“Damn it.” Henry paced in front of his fireplace. Cursing aloud had not made him feel better, but he decided to try again, for the purposes of experimentation. “Fucking. Bugger. Shite.”
It didn’t work.
Margo’s cloak lay in a wet heap on the floor, accusing him with its presence.
“No,” he said to the cloak, “don’t try to make me feel guilty. I didn’t make her run out into the rain without even your pitiful protection.”
Jesus. He was talking to a cloak. Margo had finally, fatally driven him to distraction.
He could not go with her to Scotland. It was aterrible plan. There was no chance they would encounter Matilda and Ashford along the way. The Great North Road was designed for travelers; there were hundreds of coaching inns and public houses in which Matilda and Ashford could take refuge. Did the pair mean to make directly for Scotland, or stop somewhere along the way? Were they riding by day and night, or traveling at their leisure?
Who knew? Margo certainly didn’t!
And beyond the plan’s utter lack of sense, there was Henry’s seven-years-long Margo problem to contend with.
It wasn’t that he did not trust himself in close confines with her. He’d been alone with her plenty. He wasn’t going to turn into a slavering beast and tear her dress from her body—do not think about Margo with her clothes off—but he would probably expire from frustrated lust. Moreover, Spencer Halifax had been his best friend since their school days. He didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize their friendship, and while Spencer was as aware as anyone of the twins’ checkered reputations, Henry was fairly certain Spencer would not want him to be party to further compromising either of them.
He alsodid have a job, as he’d mentioned to Margo.
It had been an excuse, though. He had very little of importance on his docket for at least a week, and what was there could easily be fobbed off onto junior solicitors in return for the promise of future favors.
He’d been scrambling to think of something to say, because what he’d been thinking had mostly involved a bouncing carriage and Margo’s tits in his face and a very strong instinct for self-preservation that was screamingabsolutely not, you astounding moron.
He preferred to retain some dignity in the face of his hopeless affection, and he was fairly certain dignity would go quickly on a multi-day carriage ride with nothing between him and a declaration of his undying love but his tenuous self-control.
But Margo. Hell and damnation.
He knew her, knew her blind loyalty as well as he knew the freckles that bracketed the curve of her mouth and her terrible left-handed penmanship. She wouldnever let Matilda plunge headfirst into ruin alone. If she thought Matilda was in danger—physical or emotional—she would move heaven and earth to be at Matilda’s side.
Margo was certainly not a chastening impulse on her twin—if anything, they encouraged each other like tinder and flame—but she was devoted to Matilda. Matilda had a little cool ironic reserve about her, but Margo had none of the same. She was all feeling, her emotions close to the surface, her heart a generous overflowing cup of affection and warmth.
It was one of the things he loved most about her.
Fucking hell.
She wasn’t going to go home and wait patiently at Number Twelve Mayfair until Matilda came back, defeated or victoriou
