Chapter 2
Margaret Foley had become a liar.
Not the malicious kind. Not the sort who schemed or deceived for gain.
But a liar nonetheless, standing in a ballroom wearing mourning blacks for a man she’d barely known.
She was sorry he was dead. Truly. A young man had left for war and never come back, and the unfairness of that still caught in her throat when she let herself think about it.
But sorrow was not the same as devastation, and Society demanded devastation.
A man she was supposed to grieve, whose death had, if she were being honest, been more relief than tragedy. The guilt of that relief sat like a stone in her chest.
She smoothed her hands over her skirts—black silk that cost more than her family’s quarterly income, donated by well-meaning patrons of the Charity for Local Widows of Fallen Heroes.
Everything in her life now came with the label “charity case”: the dress, the small pension that kept her siblings fed since her parents passed from the lung fever two years earlier, the invitations to events like this, where widows were trotted out like tragic ornaments to remind everyone of the noble cause.
She hated it.
Not the help—she needed the help desperately. But the associated performance. The expected grief. The assumption that she’d loved a man she’d spoken to exactly three times before he left for war.
You poor thing. So young. So devoted.
If they only knew.
Margaret took a steadying breath. One evening. She could survive one evening of well-intentioned condolences and pitying glances. Then she could return to what mattered: keeping her siblings housed, fed, and as far from poverty as her meager resources allowed.
The ballroom was already half-full. Women in blacks and grays, clustered in small groups, their faces carefully arranged in appropriate sorrow. Men in evening dress, looking vaguely uncomfortable, as though grief were contagious and might ruin their digestion.
Margaret’s gaze found the long dining table. Place cards marked each seat. She spotted her name near the center. Good. Not at the head, where she’d be too visible. Not at the end, where she’d look forgotten. Just… there. Unremarkable. Exactly how she preferred it.
She started toward her chair, keeping her expression neutral—not too composed. The performance required precision. Too much grief, and people worried. Too little, and they judged.
“Lady Margaret, please accept my deepest condolences for your loss.” A woman materialized at her elbow. Mrs. Thornby, if Margaret remembered correctly. Round-faced, earnest, with eyes that shone with unshed tears. For someone else’s dead husband.
Margaret’s throat tightened. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“He was taken too soon. Far too soon. You must be devastated.”
I met him twice at dinner and once on a balcony where we discussed the weather, and then we were married.
“It’s been difficult,” Margaret said instead, which was true enough. Being a penniless widow with four younger siblings was exceedingly difficult. The grief part? Less so.
“Lady Margaret.” Another woman appeared on her opposite side, younger, red-eyed, actually crying. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
Margaret’s stomach dropped. She couldn’t fake tears. Wouldn’t. Some lines even she couldn’t cross.
“Your husband was an honorable man,” the woman choked out.
Was he? I wouldn’t know. We never had that conversation.
“Thank you,” Margaret murmured, because what else could she say?
The truth? That she’d been seventeen and foolish enough to step onto a balcony alone with a man who seemed kind?
That they’d been caught by a sharp-eyed matron with nothing better to do than ruin young women’s lives?
That the marriage had been arranged in mere days—a scandal quietly papered over with a hasty wedding and an immediate deployment?
That her husband had left for war without even kissing her goodbye?
No. The truth wouldn’t do at all.
She needed to reach her seat. Now. Before more well-wishers appeared with their unbelievable sympathy.
She moved toward the table, navigating around clusters of guests with the practiced ease of someone who’d learned to make herself small, unnoticed, unremarkable.
Then she saw the place cards.
Her name. Flanked by two others. Both men. The table itself was a long, gleaming monstrosity meant for display—one uninterrupted stretch of linen and silver, so that everyone could see everyone else, and every conversation became public property.
Place cards marched along the edge like a plan of attack. The matrons were clustered together—safe, respectable islands—while the younger widows were spaced out in a pattern so obvious it was almost obscene: matchable ones near eligible men, unmatchable ones tucked politely toward the ends.
A widow placed between two men wasn’t merely seated. She was presented—as if she’d volunteered for the notice, as if she’d invited whatever story people chose to tell about her.
Her heart sank. Another scandal in the making.
“Apologies, Lady Margaret.” A male voice came from behind her—apologetic, uncertain. “This really seems like quite the blunder.”
She turned. Heat flooded her face. The man standing behind her was… well… was unfairly handsome. Dark hair slightly mussed. Pale blue eyes that caught the candlelight. Strong jaw. The kind of face that made sensible widows forget too much.
She looked away and focused on the place cards instead.
“Apologies, Lady Margaret.” He sounded apologetic. Uncertain. “This really seems like quite the blunder, does it not?”
Lord Henry Something. She couldn’t remember his full name, only that he was new. Recently elevated. Still awkward in his title. And far too handsome for her comfort.
Before she could respond, another voice—one sharp with outrage—cut through the air. “This is beyond the pale.”
Lord Gainsborough. One of her late husband’s former comrades—built like an ox, and, when propriety was bruised, just as gentle. His gaze snapped from the place cards to the two men flanking her name, as if the little rectangles of paper had personally insulted him.
