Chapter Three
The Duke wished to announce the engagement at the ball planned for that evening, and Margaret agreed. Knowing her mother as she did, it was certain that by the time of the ball, word would have spread far and wide and everyone present at the weekend party would be aware that the couple were to wed.
While it was customary to wait for the father’s consent, that too could be overlooked in this instance. Few men, even Margaret’s steadfast father, would have the fortitude to stand in the way of something both Margaret and her mother wanted.
Once the minor detail of the announcement had been discussed, Margaret departed the morning room. It wasn’t until she was back in her bedchamber that she realised she had forgotten to retrieve her drawing, the whole reason she had got herself into this peculiar predicament in the first place.
But there was nothing to be done about that now, so she settled herself in the chair beside the window and pulled her sketchbook and pencils out of her leather bag.
Hopefully, some quiet time, lost in her drawing, would give her a chance to gather her thoughts and still her jangling nerves before the evening’s ordeal.
She looked out of the window at the garden below, her pencil poised above the paper.
She knew she was being foolish. There was no reason for such agitation.
She should be feeling relieved. Tonight, everyone would know she was to marry the Duke of Rosedale.
Or at least, tonight everyone would think she was to marry the Duke of Rosedale.
Only she and the Duke would know the truth.
She had every reason to feel free at last. Yet her nerves didn’t seem to understand.
One would almost think she was under the illusion that a real courtship with the Duke of Rosedale was about to begin.
Perhaps her turmoil was simply due to the sudden change in circumstances.
Whatever it was, Margaret wished the churning in her stomach and the skittering of her heart would settle down.
With as much determination as she could summon, she attempted to focus on sketching the sweeping gardens outside her window.
Nothing was better at taking her away from her troubles or stilling her jumbled thoughts than focusing on her art.
All she had to do was concentrate on capturing the look and feel of this spring afternoon, with the delicate green leaves of the beech trees fluttering in the soft breeze and the first blossoms of the lime trees about to burst into life.
She pressed harder on the page than she should, the pencil biting into the paper, the hard lines nothing like the tranquil scene before her. Dissatisfied, she ripped the page from her sketchbook, crumpled it up into a tight ball and tossed it to the floor.
Taking a slow, steady breath to still her thoughts, she tried again, but had hardly settled into her work when her mother burst in, already dressed in a ballgown, followed by Margaret’s lady’s maid.
‘Put that away!’ her mother cried out, flicking her hand at the sketchbook. ‘You have to get dressed for this evening.’
‘What? There is still plenty of time.’
‘No, there is not. Tonight, you have to make a grand statement with your appearance and demeanour and be the undeniable belle of the ball.’
Margaret sighed and placed her sketchbook and pencil on a nearby table.
‘Tonight, the world will know my daughter is to become a duchess,’ her mother said with her hand over her heart and her eyes closed, before turning to the maid. ‘You must ensure she looks the part.’
‘A duchess?’ Molly sent Margaret a questioning look.
She gave her maid a quick nod to tell her it was true, even if neither of her mother’s claims were completely correct. They were about to announce her betrothal to the guests of the Earl of Northwood, not the world, and she was not about to become a duchess, merely the temporary fiancée of a duke.
‘Would you like your hair styled more ornately than usual?’ Molly asked. ‘Something more fashionable?’
‘Yes, she would,’ her mother answered for her. ‘As ornate as possible and the very height of fashion, as becomes a duchess.’
With resignation, Margaret crossed the room and sat on the embroidered stool in front of the dressing table. In the looking glass, she could see Molly’s expression of delight as she got to work with her combs, brushes and heated tongs, every action monitored by her attentive mother.
While the style Margaret usually wore required a minimum of work, this creation involved much back-combing, plaiting and curling as if creating an intricate sculpture, and it seemed to take an age.
Finally, Molly declared her work finished and stepped back, looking towards her mother, rather than Margaret, for approval.
Her mother observed the hairstyle from every angle, then finally declared it a success.
Margaret had to admit, it was a work of art.
Her hair was piled high on her head, seemingly defying gravity, and somehow Molly had given it more volume than any head of hair could ever naturally have.
