Chapter 1
Margaret Wilmore stepped down from the carriage before Lempster House with considerably less grace than the footman had anticipated.
She gathered her skirts in one hand, gave the driver a distracted nod, and marched towards the familiar front doors with her dark eyes narrowed against the brisk London air.
At twenty-three, she had become accustomed to doing these on her own terms, yet returning home without anyone particularly expecting her was not one of them.
The doors opened before she reached them, and she swept inside without waiting to be announced.
A footman began to speak, but Margaret raised one hand and continued towards the drawing room with such purpose that he wisely decided against interfering.
She pushed open the door and found her father sitting beside the fireplace, a book open in his hand and an expression upon his face that suggested he had just seen a ghost.
Bernard Wilmore, Earl of Lempster, stared at her for several seconds before blinking rapidly.
"Margaret?" he asked, lowering the book. "You have returned."
"Yes, Papa," she replied, dropping her travelling gloves upon a nearby table with more force than necessary. "I have returned, as you may observe with your own eyes." Her father looked at her as though she had performed some astonishing feat of magic, which immediately irritated her.
"I had no notion you would be returning," Bernard admitted.
Margaret's eyes narrowed. There was something in his voice that she did not like, something too careful and too nervous for a man greeting his youngest daughter after a holiday in the country with her sister.
Margaret folded her arms. "That is precisely what concerns me."
Bernard shifted his weight, and she noticed the movement immediately.
"You sent me away to the countryside without explanation, Papa, and now you appear positively astonished that I have returned to my own home.
" She stepped closer, studying him with the suspicion of a woman who had spent too many years watching people conceal things behind polite smiles.
"So I should like to know why I was unexpectedly sent away with Camelia, and I should particularly like to know what you have been hiding from me."
"Margaret, I assure you…" Bernard began, but she lifted a finger.
"No, Papa. Do not assure me. You are dreadful at lying and so is Camelia. You two are up to something, and I must know."
Her father looked mildly wounded, and Margaret softened for half a second before remembering that he was behaving suspiciously.
"You are an excellent father, but a dreadful liar. Your left eyebrow twitches whenever you attempt to deceive one of us."
Bernard immediately touched his eyebrow, which caused Margaret to stare at him in disbelief. "You see? You have just proved my point."
"I did not mean to deceive you," he protested, lowering his hand.
"Then tell me the truth."
Bernard sighed and sank into a chair, and Margaret's amusement vanished when she saw how genuinely troubled he looked.
Her father was a gentle man, sometimes so gentle that Margaret had privately wondered whether London society had been built specifically to take advantage of him.
He adored his daughters, but that affection often made him vulnerable, particularly when someone spoke to him with sufficient confidence.
Margaret knew that expression on his face; it was the expression he wore whenever he believed he had failed one of them.
"We have been trying to resolve a matter," he said carefully, clasping his hands together. "Your sisters and I thought we could manage it without troubling you."
Margaret stared at him. "That sounds ominous already."
Bernard gave a weak smile. "We searched for every possible solution."
"To what?"
"Every loophole in the contract."
"Loophole? What contract?" she demanded, her voice suddenly sharper. "What on earth are you talking about?"
She looked from the fireplace to the windows and back again, as though the answer might be written upon the wallpaper.
Her mind began racing, producing possibilities with such speed that she scarcely had time to reject one before another appeared.
Has my father sold the house? Has Iris and Camelia secretly decided to become pirates? Has some dreadful relative discovered a hidden debt?
She almost wished it were pirates; at least pirates possessed the decency to announce themselves.
Bernard looked down at his hands. "Margaret, I am sorry."
She went still.
"I should have told you years ago," he continued quietly. "But I hoped the matter might somehow disappear. Your sisters have tried to help me, and we have searched through the old papers, consulted solicitors, examined every clause of the agreement, but there is no loophole."
Margaret's heart began to pound. "What agreement?"
Bernard raised his eyes to hers, and the sorrow in them made her stomach twist.
"The marriage contract."
For a moment, Margaret simply stared.
"Marriage…?" she asked again, though she already knew the answer could not possibly be anything good.
"Your grandfather made an agreement with Lord Harrowby's father many years ago," Bernard said. "You were promised in marriage."
Margaret's mouth fell open.
"Promised?" she repeated. "As one promises a horse to a neighbor?"
"Margaret…"
"No, Papa, I should like to understand precisely what sort of horse I have apparently become."
Bernard's face tightened with guilt. "I am sorry that we failed you again."
Again?
That word hurt more than she expected.
She had spent years watching Iris and Camelia marry while she remained behind, wondering whether there was something fundamentally lacking in her.
She had told herself she did not care, made jokes whenever another season passed without a proposal, and pretended that being unchosen was a matter of preference rather than pain.
