Chapter 14- Margaret
Late that night, Margaret stared up at her dark canopy and chewed her lower lip. Though many young ladies in the ton would have lost sleep due to sheer delight and anticipation of what tomorrow might hold, Margaret instead was consumed by the pit of dread in her stomach.
She could barely remember what their conversation had consisted of, once Ettrick had insisted he was there to visit her.
She had been dazed, shocked into some compliant sort of pudding that quivered internally with nerves and was only capable of giving one-word answers to the man’s thoughtful questions.
It was hardly her fault. The Duke of Ettrick was almost too handsome up close—this she already knew.
However, the night prior, Margaret had felt so embarrassed she’d hardly met his eyes, let alone studied his face.
But in the clear light of the parlor, with the two of them sitting side by side near a window, Margaret couldn’t help but admire the strong features of his face, each perfectly wrought in a balance of masculinity and proportion.
There was no part of him—eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, or forehead—that could have been called feminine. Each would have looked out of place on a lady’s face. Yet there was something beautiful about the whole of his visage all the same.
And perhaps his handsomeness could have been discounted if the man had been a poor conversationalist, if he were boring, slow, or uncouth.
Sadly, such was not the case. The Duke of Ettrick had observed every social nicety, his manners were all that were pleasing, and he had set such a marked attention on Margaret that Claire had inquired about his visit at the dinner table.
Margaret had shrugged it off, saying that they had been introduced the night before, and she thought the duke was simply dipping his toe into the courting pond—which, in his case, was less a pond and more of a sucking whirlpool.
Margaret hadn’t waited to see how her explanation was received.
Instead, she’d deftly turned the conversation over to Claire’s visitors and Lily’s in turn.
There was much to speak of on both accounts, but particularly regarding the sheer number of gentlemen who had trotted in and out of their parlor to sip tea and stare at Miss Lily Preston.
Only Margaret knew the truth of the duke’s visit. The gentleman had told her that he planned on visiting her again on the morrow. Though his words had sparked a delicious flame of anticipation, it was buried very deep, below thick clay layers of apprehension.
Now, instead of delighting in them, Margaret listed the duke’s attributes as charges against his character, against his truthfulness. He was handsome, supposedly wealthy, and in possession of the most esteemed title one could ask for.
He was young, cheerful, obliging, and, though her senses had been half deadened by shock at his presence next to her, she had to admit that his stories of Scotland were interesting. In fact, she wanted to hear more. What a terrifying thought.
His excellent attributes weren’t reasons why Margaret should accept him. Instead, they were reasons why this entire thing was as implausible as flying a hot air balloon across the Atlantic.
In the dark and privacy of her bedroom, Margaret’s doubts bloomed and sent out tendrils of fast growth. There was no possible way, she reasoned, that a gentleman of his position should be interested in her. If it were a great beauty he wanted, then Lily or Miss Dahlia Warrington would be his aim.
If it were connection to the family in general—if, for instance, the duke wished to be connected to William for some advantageous reason, such as sea trade or the like, then Claire would have been his object.
She was the eldest and the most appropriate choice for a marriage based on uniting two families.
Margaret imagined them next to each other. Claire, with her cold imposing beauty, would make a very fine duchess indeed. The two of them would walk into any ballroom, Claire would look round with her frosty, imperious gaze, and everyone would agree that they were beneath her, beneath them.
Even Lily would have been a better choice. Margaret imagined that all the painters in the world would weep tears of gratitude if they were commissioned to paint that particular family portrait. As incomparably beautiful as Lily was, the Duke of Ettrick was her equal in masculine handsomeness.
But Margaret? Next to Claire and Lily, or even Beatrice, choosing Margaret made no sense at all. She groaned and rubbed at her face in frustration.
Margaret considered herself a very logical, rational person.
She took pride in the practicality of her own self-evaluation.
She believed she knew exactly what she was—physically speaking—and also had a decent grasp of who she was, which was far more than the average twenty-three year old English lady could claim.
Other ladies seemed to spend much of their time sitting before reflective surfaces without actually seeing themselves at all.
Such ladies believed that a gown or a new set of ribbons altered their worth along with their appearance.
Margaret flipped back her bedclothes and sighed. She couldn’t fall asleep. Her mind was too busy, too full of the duke—not only of the things he’d told her, his handsome face, and the accent that sent shivers dancing down her spine, but of his possible motivations.
What could have enticed Ettrick to court her? And—even more frightening—why did she want him to continue doing so, deep down?
She was struck with sudden terror—she realized she’d experienced the same thrilling anticipation before. Margaret drew a sharp gasp as the memory engulfed her.
As far as garden parties went, the one hosted by the Earl and Countess Montrose was one of Margaret’s favorites.
Of course, at eight years old, Margaret wasn’t all that discerning.
But they had made iced cream, and Margaret dearly loved the stuff.
Besides, her dress was very pretty, she thought, nearly as pretty as Claire’s.
Margaret supposed it was only natural that her elder sisters wouldn’t want to spend time with her at such an event.
They had their own friends. Claire was off somewhere, presumably chasing Michael Barrows through the bushes to prove that she was just as fast as he was.
