he said with a quick smile. “I know her virtues and her failings, and you need not harp on either to earn my good graces.”
“Is it possible that a young lady might speak on a subject without the ultimate aim of earning a man’s good graces?” Margaret asked. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them, knowing that they would be seen as insolent even though she had kept her tone even and measured. She wondered how this man had managed to manoeuvre a situation where she had felt so beautiful and treasured into a conversation where she was forced to impress him.
They continued with the rest of the dance with a more careful conversation, Margaret keeping her answers short and conscious not to give too strong of an opinion. Lord Waddington spoke of his business and the latest London gossip as though he thought it would interest her more than any other subject.
She was weary of him when they left the dance floor, but he did not at first give her back over to Amanda. Instead, he held her hand a moment longer than necessary and, bowing over it, inclined his gaze upwards to hers again.
“My lady,” he said, showing more eloquence in this turn of phrase than he had hitherto. “I am not always the best with words, but I am always clear of my intentions. You have caught my eye, and that is not an easy thing to do. Please, allow me to call on you at your father’s estate here in London during your stay.”
Margaret looked into those dark eyes and wondered, for a moment, if she could say no. She had not been particularly interested in him, had found his manner harsh and uninviting, and yet he was showing her an unusual vulnerability by asking this of her in such an open manner. She nodded her head.
“I am flattered by your attention,” she said with a smile. “I consent to a visit. We shall see what unfolds from there, Lord Waddington.”
He nodded and released her hand at last, allowing her to walk back to Amanda’s side. As she turned, however, her heart froze at the sight of a familiar face across the room. The gentleman was standing with an assortment of other young men, all in uniform.
His was impeccable, showing off his height and broad shoulders. At first she doubted her own eyes, so confident and assured did the young man seem, but aside from skin that was weathered by the sun, she knew that long dark hair and those piercing blue eyes.
It was Captain Nigel Bateson. He’d come home at last.
Chapter 6
Nigel felt her presence before he saw her, like a breeze that he could hear but was refreshed by nonetheless. He raised his eyes from the group of men who were gathered around him and saw the woman walking across the room towards him.
Nigel had learned a little of what society expected of young people and knew it was a bold move for a single lady to approach any man, and so he knew from her actions alone – even before his eyes caught the glint of her hair or the fire in her eyes – that it had to be Margaret. He had not known to expect her tonight, had not prepared to meet her any place but the one area he most remembered her: the cliffs of Cornwall.
Now she was walking towards him and he could only take in his breath sharply, shallowly, and pray she didn’t see the way he drank up the vision of her like a dying man in the desert drinks up water.
She came to a stop a few feet away, her very presence bringing an end to the conversation around them. Major Andrew Moorhouse, the Army friend with whom Nigel was staying at present in London, was the first to speak. He bowed gallantly and smiled at Margaret.
“My dear lady,” he said with that suave manner Nigel had seen him use successfully on many other occasions. “I do not believe I have the honour of your acquaintance.”
“No, you do not,” Margaret said with that same imperious manner that Nigel remembered from their childhood. “But he does.” She raised her eyes to his, and a world of knowledge seemed to pass between them.
She was beautiful. The very nearness of her took Nigel’s breath away. She had always been beautiful. His memories of her red hair blowing in the wind had haunted and