Page 18 of His Mad Duchess
Cecily touched her elbow. “Do you want this?”
Margaret’s laugh broke out dry, brittle. “Want? What does that matter now?”
Beatrice folded her arms tight, like she was hugging her ribs back in place. “This is the best we could hope for, isn’t it? After… after the library? After everything?”
Aunt Agnes’ eyes snapped open. Whatever tremor had cracked her voice vanished behind a spine of iron she’d borrowed from the generation before her.
“Enough,” she said sharply, cutting through Beatrice’s half-formed protest. “If he’s given his word, we won’t waste time waiting for him to think twice. We’ll have you ready within the week.”
Margaret blinked at her aunt, too tired to argue. “Ready?”
“For the papers. The vows. All of it.” Aunt Agnes rose, smoothing her skirts with one precise sweep of her palms. “If he wants this done quietly, it will be quiet. No carriages rattling half of Mayfair awake, no fluttering maids. It’ll be quiet and fast. No chance for the Duke to change his mind. Beatrice?—”
Beatrice startled, chin jerking up. “Yes, Mama?”
“Find her something suitable to wear. Something plain, nothing to catch gossip. Your dove-gray silk or lilac will do—the one from your last supper with the Collingwoods.”
Beatrice’s mouth opened and closed, then she nodded once, turning for the stairs with her hand still half outstretched like she might catch Margaret before she fell.
Margaret found her voice as her aunt pivoted toward the hallway, already barking a quiet order at the footman who’d materialized near the door.
“Aunt, you don’t have to…”
“Quiet now, child.” Aunt Agnes’s tone gentled only a hair. “It must be done. Best done fast. Best done right.”
She turned, pinning Cecily with a glance that softened only when she saw the way Cecily’s arm looped protectively through Margaret’s.
“Stay with her,” she told Cecily. “Keep her calm.”
“I will,” Cecily said, squeezing Margaret’s wrist.
But Margaret’s gaze had dropped to the carpet, her lips pressing hard together, her shoulders drawn in as if bracing against a blow.
“And for heaven’s sake…” The older woman’s eyes moved to Margaret. “Don’t let anyone catch you weeping. It’s not a funeral. It’s a wedding, however it may feel to you.”
Beatrice paused at the stairs, voice softer than before. “I’ll press the sleeves, Maggie. It’ll fit you. It’ll be fine.”
Margaret only nodded, her lips parting around words she didn’t know how to hold. Cecily squeezed her hand once, fiercely enough to sting.
In the hallway, Aunt Agnes’s voice rose again—crisp orders to the staff, instructions about the solicitor, a note sent discreetly to the church.
Margaret stood by the window while Beatrice rummaged through the wardrobe, half her skirts already pinned up to keep them from dragging in the hearth’s ash. The lilac gown lay draped across the bed, last Season’s satin, too wide at the shoulders but good enough to make a respectable bride.
“Hold still,” Beatrice called over her shoulder, tugging out a petticoat and shaking the creases loose. “If we lace you tight, you won’t swim in it.”
Margaret huffed a laugh. “Lucky me. A perfect fit for a perfect match.”
Beatrice shot her a look that was half stern and half sorry. “It’s not as awful as all that.”
“Isn’t it?” Margaret pressed her palm to the cold windowpane. “A week ago, I was just the family curse in the corner. Now, I’m the warning tale they’ll pin to the end of every gossip column.”
Beatrice’s voice softened. “He could have refused. He didn’t.”
“And that makes him what? Noble?”
“It makes him decent.” Beatrice’s fingers paused at the gown’s wrinkled train. “And I suppose there are worse things than marrying a decent man. Even for you.”
Before Margaret could snap back, a sharp knock rattled the door. Cecily popped her head in, brows high. “You two dressing or fighting?”
