Page 81 of His Mad Duchess
Beatrice’s fingers tightened on hers, firm and imploring. “And what of love, Margaret? Would you cast it aside so lightly?”
Silence lingered, broken only by Miss Fortune’s indignant purr as Margaret’s arms tightened around her.
Margaret’s lips parted, then pressed into a thin line. When she spoke, her voice was low, raw. “Lightly? Do you think it light to cut away the very thing that keeps me breathing? To sever my heart from his, though it tears me with every moment? I do not cast it aside. I bury it. I bury it because love is not enough to shield him from what follows me.”
Beatrice reached for her hand, her touch steady, almost pleading. “Are you certain? Or are you only afraid?”
Margaret’s eyes shimmered then fell shut as though she could hide within the darkness.Afraid. The word burned because it was true. Afraid of loving him, afraid of losing him, afraid that what she felt could not survive his world or his mother’s gaze.
She drew a shaky breath, her voice dropping, quieter now, almost breaking. “It is over. Please do not ask me again.”
The words wavered, like glass about to splinter, but she clung to them all the same.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Cecily gave a small huff, reaching out to flick Miss Fortune’s ear. “Well, if nothing else, this drama has confirmed what I long suspected.”
Margaret blinked at her through damp lashes. “What is that?”
“That this cat thrives upon chaos. She looks positively smug.”
Miss Fortune flicked her tail, as though to seal the observation. Despite herself, Margaret let out a weak, broken laugh, and at once her cousins drew closer, enclosing her in their circle.
Several days had slipped by in a blur of sameness, each one marked by Margaret’s quiet retreat from the world. This morning, she sat curled in the window seat, absently stroking Miss Fortune’s silken ears, her gaze wandering over the garden without truly seeing it. The little black ball purred contentedly, a weight of warmth against her lap, when the door opened without warning. Aunt Agnes entered, composed as ever, her dark silk skirts whispering across the floor.
“Margaret,” she said briskly, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. “And you two as well. Cecily, Beatrice. Just the company I hoped to find. There is a matter that requires attending to.”
Margaret’s hand stilled in the cat’s fur. “What matter?”
Agnes folded her hands, her chin lifted in that unbending way that brooked no argument. “Madam Ellery has written. She has a set of new muslins and bonnets just in from Paris. I cannot leave the house this morning, and the season will not wait. Youthree must go and select what is needed. It will not do for our household to be wanting in appearances.”
Cecily nearly clapped her hands. “New muslins! Oh, Margaret, it will be delicious to see the fashions before anyone else does.”
Beatrice’s eyes brightened with quiet triumph. “And Mother never entrusts us with purchases of consequence. This is positively an adventure.”
Margaret’s stomach tightened. She clutched Miss Fortune closer, burying her fingers in her fur as if anchoring herself. “Surely the maid could go?—”
“Nonsense.” Agnes cut her off neatly. “A lady must be seen. A maid can fetch ribbons, but gowns? Bonnets? That requires an eye and a presence. Besides, the three of you will be noticed, and that will do us no harm.”
Margaret shook her head. “I am hardly fit to be seen. Truly, Aunt, I have no wish to parade myself like a mannequin for society.”
Cecily darted forward and tugged at her arm. “Margaret, you must come! We shall sit in the carriage together and gossip the whole way, and then argue dreadfully over which bonnet suits you best. You’ll not escape us.”
“I would rather stay here,” Margaret said firmly, pulling her arm back. “Miss Fortune requires my care. She has grown very attached to me, you see.”
At this, Beatrice let out a short laugh. “That wretched creature has been attached to you since the hour you set foot in this house. She will only curl up in another chair the moment you leave. She will survive an afternoon’s neglect.”
Margaret frowned, stroking Miss Fortune with deliberate tenderness. “She will pine.”
“She will nap,” Beatrice retorted, striding over to shoo the cat from Margaret’s lap. Miss Fortune leaped down with a disgruntled mrrp, tail lashing, before stalking to the hearth rug where she sat and licked her paw in lofty disdain. “There. Problem solved.”
Margaret rose half a hand in protest. “Beatrice?—”
“Is quite right,” Cecily cut in with bubbling cheer. “Besides, if you refuse, I will chatter about muslins and lace trimmings until you wish you had gone merely to escape me.”
Margaret groaned, exasperation breaking through her composure. “You make it sound as though I have no choice.”
“You do not,” Aunt Agnes said crisply, though her gaze softened just for an instant. “Now off with you, before the best of the bolts are snatched by Lady Haversham’s daughters.”
And that was that. By the time Cecily had reclaimed her arm and Beatrice had taken the other, Margaret found herself all but lifted from her seat, propelled toward the door on a tide of their excitement.