Twists and braids were interwoven into the high chignon, and soft curls cascaded delicately down her neck and onto her shoulders.
‘So, what is she to wear tonight?’ her mother asked Molly.
Her lady’s maid removed the gown carefully from the wardrobe. ‘We brought the pink one with the silver embroidery for the ball,’ she said, which her mother surely knew as she had been the one to select it.
When packing for the weekend party her mother had insisted on that dress, saying it made Margaret look young and innocent, like an eighteen-year-old about to face her first Season, rather than, as implied, a twenty-four-year-old who was close to taking up residence on the shelf.
‘No, no, that will never do,’ her mother said, frowning at the gown being held up for her inspection. ‘That might be suitable for a debutante but not for a future duchess. It’s all wrong. You’ll have to do something about it.’
‘Something, ma’am?’ Molly said, turning the gown towards her.
‘Yes, something. It needs to make a statement. It needs to say “I am the young lady who captured the most eligible man available this Season. I am to be a duchess”.’
Margaret cringed, knowing that neither statement was true and never would be, and a gown certainly would not make them so.
‘I suppose I could remove some of the lace around the neckline so it has a deeper décolletage?’ Molly said with some uncertainty.
‘That would be perfect,’ her mother declared, flicking her hand at the maid in dismissal.
‘Molly can hardly start making alterations now,’ Margaret said, hoping to put an end to her mother’s interference. ‘Even starting this early—’ she looked over at the clock ticking in the corner ‘—we’ll be late for the ball.’
‘You’re about to become a duchess, my dear. People are going to have to get used to waiting for you.’
‘I will be as quick as I can, miss,’ Molly said, draping the gown over her arm.
‘And tell my lady’s maid to join us,’ her mother instructed as Molly left the room.
‘Why on earth do I need two ladies’ maids?’
‘Gertrude has much stronger hands than that little slip of a thing,’ came her mother’s peculiar reply. Then she frowned at Margaret. ‘I wonder if you should wear rouge tonight. Your cheeks are rather pale.’
‘No, Mother. I will not be painting my face,’ Margaret said, turning to look at her reflection, which was no paler than usual.
‘No, perhaps not. But let’s just give those cheeks a good pinch.’
Her mother leant over Margaret’s shoulder, her fingers taking on the appearance of lobster claws.
Margaret flinched away from the nipping fingers. ‘The Duke proposed to me when I was wearing a plain grey skirt and white high-necked blouse with my cheeks as colourless as they always are. I don’t believe we need all this artifice.’
‘Perhaps,’ her mother conceded, lowering her hand.
‘Oh, my dear, you don’t know how happy this has made me.
’ She placed her hand over her heart, closed her eyes and gave a small sigh, causing a twinge of guilt to twist inside Margaret.
She did not like deceiving her mother, but then, if her mother hadn’t all but thrown Baron Edgeware at her this would never have happened.
She had no reason for guilt. But that realisation did not make her feel any better.
‘I believe Lady Chedmore turned green when I told her. Then she had the audacity to imply that I was making it up, or had been mistaken, or was even starting to become a deluded old woman. But I suppose that’s jealousy for you.
It makes people behave in such an unfortunate manner.
’ Her mother shook her head and sighed, as if in pity for Lady Chedmore, but her beaming smile returned as bright as ever, suggesting delight at the other lady’s envy.
‘No doubt everyone is already talking about your forthcoming marriage,’ she continued, fluffing out the skirt of her gown and taking a seat in a nearby armchair.
‘You know what gossips women can be. But it’s still going to be good to see their faces tonight when you are on the arm of the Duke of Rosedale. ’
Her mother sighed again with pleasure, her hand back on her heart.
Then her expression turned serious. ‘I’ve sent a telegram to your father telling him about your forthcoming marriage.
That Percival is going to have to eat his words and admit that for once his wife was completely correct and right to insist you attend this weekend party. ’
‘Hmm,’ Margaret said non-committedly. She hated deceiving her father even more than her mother, as he had never been anything less than supportive of her.