She looked down at herself, self-conscious. “I’m sorry, but I was just going to bed.”
“That’s all right. It’s only a surprise to see you like this.”
She ducked her head, nervously twirling the end of her plait.
He could not help himself. He reached forward and caught her hand, gently capturing the blond plait inches from her collarbone.
“I had almost forgotten how fair your hair is.”
Liar, he silently admonished. He wished he might untie the ribbon, unwind the plait, and run his fingers through the silky weight of it. He swallowed.
Down the passage a door slammed, and both of them jumped.
“Perhaps you ought to step inside a moment,” she whispered.
He hesitated, but being so near to her, common sense and propriety fled. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and stood there staring at her like an idiot.
“You have news?” she prompted.
Had he? It had flown from his mind. It was all he could do not to lean close, pull her into his arms, and kiss her. He saw a tremor pass over her body and became aware of his own gooseflesh.
“It is chilly up here,” he said. Forcing his gaze from her, he looked instead around the small, plain chamber. “How strange to find Miss Macy living in such humble surroundings.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I almost believe you.” His eyes returned to her face, savoring her features. “How you have changed.”
She shivered again.
“You’re cold.” He slid his hands over her shoulders, slowly sliding his palms down her arms, over the sleeves of her wrapper. He took one of her hands, then the other, rubbing each between his larger, warmer hands. “That should warm you.”
She inhaled. “Indeed.”
His hands stilled but continued to hold hers. She made no move to step back or pull her hands away. He hoped it meant she felt as he did. Or did she feel she was in his debt, afraid of losing her hiding place should she refuse? That thought dampened his ardor, and he suddenly remembered why he’d sought her out at this hour in the first place.
He cleared his throat and released her. “I’ve just read a startling piece of news.”
“Oh?” She became instantly alert, eyes widening and body stiffening in anticipation. He still dreaded telling her, though he knew he must. He was afraid of what she might do.
Margaret steeled herself for the news.
He pulled something from his pocket and began, “It’s an engagement announcement.”
Margaret inwardly quailed. Oh no. Had Sterling puffed off the news of an engagement between her and Marcus, hoping to force her hand?
Nathaniel continued, “The engagement of Marcus Benton and Miss Caroline Macy.”
Shock rippled through Margaret. Her heart banged painfully against her ribs. “Caroline Macy? Are you certain?”
“Yes.” He handed her the paper and waited while she read it by the light of the bedside candle. He said, “I don’t suppose this is good news.”
“How could it be?”
“Well, a man you did not wish to marry is now engaged to someone else.”
“That someone else is my sister! Who is barely seventeen. Far too young and far too innocent for a lecher like Marcus Benton.”
He expelled a breath. “That is what I feared.”
Margaret’s head began to pound, and her stomach roiled. Did Marcus really intend to marry Caroline, or was Sterling hoping to flush Margaret out with the news? Margaret remembered how happy Caroline had looked in Marcus’s arms at the ball. Yes, a girl not yet out of the schoolroom could have her head turned by Marcus Benton quite easily. And by the time Caroline realized the character of the man she had married, it would be too late.
Margaret turned and paced the small room.
Nathaniel said, “Allow me to help.”
She kept pacing. “What can you do?”
“I can marry you.”
She whirled, incredulous. “Marry me?”
He flinched as though she’d slapped him. “I know it was Lewis you wanted. If that is still the case, I will do everything in my power to convince him. In fact, he may be more amenable, now he knows of your inheritance.”
She frowned. “I don’t want to marry Lewis. How would marrying anybody help my sister?”
“If Marcus has proposed to your sister to force you from hiding . . . and still hopes to marry you for your inheritance . . .”
“My birthday is only two weeks away. If I can remain unwed until I receive my inheritance I will grant Caroline a generous dowry and she can marry someone worthy of her. And I can marry, or not, as I wish.”
He shook his head. “You have been living under our roof for months now, Margaret. A gentleman in such a situation, unusual as this one is, has a certain duty, a certain obligation.”
