A Love by Design, page 6
Someone.
“Margaret.”
Him.
She’d hoped he would think better of pursuing her this far. Of course, Grantham did not think, did he? He simply acted on impulse, assuming his smile and cheerful manner would get him past any obstacle as it had so many times in the past.
Well, Margaret was not going to be swayed by Grantham’s transparent allure. He could whisper sugared words and flash his most attractive grin, but it didn’t change their past.
* * *
IT TOOK GRANTHAM years to figure out how to live in his body. For the beginning of his life, he was small—made of skin and bones, his mam had said. Most of this great height and breadth came in the space of the first two years as a soldier, much to the amusement of his fellows and the despair of the Army’s lackeys, who had to procure him new trousers every three months.
As a result, he sometimes forgot how intimidating his physical presence could be to smaller folks. Margaret, on the other hand, had reached her height early on in her girlhood. Nothing in her posture indicated his size impressed her when he caught up to her and blocked her path.
When her shoulders went back as if in preparation for a battle, her shawl fell around one elbow and exposed the clean line of her neck and the supple curve where he had once laid a thousand tiny kisses in a necklace of adolescent desire. Grantham remembered the taste of her skin in the same way he could summon the yeasted tang of fresh bread and the bitter sweetness of gooseberry jam.
As they knelt side by side in the nursery, every inch of his skin had buzzed with awareness. Her unique scent of oranges and sawdust had filled his nose until he’d become clumsy, overwhelmed by sensation almost too painful to bear. He’d had to reach over and touch the cool slide of the metal wheel to steady himself, but when his palm landed on her back, the world had tilted and left him breathless.
The time had come to speak of their past.
It sat like a menhir in the room every time they’d seen one another, and although Margaret seemed willing to ignore it, Grantham could no longer live with the pain he’d caused her standing between them.
“Go away, my lord.”
Margaret’s voice dripped with a reserved disdain that would do even the Queen proud. Eliciting a hint of her childhood temper would be quite the feat. A tingle of excitement pricked Grantham’s spine like the claws of a kitten, and he cleared his throat.
“You know my name, Maggie,” he said. “None of this ‘my lord’ business.”
Margaret huffed an exasperated breath and pushed at his shoulder. “Will you get out of my way, you great gawk.”
That was a fine old Lincolnshire insult. Outrage suited her; eyes of hazel widened beneath her thick lashes, her cheeks flushed, and lips slightly parted.
“I’ve missed your temper,” he told her. Common sense fled in the wake of her familiar scent of citrus and heat. “I’ve missed you. Maggie, we need to talk about what happened.”
With the force of a blow, she finally met his gaze, and he lost his wits. There she was—the girl he’d fallen in love with at the tender age of eight. Always three inches taller and miles ahead of him in wit and intelligence. Grantham hadn’t cared if Maggie was smarter, fiercer, and funnier than him. All that mattered was she cared for him.
A wave of lust awoke as well, and with a roar, it coursed through his body. Inconvenient.
Inevitable.
Without consideration that anyone might pass by, he backed her up against the wall, reveling in the closeness. Only the last vestiges of willpower kept him from pressing his hips against hers. Noble thoughts of repairing a childhood friendship turned to smoke in the flames of desire. He almost resented the strength of the attraction because it fogged his brain and he needed to convince her to listen to him.
Stroking her skin with his gaze, he kept his hands at his sides. No matter how great his urges, he wouldn’t touch her unless she touched him first. Softening his voice from brass to honey, he drizzled his words over her.
“Perhaps we could dine together tonight? It has been so long, and we’ve had no occasion to speak with one another. We can reminisce about our childhood. Remember the house we built in the old willow?”
Margaret stubbornly averted her gaze again, so he admired the prim curve of her eyebrow. He wanted to trace the upside-down V with his tongue.
“Speak with one another,” she repeated. “Reminisce,” she echoed.
The last piece of that word broke off, and Grantham understood he’d pushed her too far. Intending to charm her into lowering her guard, instead he’d reminded her of what lay between them.
The hurt he had caused her. The wounds still festering.
“As a matter of fact, I’m reminiscing right now,” she said. “Shall I tell you what I remember?”
Damn.
Why had he done such a clumsy job of this? That flush unfurling high on her cheeks might have been a church bell sounding the warning of a storm approaching.
“Uh.” Grantham stepped away from her. “I don’t—”
Faster than he could credit, Margaret’s arms shot out and pulled him close. Despite common sense, he relished the feel of her breasts against his chest. Bliss.
“I’m reminiscing about how I felt when you broke your vow to me, George Willis,” she said. “I’m remembering it felt like this.”
A split second of what might have been desire flashed across her face before she brought her knee up between his legs.
Holy Christ on the cross.
Pain flooded his entire body as he slumped to the floor, then keeled sideways into a boneless heap of agony. Falling headfirst into a rosebush was a tap on the shoulder compared to this.
Margaret peered at him with the same dispassion one might display when selecting a fresh-caught fish for dinner.
