Page 19 of Duke of Gold
Peggy chuckled softly, though the tightness in her chest made her smile falter. “I am hardly a baby anymore, Lizzy.”
“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth conceded, her eyes glistening as she reached out to clasp Peggy’s hand. “But you will always be my younger sister, and today, I could not be prouder.”
Peggy murmured her thanks, her voice faltering as she blinked back tears. Their uncle’s voice from the doorway saved her from becoming wholly undone. “Come along, girls,” he called warmly, beckoning them. “We are waiting in the drawing room.”
The ceremony passed in what felt like the blink of an eye. It was an intimate affair, attended only by her immediate family, Elizabeth’s husband—Alexander Hunton, the Duke of Sterlin, who happened to be an old acquaintance of Giltford’s—the ever-amiable Marquess of Broughton, and Giltford’s solicitor.
Before Peggy had fully gathered her bearings, she was Margaret Down, Duchess of Giltford. The title rang hollow in her ears, foreign and unfamiliar. She offered the requisite smiles, her every movement controlled, but the enormity of what had just transpired left her feeling unsteady.
“Oh, I have not seen you for years, and the first time that I do, it happens to be on your wedding day,” said Alexander, extending his hand to Giltford after the ceremony.
“And it appears we are now brothers,” Giltford replied, his tone cool and devoid of enthusiasm.
Peggy watched them converse, her attention drawn not to their words but to the strange weight of the wordhusbandas it echoed in her thoughts. Her husband. How foreign it sounded, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
As the gentlemen exchanged pleasantries, Peggy turned to bid farewell to her family. Each goodbye tightened the knot in herchest. She was leaving not just her home, but the people who had been her world.
Her uncle approached first, his voice thick with emotion as he kissed her forehead and cheeks in turn. “Be a good girl, Margaret,” he said, his smile wavering. “I shall miss you more than I can say.”
“I shall miss you too, Uncle,” Peggy replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she clung to his hand.
Anna embraced her next, her grip firm and protective. “I am but a missive away,” she said, her voice quiet yet resolute. “If ever you find yourself in need of anything—anythingat all, Peggy.”
Peggy nodded, feeling the unspoken concern in Anna’s gaze. Her cousin’s skepticism of Giltford had never been a secret, and Peggy did not fault her for it. She herself still felt a lingering unease. But the time for doubts had passed; she had made her choice.
Finally, Petunia stepped forward, her expression inscrutable as she pressed a small pouch into Peggy’s hand. “Take this,” her aunt whispered. “In case you find yourself in need of it.”
Peggy blinked, confused. “What is it, Auntie?” She moved to open the pouch, but Petunia stopped her with a raised hand.
“It is salt,” Petunia whispered conspiratorially. “They say it wards off spirits .”
“Salt?” Peggy repeated, her brows shooting up in disbelief.
“Not so loud, dear,” Petunia hissed, glancing about as though they were discussing the most dire of secrets.
Anna, who had lingered nearby, burst into laughter. “You cannot truly believe such nonsense, Auntie.”
Petunia’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Of course not, but it costs me nothing to indulge in a bit of precaution.”
Peggy managed a laugh, shaking her head at her aunt’s peculiarities. Under different circumstances, she might have found the exchange wholly amusing. As it was, the weight of the day pressed heavily upon her. Yet, despite everything, her aunt’s absurd gesture brought a flicker of warmth to her heart. It was an odd expression of care, but one she would carry with her.
“What is the salt for?” Elizabeth whispered, her tone a mixture of amusement and bafflement as she arched a questioning brow.
“I will explain later,” Anna replied, her chuckle barely suppressed as she glanced toward their aunt.
Petunia, however, remained steadfast in her peculiarities. “Well, one can never be too careful,” she said with a shrug before turning her full attention to Peggy. She cupped Peggy’s flushed cheeks with warm, steady hands. “Be safe, my child. I love you,” she said softly, her voice trembling with emotion.
The tenderness of her words undid Margaret completely. A knot of emotion lodged itself in her throat, and before she could stop herself, tears slipped down her cheeks. She pulled Petunia into a long, fervent embrace, holding tightly to the woman who had been both guardian and mother in so many ways.
As they stood there, Margaret felt something nudge against her foot. She glanced down, startled, to see Titan, his small grey body squatting sedately at her feet. It was so unlike his usual antics that she blinked, half expecting him to spring into one of his customary frenzies.
“Oh, look at you,” she murmured, crouching to scoop him up. “I am going to miss fighting you over my sausages every morning.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and Titan responded with an enthusiastic lick to her cheek.
“That tickles,” Peggy chuckled, her tears mingling with laughter as she cradled the pug against her chest.
Plato, the ever-gentle Newfoundland, padded forward and let out a low, mournful howl. Margaret reached out to scratch him beneath his bushy ears, her fingers sinking into his thick fur. “I’ll miss you too, Plato,” she said softly, melancholy in her voice.
Before she could linger further in the bittersweet moment, Giltford’s imposing figure appeared in the doorway. “It is time to leave,” he announced, his tone calm but leaving no room for delay.
