The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Read Online Free Page B

Margaret wondered idly what the girl had done but dismissed the thought. She had enough problems of her own. “But it is time to dress for dinner.”
    At the opposite end of the passage a door opened, and Marcus Benton stepped from his room, already dressed in evening attire. Joan stiffened and hurried away. Marcus flicked a frown at the maid, before turning a speculative gaze to Margaret. It was the first time she had seen him all day.
    He sauntered toward her. “Don’t think I didn’t know what you were about last night.”
    Not wanting to be alone with him, or risk his following her into her room, Margaret turned and walked toward the stairway, pretending she had not heard him. She would not bother to change for dinner. What did it matter?
    He trotted down the stairs beside her. “Throwing yourself at Lewis Upchurch like that—tsk, tsk.”
    Margaret bristled. “I did no such thing.”
    At the landing, he stepped in front of her and blocked her way, cornering her against the wall. “I cannot say I am sorry he rebuffed you, my sweet. For he could never feel for you the way I do.” He ran a finger down her arm, and she jerked away.
    â€œDid you really think that if he had not offered marriage before, he would do so last night, for all your batting of lashes and flaunting of décolletage?”
    Anger and mortification singed her ears, but she could not refute the charge.
    â€œMy dear Margaret. I am not the blind fool Upchurch is. I am not immune to your charms. Why do you insist on putting me off? I have been patient these many months, but I grow weary of waiting.”
    The warm, sweet words soothed her injured pride. His finger tickled her arm once more, sending shivers not altogether unpleasant down her spine. Like his uncle, Marcus embodied a masculine persistence and confidence she had always found appealing. Was her own confidence so lacking? Would she always be malleable in such hands—lose sight of her scruples and self-worth?
    â€œOh, Margaret . . .” He kissed the back of her hand, and for a moment she allowed him to hold it. Would it really be so bad to marry Marcus Benton? He was a good-looking young man, though more than a year her junior. He had an elegant bearing even for his slight height and was admired by many girls. And Marcus wanted her , wanted to wed her . How happy Sterling would be. Even her mother would approve—not because she liked Marcus, but because she was desperate to please Sterling, who seemed determined not to be pleased with her on any account. Margaret could buy peace for the household. Blessed peace.
    But at what price?
    She squeezed her eyes shut and shook herself mentally awake. What was she thinking? Any interest Marcus had in her was purely mercenary, manufactured for his uncle’s sake. Oh, that her mother had never told Sterling of her pending inheritance!
    Marcus must have mistaken her stillness for acquiescence, for he suddenly grasped her shoulders and pressed his mouth to hers.
    She jerked away. “I have never given you leave to use my Christian name, Mr. Benton,” she said coldly. “Much less to kiss me. Please remember that in future.”
    She hurried down the remaining stairs, but not before she heard him swear under his breath.

    After enduring a strained dinner with only the three of them at the table, Margaret retired to her room early, wanting to avoid the men and weary after tossing and turning the night before. She pulled the bedside bell cord to summon Joan to help her undress and bring her some warm milk. Five minutes later, she pulled again. Still, no one came.
    Grumbling to herself in irritation, Margaret stalked to her door. If no one would come to her, then she would go down herself and stretch her restless limbs in the process. She had never ventured belowstairs here in Sterling Benton’s house. But as a girl, she had spent many an hour in the warm kitchen and