Lily was sitting at their mother’s side, and Beatrice was probably up in a tree somewhere.
Unfortunately, this left Margaret to the tender care of her contemporaries, one of whom was Daisy Knope.
Margaret was exploring the garden paths, gravel crunching beneath her feet, when it happened. Daisy and her friend Millicent rounded the corner. Each of them wore pastel dresses and bows at the ends of their perfect plaits.
Margaret had started out the same, but she’d already tripped and caked her stockinged knees in dirt, and one of her blonde braids had come undone. Margaret had done her best to retie the two plaits together with the remaining ribbon.
Margaret took a deep breath, steeling herself. Daisy’s and Millicent’s eyes latched onto her as if they’d been looking for her.
“Your dress is very pretty, Margaret,” Daisy said.
Though Daisy said such with a rather pinched expression, Margaret still felt the full force of a compliment from a girl who had only sneered at her previously.
“Yes,” Millicent agreed, “it’s very nice.”
In retrospect, the compliments should have been Margaret’s first clue that something was gravely amiss, but she reacted like a sun-choked plant under its first spring rain. She drank the attention greedily, heedless of the source.
Margaret gave a wide smile, pushing an errant strand of blonde hair out of her face. “Thank you. I like yours as well.”
It was then that Daisy’s younger brother John joined their grouping. Daisy gave him a meaningful glance, one that Margaret would replay in her mind for years to come. John turned to Margaret, though he wouldn’t meet her eyes for more than half a second.
“Would you like to walk with me in the gardens?” he asked, rather begrudgingly.
Margaret blinked her surprise and awkwardly barked her assent. She had never been asked to walk with a boy before, though of course she had heard of such things from her elder sisters.
Later, she would lament the foolish pride that had her thinking how delightful it would be to inform Claire and Lily that John Knope had spoken to her alone.
But in the moment, Margaret was only overcome with the joyous rapture of being singled out in such a way.
They walked down the gravel pathway in the garden that led to some sort of greenhouse, or so she thought.
In the end, they never made it to their destination.
John paid her several clumsy compliments that had Margaret blushing furiously. Then abruptly, he turned, leaned forward, and kissed her.
John’s breath smelled of the egg salad sandwiches that the Montroses had been serving. Margaret’s nose wrinkled, but her heart galloped. She had heard rumors of such a thing.
Those stories had been whispered and giggled about, as if kissing was the most wonderful thing in the world.
Margaret was disappointed to find out that the effect of it had been largely exaggerated.
It was much like her first experience eating meringue—the anticipation had far outstripped the reality.
As the kiss drew on, Margaret thought she would much prefer the chalky, spongy feel of meringue in her mouth, rather than John’s lips upon hers. She drew back with a grimace, convinced that the thing must be well over by then. Surely a kiss didn’t have to last quite so long, did it?
But even though she found the kiss distasteful, something in her heart soared, for she had never had a boy pay any sort of attention to her, and she knew his attention set her apart from both her peers and her sisters.
Margaret felt a private sort of satisfaction. Here: finally, something interesting had happened to her. She was no longer the one left behind, no longer the one only pretending to understand such things. She could join in the conversation. She finally belonged.
Yet, just as those comforting feelings settled in her midsection, just as she smiled shyly up at John and wondered why he wasn’t smiling back and whether she had kissed him all wrong or not kissed him long enough, that was precisely when Daisy and Millicent burst from the bushes.
Daisy wore a victorious expression, her eyes blazing, her lips peeled back in a vicious laugh. Millicent was also smiling, but there was something like hesitancy about her eyes.
Daisy snarled, “Don’t think I haven’t seen how you’ve looked at him. As if the heir to my father’s title would ever look at you in such a way!”
Margaret frowned, for she had never looked at John in any different way than she had looked at Daisy herself.
“Tell her, John!” Daisy crowed. “Tell her how fat and ugly she is!”
John just stared at the ground and shook his head, his jaw clenched.
Margaret’s breath came faster and faster, in silent, heaving sobs. Then she’d turned and ran, her eyes blinded by tears. Daisy chased after her and pelted her with handfuls of gravel until she tripped and fell and Margaret managed to escape.
Now, Margaret sat up with a start in bed, sweat beading along her forehead.
A sliver of moonlight speared through the crack in the curtains, bisecting her bedroom rug neatly down the center.
The low glow of the grate was the only other light.
But for the first time since the duke had entered her parlor, Margaret thought she saw things clearly.
Why, this was all a ruse, just like what happened with John all those years ago.
The pieces certainly fit. Margaret had seen Daisy and the duke together. Then, out of the blue, he had paid her pointed attention—attention which could not be explained by anything else.
The only thing Margaret could not figure was how Daisy had become acquainted with the duke in the first place, and how she’d convinced him to do such a terrible thing to Margaret. But then, elegant, wealthy men were often looking for new sorts of amusements, things past horse racing and gambling.
Margaret set her jaw. She would not be fooled this time. She would not be wheedled and wooed into a position that would only lead to her humiliation. If the duke crossed her threshold tomorrow, he would find Margaret much altered—and much better prepared.