with Justin’s latest antics and…and why did she even care?
“I don’t care!” Marguerite fairly shouted, stopping so abruptly that she startled a pair of mourning doves from an apple blossom tree. And she refused to pace around this garden another moment longer!
Lifting her skirt so she might run all the faster inside and upstairs to her room, Marguerite spun around only to again, stop dead in her tracks.
Her jaw dropping.
Her eyes widening.
A shriek that sounded more like a squeak escaping her throat as one foot caught in the other and she toppled into Walker, who had come up like a phantom behind her.
Except she didn’t fall, his strong arms flying around her to catch her and draw her against him.
Her hands splayed upon his chest.
Her heart beating so hard that for a moment she didn’t know what to do or what to say other than to stare up at him while a familiar wry smile lit his striking features.
“Don’t care about what, Miss Easton?”
The huskiness of his voice thrilling her, Marguerite nonetheless began to struggle in his arms as outrage overcame her.
“You, Mr. Burke!” she blurted, growing even more flustered that he seemed in no hurry to loosen his embrace. “Oh, forgive me, I meant Lord Summerlin—and if you’ll kindly let me go!”
Still he held her, and now she heaved an exasperated sigh and ceased her struggles, staring boldly into his eyes. “Clearly you are a rogue, sir, for if you were truly a gentleman, you would have released me by now—oh!”
He did release her, and with such abruptness that she felt instantly bereft not to have his arms around her, which made her all the more disconcerted and angry with herself by turns. He was dressed more casually than the night before—a dark brown coat over a simple white shirt open at the neck, matching breeches, and black riding boots—and she could not deny the attire made him appear even more handsome in a rougher sort of way. Suddenly feeling rather breathless, she made to brush past him.
“I must go.”
“So soon, Marguerite? When I came here today first and foremost to speak with you?”
She stopped right next to him, drawn to the intent expression on Walker’s face. He gazed at her now with a look in his raven-black eyes that reminded her of when they were dancing last night—as if she were the only woman that existed. Feeling strangely uncertain all of a sudden, she had to remind herself that had been before Lady Belinda Cavendish had so easily turned his head.
“I don’t understand why,” she said tersely, her pique rising again. “I can’t imagine what you might have to talk to me about—”
“I’ve no interest in Lady Belinda, though I danced with her last night. Absolutely none at all.”
Walker had turned to face her and gathered her hands in his much larger ones to hold them fast against his chest. Still he looked at her so intently that Marguerite found she could not have looked away if she’d tried.
“I…I don’t understand why you think that would be of import to me,” she began as he bent his head closer to hers. Oh, Lord! Why was he staring at her so? “Truly, what you do is your own affair—”
“Yet you called me a rogue, so clearly something distressed you from when I held you in my arms last night until now.”
He’d drawn closer, so close that Marguerite could but stare at his lips, his breath warm against her cheek. His hands no longer held hers but had fallen to her waist, the weight of them sending shivers coursing through her.
“If you were distressed,” he continued, “then you must have some feelings for me…or so it stands to reason.”
“I…I can see how you might have been led to such a conclusion,” she said now in a voice no more than a whisper. “But you’re wrong—”
“Am I, Marguerite?”
He’d near whispered, too, his lips finding hers before she could think to wrest herself away from him…though no such thought even entered her mind.
Instead the warm pressure of his mouth upon hers was the most wondrous thing she’d ever known. Without a moment’s hesitation she leaned into him, sighing softly.
She couldn’t say if he kissed her for long or only for a moment, she was so lost to the sensation of his lips moving over hers, their breaths melding, her heart racing in her breast. Only when she fluttered open her eyes, not even aware that she’d closed them, did she find him once more staring down at her.
Her body flush against his, her arms wound around his neck. And a look upon his face that wasn’t roguish at all, but boyishly vulnerable in a most unexpected way that flew straight to her heart.
“I wasn’t happy when you left so abruptly last night, so I must have some feelings for you, too. More than I’d ever thought possible. Marry me, Marguerite Easton.”
