“Once, briefly, when I was but sixteen. And another time a year ago.”
“So young? And so recently? Care to divulge more? Such as why you have been engaged twice but never married. Are you a widow? Or perhaps you design to take two or three husbands at once.”
Her laughter rumbled through her, shaking them both. “Oh, that’s marvelous,” she said between laughs and gasps for breath. When she’d mostly recovered, she patted his thigh—his tight, muscled thigh—and focused on her story. “At sixteen, I had just readRomeo and Julietfor the first time andTristan and Isolde. I wanted nothing more than to live a romance. One showed up quite conveniently at the yearly house party. A young contortionist and tightrope walker.”
Tobias’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Ah, we come to the contortionist. Oh, to be young and limber. Why did it not last?”
“Before the house party ended, we both grew bored of one another. I wanted nothing more than to read poetry while floating in a rowboat in the middle of the lake, and he wished only to practice and have me watch.”
“I’ll bet he did. How, where, and how much clothing was involved in his practices? Or not involved, as the case may be.”
Maggie tilted her head, confused. “He followed quite a rigorous regimen of stretching daily, almost all day long. I assume he stretched in his room, and I have no idea how much or how little clothing he wore. I had no interest in watching him practice. It seemed rather tedious. That was the problem. Our goals were directly at odds with one another. And …”
“Yes?”
“I asked him to teach me a bit of his trade once. He did not like it. He said a woman should be appreciated as she was, and not for what she could do. He said it was best if he took inspiration from me to create his art. Then when others saw him perform, they would see my contribution as well.”
“What bored you first,” Tobias drawled, “the fact that he clearly lacked imagination or the fact that he was a complete lobcock?”
Maggie smiled. The man had turned an embarrassing memory into a joke. He’d made it more bearable. She kissed his cheek.
He sucked int a breath. “And the second engagement? The recent one?” His breath sounded raspier than before.
“Yes, well, John was—is—a carpenter, a furniture designer who makes particularly beautiful pieces, an artist of course. I thought he was in love with me.”
“He wasn’t? Fool.”
“He was in love with the idea of me and with, I am quite certain, my father’s generous funding. He said he was inspired by me, that I was his muse. I thought that meant he loved me at least at little. I almost showed him my sketches, but when I realized I could never do so, I ended it all.”
“What do you mean? Why couldn’t you show him your notebook? Was it the blackmail list?”
She sank into her memory. “I had not yet begun collecting information. I knew I could not show him because he disparaged one of the women artists at the party one day. And then another the next day. And before I knew it, he’d not only disparaged every one of them, he’d lectured me on why women should not waste their energies in creation. He said that the type of thought that goes into artistic creation drain them of their youth and beauty and thus deprives men, the rightful creators, of their muses.”
“Ass.”
She sat up straighter, feeling lighter. “Yes. Hewasan ass.”
The carriage rolled to a stop and Tobias’s arms tightened, keeping her steady. She moved out of his lap and looked out the window. She’d told him so much, yet he’d given her so little! With no thought, she’d spilled her biggest secrets. How did he keep his life shut so tightly like … like an uncut book!? Maybe, like an uncut book, she could open him up one page at a time.
He opened the door, jumped to the ground, and held out his hand. “Are you ready for the wedding breakfast?”
“Yes.” She’d get to meet his parents and anyone else his mother had invited. Perhaps they would all provide clues to the mystery that was her husband.
Tobias leaned over as they entered the house. “Please do not mention my business plans to my father.”
She looked up at him. His profile seemed almost jagged; his mouth pulled tight.
“Yes, I remember.”
He patted her hand. “Thank you, Mags.”
The heaviness that had draped about Maggie’s shoulders for months before she’d met Tobias returned. Before, her notebook had weighed like a rock on her conscience, reminding her always of all the secrets that were hers to keep or reveal. Marrying Tobias should have ended that exhausting game. But it seems it had only begun. She’d burned the pages from her notebook, but she still had secrets to keep—her husband’s.
Chapter 17
Maggie grew tired of reveling, of smiling and nodding and trying her best to sparkle as a bride should. She was tired of sitting beside Tobias like a prized possession at the long table her parents had set up in the ballroom. She’d tired of watching everyone else talk and dance, and, well, scowl.
Really. Her brothers could muster up some sense of gaiety on her wedding day! But no. While her parents danced a jig in the middle of the room, Raph, Joshua, Leo, Michael and Thomas congregated in a corner, scowling and trying their best not to have fun. Perhaps she should send Tobias over to liven them up. She turned to her husband—her husband! He lounged beside her, rolling the stem of his wine glass between thumb and forefinger, deep in conversation with Lord Rigsby. She shook her head. She’d not disturb him. Let her brothers be miserable if they so desired.
