A massive, terrifyingly large black gelding foamed, flecking its chest. It slid to a halt directly in front of the townhouse. The rider swung down. He didn't bother to tie the reins.
He wore no hat, and his heavy riding coat was soaked through, clinging to his broad shoulders. Margaret froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs with the force of a hammer strike. The front door didn't knock.
It was pushed open with such force it hit the interior wall, cracking the plaster. Simon Danvers stood in the doorway. Water dripped from his dark hair, running down his face, and soaking into his cravat. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving as his dark eyes locked onto Margaret.
He ignored Lady Agatha completely. He ignored the trunks. He looked entirely unhinged. "You are leaving," Simon stated.
It wasn't a question. "The coach departs in an hour, my lord," Margaret said. She forced her voice to remain steady, though her hands were trembling so badly she had to fist them in the fabric of her cloak. "You are blocking the door."
Simon stepped inside, bringing the smell of rain, leather, and horse into the cramped hallway. He pushed the door shut behind him with his boot. The latch clicked. "Move your horse, Lord Kelsall," Margaret said, taking a step backward.
"Or I will be late. "I am not moving the horse, and you are not going to Somerset. Simon walked toward her. He didn't stop until he was a foot away, forcing Margaret to crane her neck to look up at him.
The heat radiating off his damp skin was intense. The cynical bored aristocrat was completely obliterated. In his place was the man who had clawed his way out of the coal mines. "You paid me."
Margaret said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The transaction is complete. We have no further business. "I don't give a damn about the money," Simon practically growled."
"I give a damn about the fact that for the past two days I have sat in a house with 80 rooms and the silence has driven me completely out of my mind. Margaret swallowed hard. That is not my problem. It is entirely your problem."
Simon countered stepping even closer. Because you are the one who ruined it. I ruined nothing. I saved your fleet.
You ruined my peace. Simon shouted the sudden volume making Lady Agatha squeak and retreat further into the parlor. You ruined my boredom. I spent my entire life building a fortress of indifference so that none of these grasping empty people could touch me and you walked in insulted me in three languages and burned the fortress to the ground.
Margaret stared at him the breath catching in her throat. You called me a pig in a golden crown. Simon said, his voice dropping the anger shifting into something raw something desperate. You were right.
I was arrogant. I was cruel because it was safe. But I am not safe anymore Margaret. He reached out.
He didn't grab her arm or her waist. He gently almost hesitantly brought his large calloused hand up to cup her jaw. His thumb brushed over the ribbon of her bonnet. His touch was burning hot against her cold skin.
I need the unvarnished truth. Simon whispered echoing the words he had spoken in this very house a week ago. I need the woman who will tell me the ship is sinking while handing me an anvil. I need the thunderstorm.
Margaret's eyes burned. The defensive walls she had spent years building the sarcasm the bitter pragmatism it all splintered under the weight of his hand. Simon. She breathed using his Christian name for the first time.
I have no dowry. I have no connections. The ton will tear you apart for marrying a spinster in a frayed gown. Let them try.
Simon said a terrifying savage smile curving his lips. I own half the coal in England. I can freeze them all out by December. He looked down at her, his dark eyes intense and entirely vulnerable.
Do not go to Somerset. Come to Yorkshire. Fight with me. Translate my ledgers.
Insult me in Russian when I am being an idiot. Marry me. It was not a flowery proposal. There was no poetry, no bended knee, no mention of the stars or the moon.
It was grounded in dirt, ink, and reality. It was a partnership. It was exactly what she wanted. Margaret looked at him.
She let the silence stretch just for a second. Ton accent français est toujours atroce. Margaret whispered softly. Your French accent is still atrocious.
Simon let out a rough breathless laugh. He didn't hesitate. He pulled her flush against his heavy wet coat and brought his mouth down on hers. It wasn't a gentle polite kiss.
It was fierce, desperate, and possessive. It tasted of rain and inevitability. Margaret's hands came up gripping the wet wool of his lapels, pulling him closer, anchoring herself to him in the center of the drafty hallway. The world of ballrooms and tight corsets vanished entirely.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, they were both breathing heavily. I will take that as a yes. Simon murmured, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. It is a conditional yes.
Margaret corrected, a genuine radiant smile finally breaking across her face. You must agree never to speak Italian in my presence again. It is deeply offensive to my ears. Simon laughed a real deep sound that filled the narrow hallway.
Agreed. He looked past her, his eyes falling on the two packed trunks by the door. Are these yours? Yes.
Simon reached out, grabbed the handles of both heavy trunks in one hand, and slung them effortlessly over his shoulder. He grabbed Margaret's hand with his other. Come along, Lady Kelsall. Simon said, his eyes glinting with dangerous amusement.
We have a carriage to catch. And a trade war. Margaret didn't look back at Lady Agatha. She stepped out into the pouring rain holding the hand of the Earl of Kelsall, ready to set the world on fire.