Chapter 21 #2
Margaret’s lips curved, a reluctant laugh escaping. “If she rises into the air, may her husband be prepared to hold the ribbons fast.”
They both stifled their amusement as the lady passed, Cecily tucking her head closer to Margaret’s shoulder. “And that poor pug on her lap, swallowed entirely in lace. You may tell me the truth; is it dressed finer than either of us?”
Margaret glanced at the unfortunate creature, its black eyes peering out from beneath ruffles of silk. “Infinitely finer. I should curtsy to it, if only it would return the courtesy.”
The jest sent them both into a bubble of quiet laughter, and for a while, they walked on in companionable silence, the world around them a bright, careless whirl of carriages and ribbons.
They had not gone far before a figure detached herself from the crowd—Lady Tresham, sharp-nosed and sharper-tongued, who delighted in other people’s disgraces. She swept forward with false brightness, her curtsy little more than a mocking dip.
“Well, if it is not the new Duchess of Ravenscourt.” Her voice carried just far enough to be heard by the nearest cluster of eager ears. “What a… surprise… to see you in town at last. I suppose country air grows dull when one has snared her prize.”
Margaret’s breath caught. “I—”
Lady Tresham’s smile widened, cutting. “Oh, come now, we must not pretend. Everyone knows the tale. To be caught in such a compromising situation… how fortunate that His Grace behaved so nobly. Why, half the ladies here could only dream of forcing a duke into matrimony!”
A ripple of laughter answered her. Margaret’s cheeks burned, her tongue tangled. She opened her mouth to answer, but found no words would come.
It was Cecily who stepped forward, her voice ringing clear as a bell. “Strange, Lady Tresham, that you should sneer at good fortune. I was under the impression you had been hunting for it yourself for the past Seasons, and with considerably less success.”
Gasps, titters, and a hurried turning of heads followed. Lady Tresham’s smile faltered, her painted lips tightening. With a stiff nod, she withdrew, though not without one last daggered look at Margaret.
Margaret let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. “I should have answered her,” she murmured. “I wanted to. But the words—”
“Will come,” Cecily said, her arm firm in hers. “For now, let me do the scratching. You need only walk on, chin high, and let them choke on their envy.”
Margaret and Cecily walked at an unhurried pace, the gravel crunching beneath their steps as they passed rows of well-dressed figures. The worst of the whispers had quieted behind them, though Margaret still felt the prickling awareness of eyes following her retreat.
Cecily, however, seemed entirely unruffled, her arm linked with Margaret’s as though nothing at all were amiss. “Well,” she said, her tone as airy as the breeze that tugged at her ribbons, “you must tell me. How does London strike you so far? Magnificent or intolerable?”
Margaret gave a small, cautious smile. “A little of both if I am honest. Magnificent in spectacle… though one cannot help but feel rather on display. I forget how it used to be.”
“Ah, that is London’s favorite sport,” Cecily replied, lips quirking.
“Parading one another like so many thoroughbreds. You will grow used to it, or else learn to make them bow to you.” She cast Margaret a sidelong look, more teasing than sharp.
“You already have the most enviable advantage; they can do nothing to alter the fact that you are a duchess.”
Margaret tried to laugh, though it caught a little in her throat. “Yes, though some seem determined to remind me I became one in less than the usual way.”
“Pah. Scandal is simply another form of currency here. Half the ladies in attendance would give their eyeteeth to be so deliciously talked of.”
The remark eased Margaret’s smile, but as they turned down a quieter stretch of the walk, her composure slipped a fraction. “Still… there are moments,” she began, then faltered, adjusting the lace at her wrist, “when I am not certain I quite… know my footing.”
Cecily glanced at her with quick interest, though her voice remained gentle. “Because of the marriage?”
Margaret hesitated, heat rising in her cheeks. “He… Sebastian has a way of…” She trailed off, unable to find a tidy word, and gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Of unsettling one. Even when he means nothing by it.”
“Unsettling,” Cecily echoed, drawing out the word with deliberate playfulness. “How very intriguing. That sounds rather less like dismay and rather more like—”
Margaret’s head snapped up, flustered. “No! Nothing of the sort.”
Cecily only smiled, the picture of innocent mischief. “I said nothing of the sort either. But you are blushing most alarmingly for someone who is not at all unsettled.”
Margaret pressed her lips together, but the color in her cheeks betrayed her. She fixed her gaze on the gravel path as though the stones might offer her rescue.
Cecily, mercifully, softened her tone. “Forgive me. I only tease because you are so very earnest, and it delights me. Most ladies would never admit such a thing aloud.”
Margaret gave a small, breathless laugh. “I daresay most ladies are wiser.”
“Or less honest.” Cecily tilted her head, studying her companion with a look that was both shrewd and kind. “It is no bad thing, you know, to be unsettled by one’s husband. It may even be a sign of… something worth having.”
And Margaret’s steps faltered. She looked at Cecily quickly, her breath catching in her throat.
For the smallest instant, she longed to agree—to let the warmth of the thought take root.
But the words shriveled before they reached her lips.
To name it would be to tempt it, and to tempt it would be to invite misfortune upon him.
So, she only shook her head, a small, decisive movement, her fingers tightening on Cecily’s arm. “No. It cannot be.”
Cecily did not argue. She only gave a soft hum of acknowledgement, her eyes forward, as though she would let the matter fall.
Yet the faintest curve touched her mouth, sly and knowing.
After a few quiet steps, she said lightly, “Well, call it what you please. Fondness, attachment, admiration… there are worse fates, Margaret.”
They had nearly reached the turning that would take them back when Cecily slowed, her smile sly. “Well,” she said, as if gathering up all the threads of their talk, “I cannot help but notice that you do not speak of him with dislike.”
Margaret hesitated, then gave a small laugh that sounded more like surrender. “No,” she admitted softly. “I… like him rather more than I ever imagined I should.”
Cecily’s brows lifted, wicked amusement dancing in her eyes. “Like, Margaret? Is that the safest word you will allow yourself? Love sounds much nearer the mark.”
Color rushed into Margaret’s cheeks, and she shook her head quickly. “Do not say such things. He will never—he cannot—he will tire of me and return to his old ways. That is the sort of man he is.”
“And yet,” Cecily murmured, looping her arm more firmly through Margaret’s, “it is not the sort of man he is with you.”
Margaret pressed her lips together, refusing to answer, but her silence was its own confession. The words lingered between them as they walked on, too dangerous to speak aloud, too dear to dismiss.