Finally, they made it to his bedchamber, which had an adjoining door which led through to what would be the lady of the house’s bedchamber.
‘As we didn’t get any sleep on the overnight train,’ he said, ‘would you like to sleep now?’
She took hold of his hand. ‘I certainly want to go to bed,’ she replied, causing him to laugh, as she’d hoped he would. ‘But no, I’m not tired in the slightest.’
Fortunately, they did get some sleep, because the next day they had a wedding to attend.
Dressed in their finery, they took their seats in the same church where Margaret and Jacob had married just a few months ago. Henry was standing at the altar with his brother at his side as his best man. When he saw Jacob he sent him a wink, as if they were both in on a secret conspiracy.
The organ music began and the bride walked down the aisle towards Henry. She looked so sweet and innocent on her father’s arm. When she reached the altar she smiled at her husband-to-be and placed her hand on her stomach. It was the same protective gesture Margaret had seen in Jacob’s mother’s portrait.
Her heart clenched and tears sprang to her eyes. Jacob sent her a questioning look.
‘Weddings always make me a bit tearful,’ she lied, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She did not envy that sweet young woman being married to that callous man. In fact, she pitied her and hoped her future would not be as unhappy as Margaret suspected it might be, but there was no denying she was envious that the bride was to become a mother.
Jacob took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, presumably thinking she was just being sentimental. She told herself she had nothing to feel sad about. Her marriage to Jacob had worked out better than she could possibly have imagined when she’d been standing in this very church just a few months ago.
The wedding service over, they followed the bride and groom out of the stone church. As they milled around outside, Margaret noticed many of the men who had been at the Earl’s weekend party were also present, along with some guests she had not expected to see, and would rather not.
‘It’s a delight to see you again, Jacob, Miss Whitmore,’ Baroness Winterborne greeted them. ‘My apologies, Miss Whitmore, I should now refer to you as Your Grace,’ she said with a small laugh and a slight curtsey.
Jacob’s arm slid around Margaret’s waist, holding her close, and for that she was grateful. He nodded his greeting to the Baroness and her husband. ‘If you’ll excuse us, we need to congratulate the groom and wish the happy couple the best of luck.’
With that, he led her away from his ex-lover towards his old friend and his new wife. While Jacob shook his friend’s hand and indulged in much back-slapping, Margaret kissed the bride’s cheek and wished her every happiness.
She tried to smile, while battling to keep the green-eyed monster at bay, the one that had first stirred when she had realised the bride was with child and then raised its head further with the appearance of Baroness Winterborne. She tried to tell herself it mattered not. She was happy. She loved Jacob. Maybe he didn’t love her or want her to be the mother of his children, but she had more than she had once thought possible. She should be content with what she had and not pine for things that were not to be hers.
It was happening already. Jacob could tell from Margaret’s posture and that strained smile that she was starting to recall what the man she had married was really like. A man who’d had so many lovers it would be unlikely if they could ever attend any social event without meeting at least one of them. Including this wedding.
He should not be surprised that she was starting to withdraw from him. This was what he’d expected and it was something he would need to accept. Their time together in Northumberland had been magical, but the magic was now over and they were back in the real world, a world where he was a man who never settled with one woman for long, a man who would not be tied down.
He looked around at the other guests, at the men who were his friends, the men he had caroused with night after night for many years. That was who he was—a feckless rake, incapable of taking responsibility for anything or anyone, a man who ran roughshod over everything and everyone, including Margaret.
She was right to withdraw from him. How could she not, when reminded of his true character? For a time when they’d been alone together he had almost thought he was a different man—a good man, a man who was worthy of a woman like Margaret.
He laughed out loud at that ridiculous notion.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, looking at him with those big hazel eyes he had come to adore.
‘It’s just funny to think that both Henry and I are now married men. Not long ago, that would have seemed to be an impossibility.’
‘And both of you were forced into it.’
‘Yes, I suppose that is the only way it could have happened.’
Her smile became even more strained, as he would expect, at that reminder of why she had married him in the first place—because she had no choice.
The crowd of guests thinned out and headed towards their carriages to take them to the wedding breakfast at the home of Mr and Mrs Fitzsimmons.
He helped Margaret up into the carriage and he could feel the distance growing between them. It would not be long now. Soon she would be leaving him, as she so rightly should. Then he would go back to his old life, just as they had originally agreed.
Throughout the journey she looked out of the window, lost in her own thoughts. Was this the time to have the conversation they must surely have some time soon? Jacob knew they must. It was only fair to let her know that she owed him nothing. That she was a free woman, just as he had promised she would be on their wedding day.
But he was too selfish to broach the topic now. Perhaps when they returned to their home in Mayfair. But would he be able to do it then? Or would he once again want to take her in his arms, to lose himself in her and the pleasure of their lovemaking? He knew the answer to that just as surely as he knew what a flawed man he was. He would be thinking only of himself, further proof that he was a man who should never have married, especially a woman like Margaret.
Their carriage arrived at the Fitzsimmons’ Maida Vale modern terraced home. He escorted Margaret inside, where they were greeted by Gwendolen’s parents and handed a much-needed glass of champagne.
He drank the bubbly liquid at a faster rate than was perhaps wise, then took another glass off the silver tray of a passing footman. Maybe a few drinks would give him the courage to speak to Margaret.