Her breath stopped. She could but blink at him, the words at first not sinking in. Had he just asked her to…?
“Be my wife…my duchess one day.”
She couldn’t have been more stunned, and she was certain for an instant she’d misheard him—a second time! “Y-your duchess?”
His sudden smile warmed her, and he nodded as he held her tighter. “You’re the woman I want and no other. I knew it last night from the moment I saw you. When I decided to return to England, I wondered what might have become of you…that you might already be married—”
“No, not married,” Marguerite breathed, finally finding her voice. She’d begun to tremble, everything happening so fast, her mind spinning. He smiled again as if he’d read her mind, and bent down to nuzzle her cheek.
“I know it’s unexpected…and we’ll have to wait until my father—well, he’s very ill and hasn’t much longer to live—”
“I…I don’t understand,” she began, but when he raised his head to gaze at her, Marguerite saw that his expression had darkened.
“He has forbidden me to marry anyone but a woman of noble family—”
“Oh, no, please, no!” Marguerite’s outburst sent another startled pair of mourning doves fluttering from their perch as somehow she managed to wrest herself from Walker’s arms. Yet he caught her before she had run two steps from him and pulled her back into his arms.
“Marguerite, what’s wrong?”
She shook her head, tears biting her eyes, and pressed her balled fists against his chest. “Please, let me go! I cannot marry you, it would never work between us! The ton would never accept you with me by your side. The women here were so cruel to me last Season, slighting me at every turn. I’m only a vicar’s daughter and you are the son of a duke! I would never have come back to London if not for Corie wanting me to stay here as company for Lindsay—no, no, I cannot!”
Now she struggled mightily, sobbing, but Walker gathered her even closer into his arms, his husky voice lowered to a fierce whisper.
“Woman, I’ll not live without you. My decision has been made. We are more suited to each other than you could ever imagine, and I’d sooner take a vicar’s daughter to wife than any titled wench!”
“Wench?” Marguerite had abruptly ceased her struggling, a giggle rising in her throat even as she hiccupped through her tears. To hear Walker call a woman of the nobility a wench was so ridiculous, so absurd…
Walker began to laugh, too, a low rumbling from deep in his chest as he cupped Marguerite’s face and gently caressed her tear-stained cheeks with his thumbs.
Laughing with him now, she reached up to clasp his hands and together their mounting mirth echoed around the garden.
“L-Lady Belinda…a…a wench?” Marguerite barely choked out, her sides aching now from laughter as she imagined what that blond beauty might think of Walker’s unlikely description.
His firm nod and engaging grin only made her smile so broadly, too, that she couldn’t believe she’d been crying only moments ago.
Yet within the next instant Walker grew quiet and she did as well, the two of them staring at each other again in that lovely garden filled with fragrant blooms, budding trees, and chirping birds.
He laced his fingers with hers and brought them to his lips, kissing them, his voice once more grown husky and low.
“Say you’ll marry me, Marguerite…whenever that might be, whatever might come. We’ll face all of it together, you and I—”
“Yes, Walker, I’ll marry you.”
Again that boyish vulnerability shone from his eyes. Then his mouth captured hers and his arms flew around her, and she knew only the wondrous sensation of his kiss, his embrace.
How long they stood there holding each other, Marguerite could not say, until Lindsay’s elated voice carried to them from the doorway to the garden.
“Oh, Marguerite and Walker, I’m so thrilled for you! Now come into the house, will you? We’ve much to do and not long to accomplish it, oh, no, not if you’re to return from Gretna Green before Jared comes home next week. You must hurry, there isn’t a moment to waste!”
“Gretna Green?” Walker glanced from Lindsay, who waved for them to come inside, to Marguerite, who seemed to have grown as still as stone in his arms. She appeared utterly stunned, her lovely face flushed a bright pink. She trembled, too, which made him draw her closer. “Marguerite?”
“I-it’s a small village in Scotland just over the border,” she murmured, “on the main post road from London.”
“But what might that have to do with us?” he asked, puzzled that Marguerite seemed unable to meet his eyes. Her pretty blush had deepened, too, while Lindsay now hastened toward them.