“I only wanted . . . ,” he wheezed, the words emerging as a smear of syllables meaning nothing. “I simply wanted to say . . .”
An avalanche of words waited on the tip of his tongue; a vow to correct the mistakes of their past, a plea to give him a chance for redemption, an appeal for grace.
Too late. The last he saw of Margaret was the hem of her skirts as she calmly stepped over his body and continued on her way.
5
MARGARET STOOD IN the center of her near empty office, alone except for her misgivings. Her fingers drummed against the top of a cast-off table she’d had hauled here alongside a drafting desk she’d borrowed from the Retreat. The rolls and rolls of plans, surveyor’s maps, and copies of Brumel’s designs for the original Thames Tunnel were in heaps on the floor next to a pile of lumber.
Around her front, she’d wrapped one of the Retreat’s canvas aprons, and a bag of ha’penny nails shone in the bright daylight streaming into the offices from the newly washed windows on the roof. She’d devised a set of shelves to hold her rolled parchments, but Geflitt had interrupted her before she could begin construction.
In her hand was a cheque, the first installment of her payment, advanced to her so she could outfit her office and hire an assistant.
An assistant. What would the Guardians of Domesticity do if they discovered their founder paid a woman’s salary? Did this balance out the derision they heaped on the scientists of Athena’s Retreat? Margaret hadn’t told her friends about the project, yet. There hadn’t been time.
This was a lie.
She was putting it off.
When he’d arrived earlier to present the cheque, Geflitt had beamed as though he were a proud parent. It made her uncomfortable. Even more discomforting was the list he’d set on the table in front of her.
“These are the suppliers who have connections with the consortium,” Geflitt had explained as she pored over the names. “As you can see, our network runs widely and among those are—”
“I do not see Morgan’s Foundry on the list,” Margaret interrupted. A prickling beneath her skin made her fingers clench. “None of these names are familiar from my last trip to England.”
Pretending not to care she’d spoken over him, Geflitt tapped the top button of his waistcoat, assuring himself of his own presence.
“You will find that Adams and Sons Foundry will fulfill your requirements nicely.”
Margaret scrutinized the list again, while Geflitt appeared bemused as though trying to understand why she might question him.
She cleared her throat. “While I am grateful for your list, there are other foundries with which I have connections. I’m certain you won’t mind me speaking to them as well.”
Now Geflitt’s posture stiffened, head shaking as though to clear his ears of the nonsense she’d spouted.
Margaret had followed the steps of this dance dozens of times.
Step one. A man told her what to do.
Step two. She asked why.
Step three. He told her what to do again. Because she must not have understood him the first time. She certainly couldn’t be questioning him. Impossible for her to not defer to him.
He was a man.
She was a woman.
It so followed that he was correct.
One, two, three, and four. Back and forth and to the side. Over and over again until it sank into his brain that she was questioning him. That she did not defer to him.
Astonishing.
Lucky for Margaret although Geflitt was a proud man, he was not stupid, and it took less time than she’d imagined for the confrontation to occur.
All pretenses of bonhomie disappeared. It had taken years of practice, but Margaret did not look down or away and kept her gaze locked on him.
The other night Margaret had begrudged Grantham his self-assurance. Who would gainsay him with the power of his sex and his title? Nobility alone didn’t fuel his confidence. George Willis was born knowing which fights to pick.
The stubborn boy who refused to sour beneath the blows of his father’s drunken fist had been the one to convince Margaret she was important even when she did not believe it herself. If that boy were here, he would whisper in her ear to stand her ground, not back down, and for the love of all that was holy, keep her temper in check.
“It is common enough practice to favor certain firms,” Geflitt said. “This is how business is done, madame. You would do well to insinuate yourself with the consortium members and their friends. They will be useful to you in the coming years.”
Why were men so determined to get in her way? When would they simply step aside and let her get on with the work?
“This project will carry my name,” Margaret said, the skin of her face rigid while she enunciated her words in an effort to keep her voice from rising. She gestured to her office, to the Plan she’d begun to construct with both her hands and her heart. “Gault Engineering will not be known for anything other than excellence. If Adams and Sons meets my standards, I am happy to give them my business. If not . . .” Hands clasped against the tension in her belly, she dulled the sharpest of the edge from her words. “Well, I suppose we will delay that conversation until the time comes.”
While he did not outright oppose her, Geflitt did leave her with a discouraging thought.
“I admire your courage in staking out your claim in a man’s world, Madame Gault. You have an undeniable talent and good business sense.”
He’d glanced out the window at the racing clouds and patted his top hat firmly on his head. “Your stature and safety will nevertheless always depend on the goodwill of the men around you. You have no title or family to protect you. No husband to stand between you and men who assume they can take advantage of a woman. No reputation other than the one you build from here on out.”
Margaret glanced at the list of names then at him.
“No one will think less of you for accepting our help.”
His words attached themselves like burrs to her skin, no matter how hard she scrubbed in the bath later that evening. They pulled at the hem of her ballgown and dangled from her shawl that night as Margaret squeezed Violet’s hand upon approaching the bright lights of Hemming’s Assembly Rooms.
