Page 35 of Gentleman Jim

“You’d better show the pair of them in, Olmstead,” Jane said to the butler.

“But we haven’t yet finished speaking with Dr. Hart,” Maggie objected.

“That’s quite all right, Miss Honeywell,” the doctor said, rising. “I have another appointment I must get to before the hour.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Jane replied with a smile. “I haven’t yet seen Lord St. Clare out of temper. All the same, I’m not foolhardy enough to provoke him.”

“I’d like to speak to him alone, if I might,” Maggie said after the doctor had gone. “If you can contrive it.”

Jane frowned. “I don’t see how I can. Not without risking both of our reputations. Unless… I suppose we could walk in the garden? I could steer Lord Mattingly away, and if you and the viscount lingered a few steps behind, I wouldn’t draw attention to it.”

Maggie pressed a swift kiss to Jane’s cheek. “Bless you.”

Jane wasn’t so easily placated. “Do you truly like him? He’s handsome, I grant you. And rich, if reports are to be believed. But there’s something else…”

“What?”

“Something beneath the surface—something cold and unforgiving. He doesn’t seem to possess any warmth about him. It quite frightens me.”

Maggie recalled St. Clare’s embrace in Hyde Park. The way his arms had closed around her, his sinful mouth capturing her lips in a slow, and thoroughly devastating kiss. “He’s warm enough.”

Jane’s brows shot up. “Upon my word, Margaret. You haven’t been indiscreet with the man, have you?”

Before Maggie could answer, the butler ushered St. Clare and Lord Mattingly into the library. He may as well have ushered in a tiger, for that’s how St. Clare appeared standing in the midst of the wood-paneled walls, thick Aubusson carpeting, and polished bookshelves filled with somber, leather-covered volumes. It was all very proper and civilized. And St. Clare wasn’t civilized. Not entirely.

Jane was right. Something lurked beneath the surface of him. Something cold and predatory. It wasn’t obvious at first glance. Indeed, he looked immaculate as always, clad in biscuit-colored pantaloons and a coat of impeccably cut superfine. Next to him, Lord Mattingly paled into insignificance.

Not to Jane, however. Though she kept her composure and played the dutiful hostess, Maggie could sense her friend’s attraction to the dark-haired gentleman at St. Clare’s side.

“We’ve been shut up inside all morning,” Jane said. “It seems a shame to let this fine weather go to waste. Shall we take a turn about the garden?”

St. Clare’s gray gaze was settled on Maggie. It had been ever since he’d stepped into the room. He looked at her as if no one else existed.

It gave her an odd, fluttery feeling. Nerves, she suspected. Either that or some manner of giddy girlish excitement. This was, after all, a man she’d kissed. A man who had kissed her, more deeply and intimately than she’d ever been kissed before in her life. It was impossible to stand in front of him and not think of it.

Impossible not to want to do it again.

She’d spent years dreaming of Nicholas coming home. Years envisioning what it would be like to reunite with him. To hold him, love him, marry him.

“Do you feel equal to a stroll?” he asked.

Her mouth was dry. Great goodness. Had she been staring at him? “Of course.” She moistened her lips. “The exercise will do me good.”

He studied her face. It seemed as though he wanted to say something more. And no doubt he would when they were alone. Their encounter in Hyde Park hadn’t been her finest moment. She’d come very close to fainting. Again.

Was it any wonder he was disposed to think her an invalid?

She tucked her hand into his arm as they followed Jane and Lord Mattingly out into the Trumbles’ back garden. The sun was shining, a faint breeze ruffling through the branches of the fruit trees, just cold enough to merit the cashmere shawl Maggie wore draped round her shoulders.

St. Clare moderated his stride to match her own. He was solicitous. Gentlemanlike. As attentive to her frailty as Bessie often was.

Maggie stole a glance at his handsome profile, only to look away. Her happiness at seeing him again was shadowed by a nagging sense of self-consciousness.

If only she could be more like her old self for him. The Maggie Honeywell he must remember. A girl with a fiery temper and a wild, reckless heart.

Then, she’d been ready to dare anything. There had been no thought to her own human frailty. No consideration that she might do herself an injury.

Papa had been just the same. A true force of nature. His death, when it had come, had been sure and swift. His heart had given out midgallop during the autumn hunt at Beasley Park. He’d toppled from his horse, dead before he hit the ground. It was precisely how Papa would have wanted to meet his end. Snuffed out in full flame.