Now she discovered that there had been a man waiting in the shadows all along, not because he loved her, not because he had chosen her, but because a piece of parchment had decided her future before she had even been born.
"Who?" she whispered.
Bernard hesitated. "Lord Geoffrey Harrowby."
Margaret frowned. The name was unfamiliar, though something about her father's expression made her dislike it immediately.
Then Bernard delivered the final blow. "He has been released from prison."
Margaret stared at him. "Prison?"
Bernard nodded miserably.
Margaret slowly lowered herself into the nearest chair.
The room appeared unchanged, the same familiar chairs, the same portraits upon the walls, the same fire burning quietly in the grate, yet everything suddenly felt foreign.
Geoffrey Harrowby was a name she had not thought of in years, and now her father had placed that name directly between them as though it were a sentence already passed.
For years, Geoffrey had been nothing more than an unpleasant memory.
He had once been her grandfather's ward, until he gambled away the fortune and support he had been given and eventually ended up in prison.
Margaret opened her mouth to demand an explanation, but the drawing-room door opened before she could utter a word.
The butler appeared in the doorway. "Lord Harrowby has arrived, my lord," he announced.
Margaret's stomach dropped. Bernard's face went pale, while Margaret turned slowly towards the door, unable to understand how the man they had just been discussing could possibly have appeared at precisely that moment.
Geoffrey entered without waiting for another invitation.
He had changed considerably since Margaret's childhood, though there was nothing about him that inspired comfort.
His red hair was untidy, his face was covered with freckles, and his severe nose gave his features an almost perpetually unpleasant cast.
Prison had hardened him rather than humbled him, and there was something cold and crude in the way he surveyed the room, as though he had returned not to ask permission but to collect something he believed belonged to him.
When his eyes settled upon Margaret, his mouth curved into a smile that made her skin crawl.
"Lady Margaret," he said, crossing the room before bowing before her with exaggerated politeness. "There is no need for secrecy anymore."
Margaret stared at him.
"The church has already begun announcing our banns," Geoffrey continued, straightening slowly. "I only regret that I have not seen my bride there myself."
The room seemed to tilt. "What?" Margaret asked, gripping the edge of the chair. "What is the meaning of this?"
Geoffrey chuckled softly. "Surely your father has explained the matter."
"He has explained nothing that would lead me to believe the banns would be read," Margaret replied, forcing herself to stand despite the weakness suddenly spreading through her legs.
"A Wilmore bride was promised to me by contract," Geoffrey said, looking almost amused by her distress. "And after all these years, I have finally come to claim what was agreed."
"You cannot simply claim a person," Margaret snapped, though her voice trembled despite her effort to keep it steady.
"Cannot I?" Geoffrey asked, lifting one eyebrow.
Bernard rose abruptly. "Geoffrey, that is enough."
The young viscount barely glanced at him. "Your father did everything he could to delay me, my lord. I have been patient. He kept me away from Margaret for years, but the time has come to honor the agreement."
"Iris and Camelia are both married," Geoffrey continued, turning his attention back to Margaret.
"That leaves you as the remaining Wilmore daughter.
" His smile widened, and Margaret felt a wave of disgust rise in her throat.
"It is rather a fortunate arrangement, is it not?
And you always liked me when you were a girl. "
Margaret stared at him in horror. "I most certainly did not."
Geoffrey laughed. "You were always watching me."
"I was watching you because I was afraid of you," Margaret retorted, her old wit returning despite the terror twisting inside her. "I had no interest in you."
Bernard stepped between them. "Nothing has been settled yet," he said firmly, his gentle voice carrying more authority than Margaret had ever heard in it. "You may have your contract, but there are still matters to be addressed. You have one week before anything can proceed."
"One week?" Margaret repeated faintly.
Her father looked at her apologetically.
Geoffrey smiled. "You see? I am doing you a kindness by preparing you for the inevitable. Your family has hidden the truth from you, whereas I have decided you deserve honesty." He adjusted his coat with infuriating calm. "I am considerably more compassionate than they have been."
"You call this compassion?" Margaret demanded.
"I do."
He bowed again. "You shall have seven days to become accustomed to the idea."
With that, Geoffrey turned and walked from the room.
She could hear her father's voice speaking her name, but the words seemed distant beneath the pounding of her heart. The last time a man had tried to decide her future, Camelia had stepped forward and saved her from it. She knew with absolute certainty that she would not endure it again.
Margaret straightened slowly.
I am not that helpless girl anymore.
She needed something so scandalous that no respectable man would dare marry her, something public enough that the contract would become useless. It needed to be unmistakable, undeniable, and impossible to conceal.
A reckless idea formed.
I need to ruin myself.