“Drawing comparisons to the pain of others is a pointless, belittling exercise that helps no one.” Margaret cupped his face, forcing his bronze eyes to look directly into her own. She rubbed her thumbs along his temples, imagining the pain hidden within. Oh, how she knew what it was to have pain no one could see. Pain no one acknowledged was real. “When the panic surges through your system, do you hurt, Mr. Noble?”
Tears welled in his eyes. His throat bobbed, scraping out a reply. “Y-yes.”
“If you hurt, then your pain isreal. All pain matters in God’s eyes. Whether it afflicts the body or the mind, all pain grieves His heart. Especially the pain we won’t allow Him to tend.” Releasing Mr. Noble’s face, Margaret took up his nearest handand placed it upon the piano keys. “Seeking repair from our Maker, allowing ourselves sufficient time in His presence for regular maintenance, isn’t selfish. It’s vital. For only when we rely on God as our Sustainer is it possible to shake and yet not be shaken. What if, in sacrificing music, you’re sacrificing the very means by which the Machinist chooses to comfort and mend your soul?”
Margaret allowed a moment for her words to settle in Mr. Noble’s windings. She examined his bronze gaze, watching for a spark of comprehension as the pieces clicked together and gears began to turn. Yet the gleam she noted was not one of comprehension. It was the anomalous twinkle she’d come to associate with Mr. Noble ... but different, somehow. Warmer. Brighter.
As though a flame had been lit within them, the hue of his eyes darkened to a richer brown flecked with flaming umber. Mr. Noble’s gaze fell to their hands, laid one atop the other on the ivories. Clasping her fingers, he raised them to his lips.
Margaret’s breath caught as Mr. Noble pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. Her jaw dropped. He’d kissed her! He’d kissed ...her. Why would he—
“I thought that might wake me up, but it appears I’m still dreaming.” A flush of crimson swept a bashful smile across Mr. Noble’s face. “Ever since we met, you’ve felt like a sort of dream to me ... a reverie. One from which I never wish to awaken.”
All means of verbal articulation fled Margaret’s faculties. He was exhausted to the point of delirium. He couldn’t mean ... couldn’t feel this way abouther. It was impossible. And yet Mr. Noble looked at her admiringly. Unwaveringly. Tracing his thumb along her fingers as though he feared she might flit away if he let go. Leaning ever nearer until, eyes closing against reality, his forehead pressed against her own, his breath matching hers in syncopation.
In that moment, Margaret realized Jane was right.
Against all reason, against all logic, Mr. Nobledidfancy her.
Even more startling, Margaret found she fancied Charles back with astounding fervor.
“Maggie, are you all right, dear one? Did the mission trigger a—”
With a start, Margaret broke away from Charles just as Mama abruptly halted in the foyer and Papa promptly bumped into her back. The pair of them were clad in white nightgowns, robes of velvet, and matching slippers. Mama stared in her kerchief while Papa gaped in his cap.
And Margaret blushed hot enough to spontaneously combust.
Cheeks pale and green eyes wide, Papa pointed in Charles’ direction. “Clara. Clara. There’s a man.”
Mama grasped Papa’s failing arm and secured him like an anchor. She took in the parlor view, and her rosy lips blossomed into a smile. “There is, indeed. A very handsome man.” She attempted to draw Papa away, whispering coaxingly, “Perhaps we’d best go upstairs, darling.”
“And leave this—this man—with my daughter? Alone, and at this hour? Why, just look how the bounder is leaning, Clara?Lean-ing!”
Mama’s silver eyes flashed at Papa. “Stars above, whatever shall we do? Shall we make them marry at first light to avoid the deluge of rumors and scandal?”
Margaret pressed a hand to her scalding face. Bringing Charles home was proving to be even more complicated than she’d anticipated, but there was no backtracking now. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Noble, allow me to introduce my parents, Theodore and Clara Kingsley, the Marquess and Marchioness of Marlow.”
Chapter
30
“Ever since we met, you’ve felt like a sort of dream to me ... a reverie. One from which I neverwish to awaken.”
Charles choked on his porridge, dropping the spoon into the bowl with a clatter. He’d said that last night. To Margaret. Out loud! What in the Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had he been thinking? What must she now think of him? As he sputtered and coughed, a strong hand clapped his back with a few stronger-than-strictly-necessary thumps.
“You all right there, son?” Lord Marlow’s eyes narrowed upon him as he continued to pound Charles’ back as though it were a filthy carpet on cleaning day and he, a maid with rage issues, determined to rid said carpet of every particle of dust, dirt, and debris.
Snatching up a cloth napkin, Charles attempted to smother the inferno of embarrassment engulfing his face. “F-fine, sir. Th-thank you, sir.”
“Theodore, really.” Shaking her head, Lady Marlow tuttedas she lifted her teacup. “There’s no need to wallop Mr. Noble into next Wednesday. I think he’s quite recovered.”
“Right-oh, darling.” After tossing his wife a wink and giving Charles one last sound wallop for good measure, Lord Marlow resumed his morning repast, though the dignified man continued to watch Charles warily. He sliced into his scone with a marked air of menace that was rather intimidating, notwithstanding the fact that Lord Marlow was still attired in his nightclothes and tasseled cap.
Charles couldn’t blame the marquess for his vigilance. After all, the man had awoken in the middle of the night to find his very beautiful, very unchaperoned daughter with a very haggard, very unknown man who’d beenleaning. In hindsight, perhaps Lord and Lady Marlow’s arrival had prevented him from striking a foul note. After all, Lady Margaret’s stunned response to his declaration had given him pause. In that moment’s hesitation, he’d been trying to decipher whether his feelings were unrequited or disbelieved.
A lady’s rejection must, of course, be accepted by a gentleman as a finality. But Charles couldn’t help but think the look in her eyes had seemed more like doubt than refusal ... more like fear than repulsion.
Charles dared to look up from his now-empty porridge bowl. Lady Margaret was seated across from him at the dining table. Ever since she’d disclosed the details about last night’s mission, her parents had flanked her protectively. Shadows rimmed Lady Margaret’s eyes, her face pale and wan. She slumped against her chair, allowing it to support her completely. She’d barely made a dent in her breakfast, only exerting herself to eat or drink when prompted by her mother.
