Chapter 8
Margaret sat at the breakfast table with her hands folded neatly in her lap, though she had very little interest in the plate before her.
The silver and crystal gleamed on the entire table and seemed unnecessarily splendid for a meal that consisted largely of eggs, toast, and her father's increasingly passionate discussion of ham.
Bernard, Earl of Lempster, had been speaking about it for several minutes with the seriousness of a man addressing Parliament.
"I must say," Bernard remarked, cutting another slice and examining it approvingly, "this ham is remarkably moist." He looked around the table as though expecting everyone to appreciate the significance of the observation. "One cannot always rely upon the kitchen to achieve such a result."
Margaret smiled despite herself. "I am delighted to know that, Papa."
Her father looked pleased. "It is important to recognise excellence when one encounters it."
Camelia, seated beside her husband, Raph, lifted her teacup to conceal a smile. Their one-year-old daughter, Bethany, sat beside her mother in a high chair, enthusiastically attempting to feed herself and succeeding primarily in decorating her face with porridge.
Raph watched his daughter with an expression of paternal resignation. "I believe Bethany has discovered another excellent use for breakfast."
Margaret glanced at her niece. "She appears to have eaten half of it."
"Indeed," Camelia replied, gently wiping porridge from Bethany's cheek. "The other half is on her."
Before Bernard could offer another opinion about the ham, the door opened and Iris entered with her husband, Blais, both looking considerably more awake than Margaret felt.
"Good morning," Iris said, removing her gloves as she crossed the room. "Have we missed anything?"
"Only Father's lecture on ham," Margaret replied.
Blais took his seat. "Then I am sorry to have arrived late."
Bernard frowned mildly. "It was not a lecture. It was an observation."
"Of course," Iris said with a smile, taking her seat. "We should never confuse the two."
The family laughed, and for one brief moment Margaret allowed herself to relax. It felt almost like an ordinary morning, which was perhaps why the arrival of the servant startled her so badly.
The young footman entered carrying a silver salver and approached her with a respectful bow. "My lady, a letter has just arrived for you."
Margaret's stomach tightened before she had even seen the handwriting. "For me?" She accepted the envelope and turned it over, recognising the seal immediately. Her pulse quickened.
Pierce.
Every conversation at the table seemed to fade as she broke the seal.
She unfolded the letter and read the short message.
It informed her, with the same restrained efficiency that seemed to characterize everything about the Duke of Ravenfield, that the matter had been settled.
She had been formally released from her marriage contract with Harrowby.
There was no longer any obstacle to her freedom.
Then she reached the final line.
Tomorrow they would be married.
Margaret read it twice. Then a third time.
"Margaret?" Iris asked, noticing her expression. "What is it?"
Margaret slowly lowered the letter. "It is from the Duke of Ravenfield."
Every face turned towards her.
"He says the matter has been settled," she continued, her voice sounding strangely distant to her own ears. "I have been released from the contract with Harrowby."
A collective breath seemed to leave the room.
Bernard's face brightened. "That is excellent news."
Margaret nodded faintly.
"And," she added, staring at the letter, "tomorrow we shall be married instead."
Silence descended over the breakfast table. Even Bethany seemed to pause in her assault upon the porridge.
"Tomorrow?" Margaret repeated, looking up at last. "So soon?"
Bernard recovered first. "Well, at least you are out of Harrowby's grasp. Is that not good news?"
"It is," Margaret replied automatically. Then she looked back at the letter. "I think."
Iris leaned forward, her brows drawn together. "Tomorrow is very fast."
"Extremely fast," Blais agreed. "For a wedding, I should think a little more notice would be considered courteous."
Camelia stared at the letter. "Does the duke truly expect you to be ready to marry tomorrow?"
Margaret looked at her helplessly. "Apparently."
Raph gave a low whistle. "That is remarkably short notice."
Bernard seemed torn between relief and concern. "Perhaps the Duke believes that since the legal difficulty has been resolved, there is no reason to delay."
Iris shook her head. "There is every reason to delay. Margaret needs time to prepare."
Margaret barely heard them.
The voices around her began to blend together as everyone offered an opinion.
Camelia questioned whether a wedding could be arranged so quickly.
Raph wondered whether the duke had already secured the church.
