Page 12 of Indecent Desires of a Proper Lady
Margaret flushed a deep crimson, and Juliet clapped with glee. “Now, you have given yourself away and you must tell me. I cannot resist anything to do with the goings-on between men and women. What did he say to you? When I came in to tell you about tea, the both of you looked as guilty as children.”
Margaret’s mouth was dry. “What do you mean, Juliet? What could there be to be guilty about?”
“I do not know. That is why you must tell me.” Juliet crossed her arms and sat smiling.
Margaret knew there would be no escaping. She was never very good at lying nor masking her emotions, and so the truth would have to be revealed. At least part of it.
“Fine. Have it your way. After I saw your gift, I embarrassingly burst into tears. I could not help it. It reminded me so of Father, and I have felt so besieged by grief of late that it all just flowed out of me without relenting.”
Juliet frowned. “I am sorry, Margaret. You must know that was not my intention.”
“Of course. But it was strange. I was embarrassed by my emotional display, but not as much as if it had been someone else. Philip’s presence was calm and steady. It was a comfort to me. He gave me his handkerchief. He told me that I could call upon him if I needed anything. That I was capable of doing anything I wished to do.”
Juliet lifted her brows. “My goodness, quite the words from handsome Mr. Winston. I hope he continues to visit us often, after such a long time away.”
Margaret sighed, recognizing that familiar glint in Juliet’s eye, but she did not want to even acknowledge it.
“And so? Do you believe him?”
Margaret thought for a moment. She hoped that she did. She wanted to desperately. The words he’d uttered were so strange and yet they had made her feel a most wonderful peace.
“I hope that I do,” she said softly.
“Good. Well, I suppose you are happy that Charles did not see you. He’s not as kind and understanding as Philip.”
Juliet was right. Margaret could not have ever seen Charles be so soft spoken or gentle. What was it that put Charles so high in her affections? What made him different from everyone else? Was it his eyes, his smile, the way he made jokes? The way he carried himself with confidence?
She sighed. “I suppose you are right. I do not think I could envision it either. But yes, I am grateful that it was Philip and not Charles who played audience to my tears.”
Juliet smiled and grasped her hand. “It is a rare man who is comforting, kind, and sweet all in one. Think on that, dear.”
Margaret stared off into the distance. “So it is. If only one could control the way their heart leads.”
“Perhaps there is more control there than we think. For sometimes, the heart may be misguided in its direction. Well, I hope that you will find the desire of your heart, Margaret, and that all of your dreams come true.”
Margaret wished for that too, but now after today, what were her dreams now? Philip had opened a door for her, and she was left at the threshold staring through it. Could she really pursue anything she desired?
Juliet continued. “Come now. Will you play? We could duet.”
“Let us. I might need a bit of practice after so many months.”
The two women sat in front of the pianoforte, and Margaret’s fingers moved gently over the keys, feeling for the first time in a long time that things were headed in a good direction.
* * *
Charles dropped Philip at Camden Manor before going on his own way. Philip had made his promise not to tell anyone about what Charles had told him. He was walking inside when he turned and went back out again, hailing for his own carriage to take him to the gentleman’s club. If there was a time to get out one’s frustration by fencing, then today was the day, and he had no interest in speaking to his family at the moment. Philip’s mind felt full of too many things to count, and he wasn’t sure which of them to deal with first.
As soon as he entered the club, he hurried to the back room, and began to pull at his coat and waistcoat, desperate to get his hand around his sword. There were already some men in the training room, and when they saw Philip, they began to cheer loudly.
“Winston, come and join Fettington here!”
“Gladly,” he said. Philip didn’t care who he fought against, he just wanted to fence. He rolled up the sleeves of his white linen shirt to the elbow, and untied the cravat at his throat. Dropping his clothing to a chair, he took a sword from the footman at the door.
Arnold Fettington set up across from him, and the other men called out, “En garde!”
Philip moved forward, twisting his sword to the right and left, hitting against Arnold’s attempts each time. He blocked, he bent, and he ducked. He knew that he was the best fencer in the club by far, but the other men were tolerably well practiced, and it still gave him a chance to exercise.
Soon, he could feel a sheen of sweat on his chest and forehead, and he was breathing hard, trying to keep up with his opponent. Normally, fencing would push everything else from his mind as he focused solely on victory, but with each clang of the sword, he could picture Margaret’s crying face as she told him about her father.