A chill ran through her. She lifted her chin. “I assure you there is no obligation, Mr. Upchurch. You and your brother did not know I was here, though I suspect your sister knew all along. You need not worry. You are under no compunction to uphold my honor, such as it is after all this.”
“It would be no burden, Miss Macy, I promise you.” He took a step nearer, a grin touching his mouth. “In fact, I can think of no other woman I would rather be shackled to.”
She stiffened, anger flaring. “I don’t want you to be shackled to me. I don’t want anyone to have to marry me. Not Marcus Benton, not Lewis, and not you.”
“Margaret, I was only joking. Don’t—”
She whipped opened the door and whispered harshly, “Now I must ask you to leave, sir, this very moment.”
Nathaniel hesitated. Then, with a look of pained regret, he complied.
She closed the door behind him, then lay on her bed and wept, sorrow and confusion muddling her thoughts. Surely a marriage of convenience to a good man was not the only alternative to marrying a despicable man. Had Nathaniel offered only out of duty as she’d accused him? Or did he really wish to marry her? He had never said he loved her. She remembered his kiss. He certainly wanted her physically. But did he love her? Was he, like Lewis, only willing to overlook her faults and give her a second chance now that she came with the added attraction of an inheritance?
She detested the thought of giving in to the Bentons, especially now that her birthday was a mere fortnight away. She was so close to reaching her independence. But if she waited to save her money—her self—might her sister be lost?
But Margaret also knew the Upchurches needed money. If she gave up her inheritance to buy Caroline’s freedom, would she be giving up her chance with Nathaniel Upchurch all over again?
What a mess he had made of it. He never should have suggested he was willing to marry her to protect her reputation. How condescending he must have sounded. He wanted to marry Margaret with every ounce of his being. He fought the urge to wallow in the sense of rejection that hovered over him like a wet wool blanket, foul and suffocating. But was he fooling himself? Had he not all but begged her to marry him as he had two years before only to be rejected again?
He tried to imagine himself in her situation. But it was difficult to guess what a woman might be thinking on the best of days, let alone in the midst of the strange muddle Margaret Macy had created for herself.
Nathaniel ran frustrated fingers over his face. Who could understand women? Perhaps another woman, he realized. He would ask his sister. But it was late and Helen had already gone to bed. He would ask her first thing in the morning.
Nathaniel awoke early. Perhaps one of the maids delivering hot water had awoken him, though he saw no one about. More likely, it was his eagerness to right last night’s debacle that spurred him from bed. He couldn’t wait until breakfast. He wanted to talk to his sister now and figure out what to do about Margaret.
Helen answered his knock and invited him in with a sleepy smile, sitting up in bed. “Well, well. You haven’t come to my room this early since we were children. What is it?”
“It’s Margaret, uh, Nora, um . . .”
“It’s all right, I know. I’ve known all along. Well, practically.”
“I wondered if you did. You always were the cleverest of our lot.”
She frowned. “Tell me she hasn’t thrown you over for Lewis again—that was my biggest fear. If she has, I promise I shall brain her.”
“No, it isn’t that.”
“Then what is it? Tell me everything.”
So he told her. Everything. Well, not quite everything. He didn’t exactly mention that kiss in his room. . . .
Helen listened soberly to his recounting of events and his last conversation with Margaret. When he finished, she asked, “Did you tell her?”
“Tell her what?”
“That you love her?”
Nathaniel felt his cheeks heat to be speaking of such things with Helen. What had he been thinking to confess to her what had transpired between him and Margaret? But then her words penetrated his self-conscious embarrassment and echoed in his mind.
Had he? He racked his brain. She must know. All the things he had said. The way he had looked at her, touched her, offered to marry her . . . But had he ever said it?
“Not in so many words,” he admitted. What an imbecile he was.
Helen rolled her eyes, looking heavenward for patience. “Nathaniel Aaron Upchurch. What am I going to do with you?”
“I suppose you would have me write her a sonnet or some flowery nonsense.”