“Are you unharmed?” he repeated, his fingers sinking into her hair and gently prodding at her skull. “I don’t see any blood. I don’t feel a bump. But you’ve clearly lost your wits. Not that you had many to begin with, I assume.”
She nodded.
“Yes? To what? That you’re well or that you’re witless?”
“I’m well.” She could not focus with him so near.
His breath seemed to catch as well. His fingers stilled, then began a movement of a different sort, stroking the hair away from her temple. “Excellent.” His voice sounded deeper, raspier. His gaze dropped to her lips. “Excellent indeed.” His head lowered. She could think of nothing to say. She simply … wanted.
“Get off my daughter now.”
Mr. Blake jumped to his feet faster than she’d seen any man or animal move in her entire life.
She also moved quickly, finding her feet and smoothing her skirts. “Papa!”
Her father stood tall, willowy, gray-haired, and spitting angry in the doorway.
“Daughter?” Mr. Blake turned stiffly toward her. “Papa?” He groaned. “You’re the marquess’s daughter.” He closed his eyes and shook his head before facing her father once more. “Lord Waneborough. Ahem. I cannot believe what I am about to say, but … this is not what it looks like.”
Her Papa never looked at Mr. Blake. His disappointed gaze bore holes into Maggie. “Follow me, the both of you.” He turned toward the hallway. “The rest of you will disperse and find some other entertainment.”
Maggie peered out the door.
“Blast,” Mr. Blake hissed.
Blast, indeed. There stood no fewer than ten other house guests in the hallway, all with mouths agape. Her skin crawled. All those eyes on her, seeing her, presuming to know what she’d done. She’d never thought much about what it might feel like to have one’s secrets discovered. Terrifying. And she hadn’t even done anything worth finding out! She raised her chin and faced her audience.
Mr. Gardener, who slept every night with his wife’s lady’s maid, chuckled. Lady Brickham, whose family jewels were now more paste than ruby, crinkled her nose in disgust. Tom Priest, who kissed Henry Hardy behind the stables, shook his head. She raised her chin higher, steeled her backbone. Let them stare. They didn’t know as much about her as she knew about them.
They turned and rambled off in every direction as her father demanded, whispering feverishly.
Her father strode down the hallway without further instruction, and Maggie followed, Mr. Blake falling in line with her pace. He seemed to grow heavier and more somber with each step. Poor man. He had no idea. She reached out and patted his shoulder. “It will all be all right. I promise.”
“You attend guillotinings often, then?”
She chuckled. “You are dramatic, aren’t you? Nothing will come of all this, I swear. Your bachelorhood is safe.”
“Usually, when a bachelor is found atop an eligible young lady, he can say goodbye to his freedom.”
“So I hear.”
“So it is!”
She shrugged. “Perhaps for others, but not for me.”
“You are immune to ruination, then?”
She frowned. “I’ve never considered it.” She’d never had to consider it. “Papa and Mama say the only thing that can ruin a woman is her own evil tongue and ugly deeds. Oh! And a lack of learning.”
“Damn me. You’re an innocent.”
She almost laughed. “I’m the owner of a pair of distinctly unusual parents is what I am. I’m aware from reading the gossip pages from London, and because of one very strict governess, that what just occurred would usually result in a wedding. But I assure you, it will not this time. My parents are not like others.”
“Hm. I have noticed that.”
“If you hadn’t, I’d question your intelligence.”
His steps picked up pace, lost their gloomy cadence.