“Are you ready to descend into a veritable swamp of stultifying, aggravating, and condescending folks with narrow minds and even narrower waists?” Violet asked.
Grateful for the distraction, Margaret leaned in toward her friend, admiring how Violet’s indigo gown contrasted with her creamy skin and ebony curls.
“My goodness, when you put it that way, what are we waiting for?” Margaret asked.
They were waiting, however, for Violet’s steps slowed as they approached the entrance.
“I have forgotten how to dance,” she whispered.
“I promise it will come back to you at the first note of a waltz,” Margaret assured her.
Violet huffed in disbelief while perusing the crowd. This was her first reentry into society since she’d had the baby. Arthur had received an urgent summons from their former doorman, Henry Winthram, and had begged off the event so Margaret agreed to escort Violet in his stead to a public ball. Unlike private assemblies, public balls were ticketed events, often for charities. Tonight, the aim was to raise funds for the widows and children of fallen soldiers.
For all the confidence Violet had gained since the death of her first husband, crowds like this intimidated her. Margaret’s heart hurt to see her friend so apprehensive.
“I am too fat to wear a gown like this,” muttered Violet.
“You are luminous tonight with a décolletage that will have every man here drooling with desire.”
Violet turned to Margaret and snickered. “Drooling with desire over my décolletage? Is your French influence taking over? Why not just say they’ll be ogling my bubbies?”
“How insufferably English, my dear,” Margaret chastised her as they entered the foyer. “Much more elegant to use alliteration to point out the gentlemen will be considering your coker-nuts.”
Violet’s laughter faded when a pair of older women passed by. She made to approach them, but one woman turned her head quickly in the other direction and pulled her friend along with her.
A fire leapt to life in Margaret’s breast at the cut direct.
“How dare they—” Margaret began.
Violet shushed her, squeezing Margaret’s arm to divert her attention. “This is neither the time nor the place to contemplate ramming anything down anyone’s orifices.”
Biting her lip to keep from snickering, Margaret patted Violet’s hand where it rested now in the crook of her elbow.
“You know me too well. Except I was not contemplating ramming anything down. More like shoving something up.”
Somewhat cheered, they fell into a line to greet the charity’s patronesses.
“Is it your marriage to Mr. Kneland that caused their reaction?” Margaret asked.
“Hmmm, it could be.” Studying her dress, Violet smoothed a wrinkle in the bodice. “It could also be my association with Athena’s Retreat.”
Violet’s husband, Arthur, was a commoner with a twenty-year-old scandal attached to his name. Even though he’d recently received a public display of approval from the Queen and had the support of Violet’s former stepson, Lord Greycliff, the marriage had raised more than a few eyebrows. Added to this, Athena’s Retreat was a popular subject in some of the tawdrier broadsheets and gossip columns. The idea of a women’s club struck many as unseemly.
A terrible thought occurred to Margaret. Pulling Violet to a halt, she let the group of women behind them go ahead.
“Violet, I have returned to start my own engineering firm.”
Violet’s eyes rounded in question. “Yes, I know, dear. I am proud of you for it.”
“Won’t it diminish your standing even more to be seen in friendship with a woman who works for a living in a man’s occupation? Perhaps I should leave and have Althea—”
In their girlhood, Margaret had always been the one with a temper and Violet forever smoothing ruffled feathers. Time had a way of flipping things on their head, for Margaret’s urge to slink away and protect Violet was met with a fierce glare and clenched fists.
“Don’t you even think of leaving my side, Maggie Strong.” Violet linked her arm with Margaret’s and pulled her forward. “I wasted too many years diminishing the best part of myself to meet a ridiculous standard. I almost missed out on the happiest moments of my life because I feared what others might think or say. You cannot believe I would end our friendship over concerns for what others may say about your accomplishments. Why, I am as proud of you as I would be if any of my sisters were to strike out on their own.”
A wave of gratitude swept through Margaret as they greeted the patronesses.
“You are an angel, Violet Kneland,” Margaret whispered to her friend.
“Yes, an angel with enormous breasts.”
They pinched each other hard—an old habit they’d learned to keep from bursting into laughter in public.
Margaret understood she’d lost any claim to gentility by choosing a profession where she must work alongside men on a construction site, haggle with tradesmen, and engage in bidding for contracts without the shield of a husband or father. Rumors would inevitably circulate about how she won jobs or secured fair prices.
Despite her friend’s declarations, Margaret would eventually have to separate herself from Violet.
She cleared her head of worries for that night and smiled when Althea Dertlinger and her mother approached them. Althea was one of the first scientists Margaret met when she stayed at the club a year and a half ago. Thin and tall, although not as tall as Margaret, she had large brown eyes that squinted when she went without her gold-rimmed spectacles and her chestnut hair had been braided and wrapped into a somewhat lopsided chignon at the back of her head. She wore a simple, yet elegant gown of buttercup yellow that hung loose on her straight figure.
