Chapter Seven
‘Don’t fuss.’ Margaret flicked her head back to stop her mother from once again trying to rearrange the surprisingly springy ringlets Molly had so artfully created.
She knew she was being fractious and was aware that her mother thought she was being helpful, but she was fractious, and her mother was not helping.
Yet again, an exhaustive amount of time had gone into making her as pretty as possible.
Molly had got to work on her hair the moment Margaret had announced her evening plans to her parents.
Alterations had been made to her pale green silk gown, and Gertrude, along with her strong hands, had been summoned, despite Margaret’s objections.
Given the time and attention that had gone into dressing her, she was starting to feel like an offering who had been prepared for the Duke’s approval.
She closed her eyes and placed her hand on her roiling stomach as an unsettling vision invaded her mind, one where she was a sacrificial virgin, bathed and bedecked with flowers for presentation to a worshipful god.
She shook her head to drive out that unwanted imagery. That was the last thing she wanted to think about if she was to retain a shred of composure tonight.
Margaret stood up and frowned at her mother as if this was all her fault. She was sure she would not be quite so flustered if her mother wasn’t still hovering around her bedchamber, filling the air with her contagious anxious energy.
Her mother smiled, lifting up her hands at the sides of her face, to indicate how Margaret was supposed to comport herself. Margaret’s frown deepened.
Tonight was not about courtship. It was not about impressing the Duke.
This visit to the theatre was just another chance for them to be seen together in public.
That was all. Many of the people the Duke associated with would frequent art galleries.
It made sense that he would escort her to the theatre, where they could present themselves to Society as a respectably engaged couple.
Yes, it was very sensible. She glanced at herself in the full-length looking glass and patted her hair.
And hopefully it would also be an enjoyable evening.
Margaret loved the theatre but rarely got a chance to attend, neither of her parents having any interest in the performing arts.
This evening would merely be a pleasant outing and had nothing to do with sacrificial virgins or Greek gods.
Her hand dropped from her hair and she clenched her fists tightly together to steady her nerves.
Why did she have to think of gods and virgins yet again?
He was just the Duke of Rosedale, for goodness’ sake.
A man who needed a fake engagement to save his lover from the divorce courts.
Not a god. Not even close. And sensible women like her did not let men like him affect their equilibrium.
With that firmly in her mind, she pulled on her elbow-length white evening gloves and did up the small pearl buttons, then paused, her fingers toying with the last undone button.
But he was also the man who had gazed at The Garvagh Madonna as if it had touched him deeply in the core of his being.
No, that was an aberration she thought as she quickly did up that last button and picked up her reticule.
Most of the time he was a frivolous, superficial peacock who flirted with every woman he encountered and led a dissolute, completely soulless existence.
Fighting to keep that at the forefront of her mind, she descended the stairs, her mother following behind, still attempting to further fluff out her train, then entered the drawing room.
The Duke stood up and smiled at her, and she was certain that if a statue of a Greek god could smile, this would be exactly how he would look.
‘You look divine,’ he said almost reverentially. Was he gazing at her in that manner for her parents’ sake? Of course he was. Her nerves were already frayed; the last thing she needed was to start thinking the Duke was seeing her as a woman to be admired.
‘Doesn’t she just?’ her mother gushed, once again giving a ringlet a light pull, causing Margaret’s head to flinch backwards. ‘As pretty as a picture. She’s going to make such a beautiful bride and a dazzling Duchess.’
‘I think we should leave now,’ Margaret said before her mother could cause more embarrassment. If that was possible. ‘We should not be late.’
The Duke bowed to her parents and said his goodbyes, but that didn’t stop her mother from following them out into the hallway, still trying to make last-minute adjustments to Margaret’s hair and gown.
‘I believe tonight you won’t be needing Molly as your chaperone,’ her mother said, causing Margaret’s heart to sink. Would her mother be accompanying them?
‘As you’re officially engaged to be married now,’ she continued as a disappointed Molly retreated up the stairs, ‘I believe it will not breach propriety if you go to the theatre unaccompanied.’
Thank goodness for that.
The Duke once again bowed goodbye and to Margaret’s relief they escaped from her fussing mother.
‘I’m so sorry about my mother,’ she said as the carriage drove through the night-time streets.
‘Nothing to be sorry about. Your mother loves you. That is something to be treasured. And isn’t a mother supposed to take pride in her daughter?’
Margaret could have said that he wasn’t the one who’d had to endure several hours of having his hair styled and restyled and undergoing the ordeal of being cinched into a corset so tightly he thought his ribs were going to break, all so that he could make his mother proud.
Nobody subjected him to such tortures so he could look attractive for her.
And yet he managed to do exactly that. Dressed in evening attire of black suit, white shirt and tie, with a gold brocade waistcoat, he was the one who looked divine, and it was all so effortlessly achieved.
‘What theatre are we going to?’ she said instead, not wishing to think about his effortless good looks for a moment longer.
‘The Gaiety Theatre.’
Margaret’s head tilted slightly as if she had not heard correctly. She’d expected the Theatre Royal perhaps, or maybe St James’s Theatre, but the Gaiety? ‘I’ve never been there. It’s not a theatre Father entirely approves of for young ladies.’
‘Well, your father’s not here tonight, so it’s a chance for us to be a bit wild and reckless.’
‘Perhaps,’ Margaret answered, her nerves not soothed by the thought of doing anything that could be classed as either wild or reckless.
The carriage came to a halt in front of the well-lit building.
The footman quickly lowered the steps and the Duke jumped out then held out his hand to help her down.
Margaret looked up at the ornate facade of the three-storey building, topped with a domed roof.
It certainly did not look like a den of iniquity, not that she actually knew what a den of iniquity looked like.
His carriage moved off and was quickly replaced by the next in the jostling line.
Margaret and the Duke joined the other elegantly dressed men and women shuffling through the doors towards the foyer.
They entered the building and the hubbub of countless voices greeted them.
Excitement replaced nervousness as Margaret found herself caught up in the crowd’s anticipation of the night’s entertainment.
On the Duke’s arm, she walked up the sweeping staircase and he led her to a private box.
She stood at the entrance and couldn’t stop herself from smiling with delight.
It really was like being a princess. On the few occasions she had attended the theatre with her parents they had always sat in the ground floor seats.
She had never for a moment imagined she would ever be one of the people sitting high above the crowd in a private box.
Like a queen, she took her seat on the plush velvet chair and, leaning forward, her gloved hands on the gilded balustrade, she looked out at the auditorium.
The stalls below were filling up with women in beautiful gowns and men in evening suits.
She looked up to the gallery, which was packed full of people one rarely saw at the more exclusive theatres, presumably also dressed in their finest clothing, even if they were rather shabby compared to the wealthy patrons below them.
But one thing they all had in common was that they were all abuzz, eagerly awaiting tonight’s performance.
The gas lights lowered. The multitude of voices silenced and the red velvet curtain lifted to reveal a row of young women standing on the stage dressed in scandalously short skirts, showing not just their ankles but most of their calves, their tight bodices cut so low that Margaret wondered how they avoided falling out of them.
The audience erupted into thunderous applause, seemingly not as shocked by their appearance as Margaret.
She joined in with polite clapping as the dancers began their routine by kicking their legs high in the air, exposing more than just their calves.
Despite her discomfort, Margaret did have to admire the precision of their footwork, their energy and artistry.
But still, she hated to think what her father would say if he knew the Duke had taken her to such a place.