Jacqueline Navin - A Rose At Midnight

It went on like this throughout the night and most of the next day. In his waking moments, Magnus could think only of the woman who had sat with him in the grand salon. He feared he would never have the chance to act on the carnal desires which she stirred in his blood, making him crave a lifetime of such pleasures as she offered. Worse, if he died now, he would not be given the opportunity to lay his seed in her belly to take root and bring forth his redemption.

Magnus straightened the pile of papers on his desk before answering the knock at his study door. “Come,” he said, leaning back in the tufted leather chair and watching as the slender woman entered. He smiled. “Miss Wembly.”

“My lord.”

“Please have a seat.” He indicated one of the two tapestry chairs situated in front of his massive desk.

She was dressed more soberly today, and Magnus was grateful her décolletage was more in keeping with convention. A modest fichu of starched lace frothed at her throat, crowning a simple gown of fawn muslin. He would not be distracted by that enticing swell of exposed breasts, at least. Yet, his mind savored the taunting memory even as the corners of his mouth drew down in disappointment.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” he stated without inflection. “I have completed my investigation of your application, and can inform you.” Here he paused, conscious that this was no way to propose to a woman. “Of my decision to accept you as my wife.”

She was silent. Stunned, probably, but she recovered quickly. “Th-thank you, my lord.”

She didn’t smile. He wanted to see her smile. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her a week ago, he had wondered what that gorgeous face would look like lit up with laughter. He had seen her angry, wary, prideful and bristling with indignation, but he had not seen a whisper of happiness on those striking features.

“Are you not pleased, Miss Wembly?” he drawled.

“Yes, I am, of course, my lord.”

“You seem as if I just asked you if you would stop stepping on my foot.”

A faltering smile, which was worse than her seriousness, appeared. “I apologize. I suppose I was simply surprised. I thought it would take longer.”

“I began the necessary inquiries when your application was first made. Other than your family history, everything I require has been completed, and after some preliminary investigation, I have decided not to pursue it. I really do not see the need to wait, as time is of the essence.”

Her mouth made a small O, but she said nothing.

“I have taken the liberty of applying for a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, who is an excellent friend. The dispensation will be granted posthaste, and we will be free to marry anytime after that. I would, of course, wish to have the ceremony soon so that we may begin our wedded life.”

His pulse quickened just thinking about the implications of those words. He could see she was reacting too, a little, by the pink tinge which spread up her neck to those delicate ears.

My God, he was like a randy youth hot after his first woman. In fact, his body was responding much as it had in his adolescence at the sight of a desirable female. He was grateful he was seated safely behind the desk.

Her next words offered another explanation for the pretty flush of color. “There are some arrangements I need to discuss, of course. Financial arrangements.”

Like ice water, those words killed his brewing desire. “Of course,” he said crisply. He withdrew a document from a stack of files. “You remember Mr. Caractacus Green, the solicitor handling this transaction? I have asked him to draw up an agreement by which all will be made clear to you. In addition, I am giving you a copy of my will, so that you will know exactly the settlement I have arranged for you and the child upon my death.”

“And if there is no child?”

His mouth tensed. “You will be given a generous annuity, which I have arranged with David, who will inherit the title. It is all explained here.” He proffered the document.

Slender hands reached out and took it from him. She perused it. “It does not mention a specific amount.”

Coldness settled in deeper. “No,” he said. “We can amend that if you prefer. I simply thought we would leave it open. I do not imagine there are any expenses I cannot afford. However, if you feel the need to have it stipulated clearly.”

“I do,” she nodded definitely. “What amount had you in mind?”

He laced his fingers in front of his chin, regarding her steadily for a moment. “You name a figure.”

She was startled, and he grinned maliciously. He wanted her off guard, uncertain.

His glee at forcing her to ask for a monetary amount was cut off when she named a figure no larger than one of his footman’s salaries. She sat unmoving under his glare, and only by her preternatural stillness could he detect the crucial nature of these proceedings. He didn’t understand it. Not yet. But, Lord, she did intrigue him.

He reached out his hand for the document. Taking up his quill, he inserted an addendum. “I’ll double it,” he stated as he scrawled the amount, still remarkably small to his way of thinking, on the contract.

When he raised his head, his heart stopped dead in his chest and his arm, halfway extended to return the document to her, suspended in midmotion. She was staring at him with the most exquisite expression, a mingling of joy and gratitude, with a sheen in her eyes as if there were tears building. He had not thought it possible for her to be lovelier than when she had hissed and spat at him like a cornered she-cat, but there it was.

After a long moment, her hand came up to take the document, and the spell was broken. He let out the breath that had caught in his throat and busied himself with shuffling papers while she read over the rest of the agreement and affixed her neat signature. He in turn impatiently scrawled his own name.

The deal was done.

“Now,” he began, “there are some details which we have to contend with. Namely, the disposition of your mother. I would prefer if she did not reside at Hawking Park. I am a private man, and my illness makes me more so.”

“About that,” she interrupted softly, “your illness, I mean, I was wondering.that is, I do not know.”

Something gentle made him save her from the discomfiture of her question. “Is it the nature of my illness you wish to know about?” She nodded. “I am afraid I cannot tell you that, Miss Wembly.” At her self-conscious glance downward, he explained, “I do not know for certain, nor do any of my physicians. My symptoms indicate a weak heart, but the weakness does not follow the usual course. It is generally agreed that it is an atypical disease of the heart. However, there is one aspect upon which there is complete agreement. The attacks are coming more frequently, more severely, and will in time result in my heart ceasing to function. Just as my father’s did. It is hereditary you see—a wretched curse. How lucky for you that you come from healthy stock and have nothing to worry about.”

There was a long, broad silence. She simply returned his regard with a strange look on her face and the unexpected desire to know her thoughts registered in his brain.

“I am so sorry,” she said at last.

God, there was true regret in her eyes! “There is nothing to be done about my condition. As for my most profound wish, you are providing it for me, so do not apologize.” His tone was harsh, and he immediately regretted it. “About my condition,” he continued, unable to disaffect the curtness in his voice, “there is one expectation we have not discussed. I hope it will not be a hardship for you, but I will wish you to attend me during the episodes of my illness.”