Chapter 7
Bond Street was crowded with carriages, elegant ladies, and gentlemen who appeared to have nowhere in particular to be except precisely where everyone else could see them.
Margaret walked between Iris and Camelia, trying to concentrate on the ribbons displayed in the shop windows rather than the extraordinary turn her life had taken.
Only a few days ago, she had been preparing to marry Geoffrey Harrowby. Now she was engaged to the Duke of Ravenfield, a man she had met at a masquerade, argued with in a smoking room, kissed in a library, and somehow agreed to marry before she had even determined whether she liked him.
"I confess I am still shocked," Iris said as she examined a length of ivory ribbon between her fingers. "The Duke actually made an offer for your hand."
Margaret attempted to appear interested in a roll of pale blue silk. "Yes."
Camelia gave her a sideways glance. "I am more interested in another matter." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Exactly what costume were you wearing at his masquerade to cause such a thing?"
Margaret nearly dropped the ribbon.
"The costume?" she repeated, hoping her voice sounded sufficiently innocent.
"Yes," Camelia replied, placing the ribbon back upon the counter. "I understand you attended the duke's ball without us, which was scandalous enough, but now the man has proposed marriage. Surely there must be some connection."
Margaret's cheeks warmed. She suddenly became fascinated by a display of satin bows. There was no possibility whatsoever that she could tell her sisters the truth.
I cannot possibly admit that I had gone to the masquerade intending to ruin myself, begged men to kiss me, and then Pierce to kiss me. I had allowed him to come close enough to make me forget every sensible thought in my head, and had later kissed him in the library.
The memory alone made her feel horribly ashamed. She had been reckless. Worse, she had enjoyed it.
"I was dressed as Flora," she finally admitted.
Camelia's brows rose. "Flora?"
"The goddess of flowers," Margaret explained.
Iris looked at her knowingly. "That sounds rather provocative."
"It was a masquerade, Iris. Everyone was dressed provocatively."
"Was everyone proposing marriage afterwards?"
Margaret sighed. "No."
Camelia laughed, and Margaret gave her a warning look before picking up another ribbon.
"I have accepted his proposal," she said, attempting to steer the conversation towards safer ground.
"Though I am not entirely certain whether trading Harrowby for the Duke of Ravenfield is truly an improvement. "
Iris stopped walking. Margaret turned towards her. "What?"
"The Duke of Ravenfield is attractive," Iris declared with complete seriousness. "Harrowby looks like a worn leather pouch."
Margaret stared at her. Then she laughed.
She laughed so suddenly and so loudly that several shoppers turned to look at them. Camelia covered her own mouth, though her shoulders shook with amusement.
"Iris!" Margaret protested, still laughing. "That is dreadful."
"It is accurate," Iris replied, entirely unrepentant. "I have never seen a man whose face appears to have been folded, stored in a cupboard, and forgotten for several years."
Camelia finally lost the battle and laughed aloud. "She does have a point."
Margaret tried to compose herself, though the image of Geoffrey as a neglected leather pouch had already lodged firmly in her mind. "You are both terrible."
"We are your sisters," Iris said, linking her arm through Margaret's. "It is our duty."
Camelia picked up a length of burgundy ribbon and examined it critically. "And there is another matter. Harrowby has no finances. He will use your dowry within a month, and then what? The man was in prison for God knows what. He is a terrible man. The Duke of Ravenfield is…"
Margaret's smile faded slightly. "What?"
"The Duke is stable," Camelia continued, her tone becoming more practical. "He has an excellent income, a substantial estate, and every advantage that comes with his title. You would never have to worry about money."
Did she try to hide something from me? I know that look.
There was something comforting about the certainty of it all.
With Geoffrey, she had always imagined herself counting coins, protecting household expenses, and watching her inheritance disappear beneath foolish gambling debts.
Pierce, by contrast, seemed to possess an almost intimidating command over every aspect of his life.
He had money, influence, property, and the sort of authority that made other men step aside without being asked.
It ought to have been reassuring. Instead, Margaret found herself thinking about his eyes.
She turned towards another display of ribbons and reached for one that was a delicate shade of cream, threaded with tiny embroidered flowers.
She held it against her glove and studied the colour.
For one absurd moment, she imagined it woven into the details of a wedding gown.
