Chapter Seven #2
When the energetic dance came to an end, the theatre once again filled with riotous clapping and even some whistling and stamping of feet.
Several men in the stalls stood up, their hands raised above their heads as they clapped enthusiastically.
Margaret was aware that some aristocratic men took young ladies from the theatre as their mistresses and had to wonder if that was what she was witnessing, men showing approval for their mistress’s performance.
She took a quick sideways look at the Duke.
He too was a man known to associate with actresses and chorus girls.
Had any of those young women she had just witnessed performing that risqué dance been, or still was, his lover?
He was clapping politely, rather than standing up, whistling or stamping his feet, but he was hardly likely to show his enthusiasm for his lover when he was supposed to be passing himself off as a respectable engaged man.
Margaret grimaced as a band tightly gripped her chest, and her sudden shortness of breath could not be attributed entirely to her constricting corset.
What she was experiencing was jealousy, that much was clear. What she didn’t know was why. It was a ridiculous and inappropriate emotion. It mattered not whether he was or had ever been involved with any of those beautiful and decidedly athletic young women.
She had always known he was a rake. She, along with most of Society, had read the scandalous reports on what he and his friends got up to.
He’d been linked to numerous well-known actresses and was presumably on intimate terms with many of those dancers as well.
She knew this. Had always known this. But such knowledge had no effect on what she was feeling, as irrational as it might be.
Damn it all, she wasn’t just jealous of the Duke, but also of those beautiful young women.
They were women who were not restrained by the rigid rules of Society.
They were not trussed up in tightly fitted whalebone corsets that made their movements stiff and rigid.
They could dance freely and take lovers should they choose.
And worse than that, she was jealous of any of those young women who had discovered what it was like to be held by the Duke, to be kissed by him, to be caressed by him, to know what it was like to be made love to by such a devastatingly handsome man.
That was something she would never experience.
That was what was making her miserable, and angry with herself for feeling destructive emotions.
The last of the applause finally settled and the curtain raised once more.
This time the actors on stage performed a light-hearted musical comedy that had the audience reeling with laughter.
Margaret forced herself to keep smiling as if she too was amused by their antics so she would not reveal her sudden despondency.
When the play came to an end, and after several curtain calls, the lights rose for the intermission.
‘Is everything all right?’ the Duke asked, and Margaret mentally castigated herself.
She did not want him to think she cared one single fig for the way he lived his life or was affected in the slightest that he regularly took women to his bed.
Or even worse, that he might realise she was pathetically burning with jealousy over what those women had shared with him—something they would never share.
‘Yes, perfectly,’ she said, sending him a fake smile.
His raised eyebrows suggested he did not believe her, so she smiled even brighter, which did not cause those eyebrows to lower.
‘Shall we take a walk during the intermission?’ she said in a deliberately cheerful voice. ‘That is the point of this excursion, is it not? To be seen by Society as a respectable engaged couple.’
‘If you wish,’ he said, looking at her sideways as if she was showing signs of derangement.
He led her out into the corridor, which had filled up with well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, talking together in small groups, while liveried servants rushed around providing glasses of wine.
The Duke removed two glasses from a footman’s silver tray and handed one to Margaret. She took a sip, then another one, then a quick third, hoping the crisp bubbles of the champagne would wash away all her ridiculous notions, drive out her embarrassing emotions and soothe her rioting nerves.
They didn’t.
A group of young men swaggered over to them, and the Duke gave a low groan.
‘Jacob, I hear you’re engaged,’ one young man said, looking at Margaret, a supercilious grin on his face.
‘Yes, may I present Miss Margaret Whitmore, my fiancée. Miss Whitmore, the Earl of Penvale.’
‘So it’s true,’ another young man said, staring at Margaret as if she were an exhibit in a curio cabinet.
‘It is,’ the Duke said, and introduced Margaret to the other young men, who all bowed, with matching smirks on their faces.
She could hardly blame them. Their engagement had been sudden and for many people would be completely inexplicable.
Margaret knew what they all must be thinking.
If he had to marry, then why her? And she suspected they were coming up with explanations that did nothing for either her or the Duke’s reputation.
One of the men, whose name she had forgotten, leaned in to whisper in the Duke’s ear.
‘After the performance we’re going on to a party at Penvale’s townhouse.
It should be a riot. You must join us if you’re not otherwise engaged.
’ He looked at Margaret and laughed, as if he had made the funniest of puns.