“It’s where you go to wed, Walker!” she answered for Marguerite, impatience clearly having overcome her though she threw him a smile. “Did you not hear me about hurrying? You need no consent from family to marry there and no one need know that you’ve become husband and wife, either—not Jared, not your father, not anyone! At least not until you deem the time is right to reveal your secret…”
Lindsay had sobered suddenly, and Walker knew that she had meant whenever his father’s illness might claim him—but damnation! She’d hit upon the perfect solution to a situation he’d seen no way around other than waiting however long to avoid going against his father’s wishes.
A perfect solution as well, to the thorny issue of Marguerite’s family’s consent given Jared’s reservations about him.
“It’s not how I would wish it to be,” he said to Marguerite, lifting her chin so that she met his eyes. “You deserve a wedding in church with your family there, your father. Yet I’ll not risk that anyone might try to prevent us from marrying. Will you go with me to Gretna Green?”
She still trembled, Walker sensed from the suddenness of it all. He felt overcome, too, like a green youth instead of a grown man. He’d scarcely drawn a breath, awaiting her answer, but he exhaled when she gave him a tremulous smile, nodding.
“Say it, Marguerite,” he bade her, his gaze riveted upon her. “I must hear you—”
“Yes, yes, I will!”
“Wonderful!” Lindsay pronounced before either of them could utter another word, her arm flying around Marguerite’s waist to shepherd her away from Walker. “We must pack, at least enough for a change or two of clothes. You’ll only have time to journey there and straight back, stopping when you must for fresh horses and to see to your personal needs, of course. I’ll have a hamper packed for you with plenty of food. Walker, what will you do? Return to where you’re staying in London for your things?”
His things. Walker’s low curse made both women stop and turn to look at him, and he shook his head.
“My cousin would only ask questions. Russell was still abed when I left and is no doubt wondering what’s become of me. If I may, I’ll have your footman carry him a message that I’ve decided to leave London for a few days on business. Russell already knows I plan to open textile mills in Devonshire. It should be enough to satisfy him.”
Lindsay nodded, and looped her arm through Marguerite’s to hurry with her into the house, although she said over her shoulder, “I’ll pack you some of Jared’s clothes. Thankfully he has more than enough to spare.”
Walker didn’t reply as he followed them inside. He’d become angered, not because he must borrow Jared’s clothing, but that Sir Russell Scott had sought to direct his every footstep since they had arrived together in London.
Planning his itinerary down to the hour.
Accepting invitations for him like Lady Belinda’s to dine at her home tonight, when Walker had wanted to decline.
He’d decided after how rudely Russell had treated Marguerite at Almack’s that he didn’t much like the baronet—and Walker more than sensed the feeling was mutual.
If Russell gleaned any inkling of Walker’s true plans, he had no doubt that his cousin would carry the news straightaway to Summerlin Hall just to cause distress to his father. Why not disrupt the peace of the duke’s last days as some repayment for losing everything that Russell had believed would one day belong to him?
“Bastard,” Walker muttered, determined that the sooner he and Marguerite left London, the better. He strode into the library to find pen and ink and paper, deriving some satisfaction at least that he wouldn’t have to suffer Russell’s presence for days.
And he wouldn’t be dining tonight with Lady Belinda, her obvious intent to wrap him around her elegant little finger be hanged! She had insisted upon dancing with him the remainder of the evening, clearly making her claim upon him. No one else had come near, no overeager mothers, no simpering daughters, and for that at least he had been grateful.
Yet given that he had no idea how long he and Marguerite must hide their secret marriage, he might have to feign interest in that cool blond beauty to not raise any suspicions—God help him, no, he didn’t want to think of that right now!
Instead, as he sat down at a desk to scrawl a hasty note to Russell, Walker thought of Marguerite…the feel of her in his arms, the softness of her lips, the sweet innocence in her eyes, and the lush sensation of her breasts pressing against him…
A sudden tightness against the seam of his breeches made Walker suck in his breath.
Damn it all, why did Gretna Green have to be so far away?