Blais muttered something about the absurdity of expecting a bride to prepare her wedding gown overnight.
Bernard attempted to defend Pierce's efficiency, insisting that the man had probably made all necessary arrangements in advance.
Margaret heard almost none of it. Her eyes remained fixed upon the letter in her hands.
Tomorrow.
The word seemed to grow larger with every passing second.
Tomorrow she would wake in this house for the last time as Margaret Wilmore. Tomorrow she would leave Lempster House and become the Duchess of Ravenfield. Tomorrow she would stand beside Pierce Sterling and promise to remain his wife.
Her heart gave an alarming little flutter. She remembered the library.
His eyes. His hands upon her waist. The kiss.
Margaret immediately pushed the memory away.
This was ridiculous. She had agreed to a practical arrangement. Nothing more. She was not supposed to be thinking about his mouth, his voice, or the way he had looked at her when he told her she would be his.
And yet, beneath the nervousness, something else stirred.
Anticipation.
She would live at Ravenfield. She would become mistress of a duke's household. She would help care for Hugh. She would sleep under the same roof as Pierce.
Margaret swallowed. That last thought was considerably less practical than the others.
"Margaret?" Camelia said gently.
Margaret looked up. Her family had fallen quiet again, all of them watching her.
"I am fine," she assured them, offering a smile that felt less convincing than she intended. "Truly."
Iris reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "You do not have to pretend with us."
"I know."
And that was precisely why Margaret loved them.
She looked down at her untouched breakfast and tried to imagine herself leaving this room tomorrow. The familiar walls, the voices, the laughter, the comfort of knowing exactly where she belonged would all become memories.
This time tomorrow, she would be the Duchess of Ravenfield.
She would never again sleep in her own home as an unmarried woman.
Margaret drew a slow breath. The thought frightened her. It thrilled her.
And, much to her annoyance, it made her wonder whether Pierce had chosen tomorrow because he was impatient to make her his wife, or because he had already realized that if he gave her too much time to think, she might change her mind.
* * *
After breakfast, Margaret escaped to her bedchamber with Iris and Camelia following close behind, only to discover that escaping one form of chaos had merely led her into another.
Her sisters immediately began opening wardrobes, examining gowns, pulling ribbons from drawers, and discussing wedding attire as though Margaret had not been informed only an hour ago that she was to be married the following day.
Margaret sat upon the edge of her bed and watched them with the dazed expression of someone who had somehow wandered into another person's life. She still could not quite believe that tomorrow she would be Pierce Sterling's wife.
"I shall wear the same dress that I wore with Harrowby," Margaret announced, attempting to settle the matter before either sister could become more energetic.
"It is perfectly respectable, and I have no intention of spending an entire day running about London because a duke has suddenly decided to marry me. "
Camelia emerged from the wardrobe holding a pale blue sash. "That dress is bad luck."
Margaret stared at her. "Bad luck?"
"It was the dress you wore when you were supposed to marry Harrowby," Camelia explained, as though the answer were obvious. "Therefore, it is contaminated."
"Contaminated?"
"With bad memories," Iris clarified, though she was already examining Margaret's gloves. "Although I believe Camelia's word makes it sound considerably more dramatic."
"It is dramatic," Camelia insisted. "Margaret needs a new gown."
"I do not need a new gown," Margaret protested. "I need a moment to breathe."
Iris glanced at her sympathetically. "You can breathe whilst shopping."
Margaret groaned and sank back against the pillows.
Her sisters continued their discussion, but their voices became little more than background noise.
A new dress seemed absurdly unimportant when compared with the reality waiting for her tomorrow.
She was going to marry Pierce. The thought pressed upon her with a strange heaviness, one that had nothing to do with Geoffrey Harrowby's discarded contract.
I had agreed to this. I had chosen it.
That was the part she kept reminding herself.
Yet she was still marrying a man she did not love.
Worse, she scarcely knew him. She knew that he was commanding, secretive, stubborn, and maddeningly certain of himself.
She knew that he had a beautiful little boy who needed her.
She knew that when he looked at her with those mismatched eyes, something inside her responded in a way she had no intention of examining too closely.
And she knew what had happened in his library.
Margaret's cheeks warmed.
That was precisely the memory she needed to avoid.