Page 8 of Duke of Gold
“Really, Mother ” Anna’s tone carried amusement. “How can one be both reclusive and notorious?”
Petunia shrugged, her smile indulgent. “The Duke of Giltford, apparently, has mastered the art.”
Anna scoffed lightly, shaking her head. Margaret, however, couldn’t summon even the faintest smile. Something about the name stirred an unsettling sense of familiarity, though she couldn’t quite place it.
The clatter of Petunia’s teacup on its saucer broke the stillness that had fallen over the breakfast room. Margaret’s gaze darted from her aunt’s startled expression to Anna’s wide-eyed stare. But neither matched the tight knot of unease twisting in Margaret’s stomach when the butler spoke again.
“The Duke of Giltford,” he repeated, his calm tone doing little to soften the bombshell he had just dropped.
Petunia gasped, her hand clutching the arm of her chair. “TheGiltford?”
Anna’s brow arched. “Surely not,” she murmured, though her curiosity flared in her tone.
Margaret, however, felt her breath catch. It couldn’t be. Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, she heard the tread of firm footsteps in the hall. The Duke was announced again as the butler opened the door wider, and there he was—towering, commanding, and utterly undeniable.
Her legs carried her to her feet before she could stop them. “You,” she managed, her voice breathless with disbelief.
His dark eyes locked onto hers, his expression inscrutable. “Indeed, Lady Margaret.” His tone carried a hint of dry amusement, as though her surprise amused him.
Her cheeks burned, and not just from recognition. In the clear light of day, he was even more striking. His finely tailoredcoat accentuated his broad shoulders, and his polished boots gleamed with a perfect shine . She could still picture the way the damp linen of his shirt had clung to him the night before—a thought she shoved away as quickly as it came.
“You’re Giltford?” she demanded, her voice louder than intended.
The Duke inclined his head, utterly unruffled. “I believe that was already established.”
“You two know each other?” Anna interjected, her tone sharp with intrigue.
Margaret opened her mouth, but words failed her. Before she could answer, Giltford stepped forward with the unflappable poise of a man accustomed to command. “Forgive my intrusion,” he began, his deep voice carrying a weight that silenced the room. “But I come with an urgent matter.”
Margaret’s brow furrowed. What could possibly?—?
His words sliced through the air like a blade. “I’ve come to offer for Lady Margaret’s hand in marriage. ”
Petunia let out a soft exclamation. “Oh goodness!”
Anna clutched the edge of the table. “You cannot be serious.”
Margaret, however, felt as though the room had tilted. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, stepping toward him. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her earlier disbelief giving way to shock.
Giltford’s gaze remained steady, impenetrable. “Come now, Lady Margaret. Surely you do not believe last night’s events will remain unspoken? The witnesses alone guarantee otherwise.”
Last night. Margaret’s mind scrambled, piecing together his meaning as dread coiled in her chest. “What happened last night?” Anna’s voice cut through Margaret’s growing panic, her words touched with suspicion.
Petunia’s sharp gaze darted between Margaret and the Duke. “Indeed, what happened?”
Before Margaret could stammer an answer, Giltford spoke, his tone cool and measured. “A misunderstanding by the fountain, witnessed by three others. Unfortunate circumstances, but circumstances nonetheless.”
“Oh dear,” Petunia murmured, her hand fluttering to her chest.
Anna’s eyes narrowed. “Margaret, why didn’t you tell us?”
Margaret’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She could feel her composure slipping, the weight of her family’s questions pressing heavily on her. “I—I didn’t want to worry you,” she admitted, her voice small. “And I was ashamed.”
Petunia softened instantly, reaching out to place a hand over Margaret’s. “My dear, there’s no need for shame.”
Anna’s expression thawed as well, her frown giving way to reluctant sympathy. “You could have come to us,” she said gently. “We’re your family.”
Margaret’s lips parted to respond, but before she could, Giltford interjected. “Charming as this moment of familial affection may be, it does not change the situation at hand.”
