Page 41 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
“Worthy of what, Lady Evendaw?” he asked softly.
“Worthy of…of love.” Water beaded at the corners of her bright blue eyes.
“You are already deserving of all the adoration a man has to give,” he said gently. “I regret that I cannot be that man. Someone will offer for you—”
“I know that!” Margaret half cried, half sobbed. “I do not fear going unmarried, I fear marrying for the wrong reasons.” She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “I had hoped you might understand.”
“I do, Lady Evendaw. I understand better than you might believe.” But Malcolm didn’t, because the greatest pressure to marry and swear fidelity fell hardest upon women. He took her by the elbow. “I am twice your age and unmarried. Why do you think that is?”
“Because you are a man and can afford to be.”
“No, my little bluestocking. Because I had the good fortune of being spurned by a woman before I could make that mistake.”
“I am not a bluestocking.”
“I know that.” As if anyone would mistake Margaret Evendaw for an intellectual. As though he would ever say that to her face. Margaret was not stupid. Not a thinker, but a fine woman with a soft heart and a kind temperament that made her interesting beyond the limits of her circumstances. She deserved no derision, only happiness. He could not promise to hold the sharp side of his tongue in perpetuity. For while he had not inherited his mother’s melancholy soul, his father had done everything possible to poison him toward women.
It had taken a woman not unlike Margaret to show him how cruelly the snide asides and witty jokes could cut. She could have been Margaret’s twin. Short, blonde, and eager to please, but with a streak of independence that refused to be tamed. Rightly, she had chosen another man for her husband that night at Almack’s.
A man could offer marriage. He could not compel it. In retrospect, he was glad his father had talked him out of trying to bludgeon the girl into marrying him through the influence of his title. Malcolm could never decide which was his greatest fear—becoming his father, or choosing an ill-suited bride and suffering thirty years in misery.
He must have the Heart’s Cry. One time, one moment, a reunion with the mother he missed and whom his father had secretly loved all along. A closing of doors on their poisonous marriage and, hopefully, the opening of a new chapter for him.
“If I am the man who spurns you before you find a better mate, I will feel honored. I hope you find what you need.” Malcolm swallowed. “I promise you, Margaret, you will find the husband you deserve if you are patient.”
“And who might that be?” she demanded. “A fool? Like me?”
“You aren’t,” he said vehemently. If anyone had told him two weeks ago that he would be participating in a public spat with Margaret Evendaw, Malcolm would have offered them a bridge for sale. “You deserve happiness, Margaret, for you are the best of women.”
“I’m not,” she argued despite the tears falling from her wide blue eyes. “I am only…only me.”
“That is enough.” He had no greater reassurance to offer.
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
“My lady. Believe in yourself. Antonia does.” He checked the gold pocket watch that dangled from his waist.
“Do you truly think that?”
“I’ve no doubts whatsoever.” Malcom checked the time on his pocket watch. “Now, let’s go find out whether your companion is in need of rescue from Old Bailey’s, shall we?”
Trusting Margaret looped her arm through his. “I have no doubt Toni has managed just fine without us.”
“Nor do I. She is a remarkable woman. Still.” Malcolm hesitated. “I have never met a woman with such a nose for trouble.”
Margaret sighed. “You would never think it, but you’re right, my lord.” Unexpectedly, his companion winked. “I quite like that about her.”
Malcolm winked back. “As do I, my lady. I have never met a woman as compelling as your friend.”
Margaret’s chest puffed with pride. He was a fool to pass up a wife as generous with her affections as Lady Margaret, and yet, here he was. No longer making the mistakes of his father, but inventing new ones of his own.