The expression on the Duke’s face suggested he found the man’s attempt at humour as funny as she did. ‘Not interested,’ was his quick reply, before he took Margaret’s arm and led her away.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said once they were out of earshot of his friends. ‘They can be rather boorish at times.’
‘And yet they are your friends.’
‘Yes,’ he said, drawing out that one word as if admitting to something he’d rather not.
‘And if you wish to go to that party, don’t let me stop you. That was our agreement, was it not? We won’t stop each other from living our lives however we want.’
‘Yes, that was our agreement,’ he said, and that tight band gripped her chest with greater ferocity. No doubt there would be actresses and those pretty, high-kicking dancers at the party, and one would spend the night in his arms.
‘But I do not wish to attend a party tonight, particularly not a riotous one.’
The gripping band of jealousy loosened slightly and Margaret was more pleased than she should be.
‘Oh, no,’ the Duke muttered, just as she was about to take another sip of her champagne.
She followed the direction in which he was looking and saw a couple walking towards them, arm in arm. The man was slightly shorter than the woman, flushed of face, and bore the expanding girth common in middle-aged men, but the woman was nothing less than stunning.
Perhaps she was an actress; her elegant demeanour and confidence suggested that. And she was certainly attractive enough to grace the stage, with her dramatic flame-coloured hair, her striking good looks and a smile that could light up any theatre.
Margaret doubted she had ever felt more frumpy or insignificant in comparison and hoped the couple would do no more than say good evening and move on.
Instead, they stopped in front of them and both looked at Margaret, the woman bearing the same questioning expression as the Duke’s friends.
‘Baron and Baroness Winterborne, may I present Miss Margaret Whitmore,’ the Duke said. ‘My fiancée.’
That tight iron band clamped her chest again like a torture device, making breathing all but impossible. Hoping to cover her shock, she bowed her head and made a low curtsey, praying her unsteady legs would not give way beneath her.
With as much composure as she could summon, Margaret rose to standing and made herself smile at that vision of beauty as if her name meant nothing to her.
‘Yes, I read in the newspaper you were to marry. My congratulations,’ the Baron said to the Duke, then nodded to Margaret. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Winterborne, and I wish you every happiness for the future.’
Margaret’s jaw started to ache as she continued smiling. Was the man serious? He was talking to his wife’s ex-lover, the man he had threatened to drag through the divorce courts, as if they were old friends.
The Baron bowed his head once more, then the two sauntered off and joined another group of chatting patrons and the Duke released a long, slow, audible breath.
‘Again, I am so sorry about that,’ he said.
‘No need,’ she said crisply, as if she was not still reeling from that disturbing encounter.
‘It looks as if this visit to the theatre has achieved its purpose. We’ve been seen by the very people you want to convince this is a real engagement, and the Baron’s behaviour suggests you have had a lucky escape from the ignominy of the divorce courts. ’
‘But I didn’t wish to subject you to that.’ He inclined his head towards where the Baron and Baroness were standing, chatting and laughing with their friends.
‘Really? I thought subjecting me to that was the whole point of our engagement and the point of coming here tonight.’ Margaret knew she was sounding ill-tempered, despite having no real reason to be, but it was better than sounding jealous, and that was undeniably what she was feeling.
‘Would you like to leave?’
‘Not at all. I’m sure there are many other people you need to parade me in front of so you can convince them of your new-found respectability.’
‘You are angry. We should go.’
Before she had a chance to object, to convince him she was not angry, not jealous, not shocked, all the things she actually was, he was leading her down the stairs and out into the cool evening air towards his carriage.
Without waiting for his help, she climbed inside, telling herself to stop acting like a petulant child.
She knew what he was like. She knew he was the type of man she should never, ever be attracted to.
But, unfortunately, she also knew that no one felt jealousy unless they were being subjected to a powerful attraction, whether they wanted to be or not.
She was tempted to punch the lush velvet upholstery of his carriage in anger and frustration. She had done exactly what she had told herself not to do, what she had thought she was far too sensible to do—she had fallen under the Duke’s spell.
As he took his seat on the bench beside her, she stared straight ahead and made herself breathe slowly and deeply. What was done was done. She had fallen completely and hopelessly under the Duke’s spell. It was foolish. It was irrational, but there was no point continuing to pretend otherwise.
What she needed to do now was settle down, think clearly and work out what on earth she was to do about this entirely unwanted emotional insanity.