Chapter 8 #2
Pierce had stirred forbidden things inside her, things she had not known existed until his mouth had touched hers. She had spent the night insisting that their marriage would be practical, yet her body seemed determined to disagree whenever she remembered him standing too close.
The bedroom door suddenly flew open.
Margaret jumped.
"I will not have my daughter wearing the same dress tainted by Harrowby!"
Bernard stood in the doorway, looking more determined than Margaret had seen him in weeks.
Her sisters stared at him. Margaret blinked.
Camelia slowly turned towards Iris. "Was Father listening outside the door?"
"I believe he was," Iris replied, looking delighted.
Bernard's cheeks reddened. "I was not listening."
"You entered at precisely the moment Margaret mentioned the gown," Camelia observed.
"That was a coincidence."
"A remarkable coincidence," Iris added.
Margaret laughed despite herself, and her father looked mildly offended. "Enough. Listen to your sister and go into town this instant. Buy a new dress." He reached into his coat and produced a small leather pouch, placing it firmly upon the table. "Here is some coin. Buy whatever you like."
Margaret looked at the pouch, then at her father.
"Papa…"
"No arguments," he said. "We cannot have the ton speaking ill of you and your dress. You will be a duchess afterall."
She rose and crossed the room before throwing her arms around him. Bernard stiffened in surprise before embracing her tightly. "Thank you," she murmured against his shoulder.
"You deserve a happy wedding day," he whispered. "Despite the circumstances."
Margaret closed her eyes. She wanted to believe that. She truly did.
But happiness seemed too dangerous to embrace. If she allowed herself to think of tomorrow as a happy occasion, she might begin imagining a future rather than merely an escape. She was not marrying Pierce because she loved him. She was marrying him because he offered protection, and freedom.
That was all. At least, that was what she told herself.
* * *
An hour later, the three sisters were on Bond Street, and Margaret found herself standing before a mirror while a dressmaker fussed around her.
The gown she eventually selected was nothing like the one she had intended to wear.
It was ivory silk with a soft, square neckline and delicate sleeves that gathered neatly at her wrists.
A narrow band of silver embroidery traced the bodice and continued in a subtle pattern along the skirt, while tiny pearl details caught the light whenever she moved.
The gown was elegant without being excessively grand, and a matching ivory sash fell from the waist in graceful folds.
Camelia clasped her hands. "There. That is a wedding dress."
Margaret examined her reflection.
She barely recognised herself.
The ivory made her dark hair appear richer, while the cut of the gown emphasised her curves without making her feel exposed. She touched the embroidered flowers with her fingertips. They reminded her faintly of the Flora costume she had worn at Pierce's masquerade.
She quickly dismissed the thought.
"I suppose it will do," she said.
Iris laughed. "You look beautiful."
Margaret glanced at her sister. "Do I?"
"You know you do."
Margaret looked at herself again.
Beautiful?
The word felt strangely dangerous. Tomorrow Pierce would see her dressed like this. The thought sent a flutter through her stomach. She hated that. She hated that she liked it.
Camelia stepped beside her and smiled at their reflections. "I think the Duke will approve."
Margaret's eyes met hers in the mirror. "I am not dressing for his approval."
"No," Camelia said knowingly. "Of course not."
Margaret sighed. "Do stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know something I do not."
Iris laughed softly. "Perhaps we merely know you."
Margaret turned back towards the mirror. Tomorrow, she would walk towards Pierce. Tomorrow, she would become his duchess.
And despite every sensible argument she had made to herself, some small, secret part of her was beginning to wonder what it would feel like to belong beside him.
* * *
Margaret lay awake long after the household had fallen silent, staring at the canopy above her bed as moonlight slipped through the curtains.
Sleep had abandoned her entirely. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Pierce standing before her in the library, heard his calm voice telling her that she would be his, and felt again the unsettling warmth of his kiss.
"This is absurd," she whispered to herself, turning onto her side. "I am to be married tomorrow, and instead of sleeping like a sensible woman, I am thinking about him."
She sat upright with a sigh. Husband. The word still sounded strange.
Pierce Sterling was not merely some gentleman she could dismiss after breakfast if he irritated her.
Tomorrow he would be her husband, and she would be responsible for his household, his estate, and most importantly, his one-year-old son.
Margaret pressed her palms against her cheeks.
"The child," she murmured. "That is why I cannot sleep. I ought to meet him before tomorrow." She paused, then frowned at herself. "Yes. That is the reason. It has nothing whatsoever to do with wanting to see Pierce."
Margaret narrowed her eyes at the darkness. "Do not be ridiculous."
Yet the idea had taken root. She had agreed to marry Pierce because of Hugh, and if she was truly going to become the child's mother, she ought to see him before the ceremony.
It seems entirely reasonable. Sensible, even. The only difficulty is that sensible women did not usually sneak out of their father's house at midnight to visit their future husband's nursery.
Margaret threw back the covers. "Well, I have never claimed to be sensible."
She dressed quickly in a simple gown and wrapped a dark cloak around herself, hiding her hair beneath the hood.
Her heart pounded as she crept through the quiet corridors of Lempster House.
Every creaking floorboard sounded like a servant shouting for her father, but somehow she reached the back entrance without being discovered.
Outside, the cool night air struck her cheeks. Margaret hurried towards the stables, lifting her skirts as she crossed the courtyard. The driver looked startled when she appeared.
"My lady?"
"I need you to take me to Ravenfield House," Margaret whispered, glancing nervously towards the sleeping residence. "And please do not ask questions."
The driver hesitated. "At this hour?"
"Yes." Margaret climbed into the carriage and pulled her cloak tighter around herself. "It is terribly important."