“Please, Lord Gainsborough.” Margaret kept her voice low, smoothing the words the way one soothed a nervous horse. “It’s an innocent arrangement, not an attack on decency. Lady Thornby has more gentlemen than ladies and is trying to keep the table balanced.”
“A widow seated between two unmarried men is not balance,” Gainsborough muttered, still scowling at the cards.
“Then it is fortunate I am capable of sitting in a chair without disgracing anyone,” Margaret said, gentle but firm, and gestured toward the seats. “Shall we?”
They sat. Lord William still muttering under his breath about propriety and widows and the shocking decline of common courtesy.
Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Their hearts were in the right place. These men who’d served with her husband, who thought they were protecting her from scandal or insult or whatever perceived slight a widow might suffer from sitting between two gentlemen at dinner.
If they only knew how little protection she actually needed.
What she needed was escape. A few blessed hours where she didn’t have to perform appropriate grief for a man she’d never loved. A man she’d never had the chance to love.
The first course arrived. Some sort of soup. Margaret lifted her spoon. Set it down. Lifted it again. She couldn’t concentrate.
Lord Henry sat to her right, close enough that she could smell sandalwood. Could feel the heat radiating from him even though they weren’t touching.
He shifted in his seat. His shoulder nearly brushed hers.
Her pulse kicked.
She was a widow in mourning. She should not be noticing the way his hands looked holding spoon. The way his jaw tensed when Lord William spoke. The way his breath caught slightly when their eyes met across the table earlier.
She absolutely should not be noticing any of that.
But she noticed all of it.
“You mentioned plans to help with the Charity for Local Widows?” Lord William’s voice cut through her thoughts.
Margaret forced herself to focus and look at Lord William instead of the man beside her, whose mere presence made her forget how to breathe properly.
“Yes. I hope to be more involved now that—” She paused. Now that my husband is dead, felt too blunt. “Now I’m able to dedicate more time to the cause.”
“That’s admirable.” Lord William lifted his spoon. A single pea balanced precariously in the bowl. “To face your pain in order to help others who are suffering. You must have really loved your husband—”
He gestured with the spoon for emphasis.
The pea launched.
Margaret watched, frozen, as the tiny green projectile arced through the air in a perfect trajectory. It landed—impossibly, spectacularly—directly in the cleavage of the woman seated beside Lord William.
Time seemed to stop.
Margaret’s throat closed. Laughter bubbled up, dangerous and wholly inappropriate. She pressed her napkin to her mouth, pretending to dab at nothing while fighting desperately not to make a sound.
The woman went perfectly still. Her eyes widened. Just slightly. Barely noticeable unless you were watching, like Margaret.
The woman’s gaze darted around the table. Checking. Calculating. Determining that no one else had witnessed the Pea Incident.
She left it where it had landed.
Margaret’s throat closed. She pressed her napkin to her mouth. Don’t look. Don’t look at—
She looked right.
Dashwood was staring at his plate, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid. He’d seen it.
Their eyes met. His were dancing.
Her lips twitched. His mouth pressed into a firm line.
That made it worse.
Margaret grabbed her water and gulped. She looked at her plate. Heard Henry pick up his wine glass, drink, and set it down too hard, hand shaking.
Oh no.
Lord William droned on. “…widows carry such burdens…
A sound escaped Henry. Half cough, half death rattle.
Margaret bit her lip hard. The pea remained in the woman’s bosom, cozy and unaware. She pressed her napkin to her mouth. Her shoulders shook.
Beside her, Dashwood had gone completely still. They couldn’t look at each other again.
Mrs. Patterson reached for her wine. The pea shifted.
Margaret squeaked. Tried to turn it into a cough. Failed.
Dashwood drank more wine.
“Lady Margaret, are you quite alright?” Lord William asked.
“Fine. The soup was very peppery.”
“I didn’t notice any pepper.”
“Subtle pepper.”
Henry’s shoulders shook.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t—
Their eyes met. He was sucking in his lips, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter.
She looked away fast, warmth flooding her chest.
The rogue pea flying across the table had made her feel more alive than three years of performing grief. And this stranger—this duke who clearly felt as out of place as she did—understood exactly why. The realization made her throat tight.
“Thank you, Lord William,” she said quietly. “That’s very kind.”
And it was kind. He meant well. They all did.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? Everyone meant well.
No one asked if she’d actually lost anything worth grieving. Her late husband had died a hero, and she felt entirely unworthy of the cause. The guilt stung more than she cared to admit.
Her gaze drifted to the centerpiece. The elaborate bowl of fruit seemed designed more for display than eating. One apple sat at the top of the pile, slightly lopsided, as though it might tumble at any moment. She reached out to steady it.
The moment her fingers made contact, she knew. She picked it up and turned it slowly. The weight was wrong. The texture was wrong. Wax. Painted to look real. Of course, it was. Even the fruit was pretending to be something it wasn’t.
Margaret stared at it, something bitter and sharp rising in her throat. And she thought, with a clarity that burned: We’re fakes.
Fake apples on a table of excess. Fake grief worn like armor. Fake widow pretending her heart was broken instead of simply… empty.
Margaret Foley was a liar.
And she was getting desperately tired of it.