She saw herself walking down an aisle again, but this time there was no Geoffrey waiting at the altar. There was Pierce.
The thought made her heart give an unexpected little flutter.
She imagined his expression as she approached him, his dark hair neatly arranged, those remarkable mismatched eyes fixed upon her. She imagined standing beside him as his wife, carrying his child in her arms perhaps, and becoming the mistress of Ravenfield. The image felt strangely natural.
Margaret immediately lowered the ribbon.
What on earth am I thinking?
She had spent days insisting that this was a practical arrangement. She would gain freedom from Geoffrey, Pierce would gain a mother for his son, and neither of them expected love. That was the agreement.
Simple. Sensible. Entirely manageable.
So why had she just imagined her wedding day?
"Margaret?" Iris asked.
She looked up quickly. "Yes?"
"You have been staring at that ribbon for nearly a minute."
Margaret glanced down at it. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous," Camelia observed.
Margaret gave her a look. "I was considering whether it would suit my gown."
Iris's expression softened with understanding. "Your wedding gown?"
Margaret hesitated. "Yes," she admitted.
Camelia smiled. "Then you have accepted this marriage more completely than you realize."
Margaret looked back at the ribbon, suddenly unable to meet either sister's eyes.
Perhaps she had.
And perhaps the most dangerous part of marrying Pierce Sterling was not becoming his duchess.
Perhaps it was discovering that she was beginning to want to be his wife.
* * *
"Your Grace, Lord Harrowby has called upon you," Mrs. Norris announced, standing perfectly straight at the study door with the expression she reserved for visitors she considered particularly unpleasant.
Pierce looked up from the letter in his hand. "Harrowby?" The name alone was enough to sour his mood.
"Yes, Your Grace," Mrs. Norris replied. "He is waiting in the drawing room, and I confess I was tempted to tell him you had been called away to Scotland."
Pierce's mouth twitched. "You should have."
"I thought so," she said, "but I suspected you would prefer to deal with the nuisance yourself."
Pierce found Harrowby standing before the fireplace when he entered the drawing room. The man looked precisely as Pierce remembered him from the church, red hair, freckles, a severe nose, and an expression that suggested the world had been created specifically to deny him whatever he wanted.
Harrowby turned and bowed with exaggerated politeness. "Your Grace."
Pierce inclined his head. "Lord Harrowby." He gestured towards the chairs. "Sit."
Harrowby remained standing. Pierce took his own seat regardless. He had never understood why men believed refusing a chair somehow strengthened their position.
"I shall make this brief," Harrowby announced, folding his hands behind his back. "I have come to inform you that I will not release Lady Margaret from the contract."
Pierce regarded him steadily. "I did not ask whether you intended to release her."
"Then you misunderstand me," Harrowby replied with a smug smile. "That contract has existed for years. I have been waiting for my opportunity to enforce it, and I shall not surrender my right simply because you have decided you want the girl."
Pierce felt something cold settle behind his ribs.
The word right, coming from this man, sounded almost obscene.
Harrowby had been rescued by the very family he now intended to exploit, and he had repaid their kindness by attempting to claim their daughter as though she were an object left in an inheritance chest.
"You have an unusual understanding of gratitude," Pierce observed quietly. "The Wilmore family supported you when you had nothing. They gave you opportunities you squandered, and now you intend to repay them by forcing their daughter into a marriage she does not want."
Harrowby's expression hardened. "Sentiment does not alter a legal agreement."
"No," Pierce said, reaching for a document in his coat pocket. He set it upon the table. "But consequences can."
He pushed the deed across the polished surface. "You will sign this."
Harrowby approached it and stared at it. "I cannot."
"You can." Pierce's voice remained calm. "And you will."
Harrowby gave a nervous laugh. "You cannot force me."
Pierce leaned back in his chair, his expression almost bored. "You have been convicted of serious offenses and spent seventeen years in prison.
With your history, it would require remarkably little effort to make certain the authorities take another interest in you."
Harrowby's face paled.
Pierce continued evenly, "I would rather not do it. I am offering you an alternative."
"What alternative?" Harrowby demanded.
"You sign the deed, leave London, and begin an honest life elsewhere." Pierce tapped the document once with his finger. "Consider it a token of my appreciation. I will allow you to walk away with your dignity intact, provided you possess enough of it to sign."