“Good. I was afraid you had changed your mind and come back for him.”
Margaret shook her head. “No.” She had not come backforhim. Not in that sense. Though she did hope to end his engagement to Caroline. But that sounded too incredible to say out loud, and she hadn’t the energy for long explanations. She simply squeezed her friend’s hand and took her leave.
When Margaret arrived at Berkeley Square, the butler opened the door, his normally implacable expression cracking with surprise.
“Miss Macy! You’re... We were not expecting you. Uh... welcome. Welcome home.”
It still wasn’t home. Never would be. But she smiled at the man. “Thank you, Murdoch.”
She felt the weariness creeping into her bones, leaching her strength. She thought facetiously,My inheritance for a bath and a full night’s sleep...
Murdoch took her shawl and bonnet.
She asked, “Is my mother at home?”
“No, miss. She’s gone out. Only the master is in at present. Shall I announce you?”
“Not just yet, please. I’d like to change first. Is there someone who might help me?”
“Of course, miss. Right away.”
The footman, Theo, who once made a nuisance of himself following her whenever she dared leave Berkeley Square, now became a godsend as he brought in the tub and carried up pail after pail of hot water with the help of a new housemaid.
Miss Durand, her mother’s lady’s maid, bustled in, praising God in rapid-fire French for Margaret’s safe return and lamenting the state of her hair, complexion, and hands. She added rose-scented bath salts to the water and helped Margaret undress, unpin her hair, and step into the tub. Margaret was too tired to object.
Miss Durand scrubbed her back and washed Margaret’s hair.Heavenly.Her scalp felt tingly clean, her skin warm and soft. She began to feel like her old self again.Is that a good thing?she wondered.
Miss Durand helped her into clean underthings, traditional long stays, which took her breath away, and an evening gown of pink and cream silk. Then she curled and dressed her hair. As the lady’s maid powdered Margaret’s nose, she lamented the slight pink tone. “Mademoiselle has been in ze sun, n’est-ce pas? On ze continent were you? Or ze coast?”
She hadn’t the heart to tell the woman she had forsaken a bonnet simply to gather flowers as a housemaid in a Kent garden. “I shall never tell,” Margaret said mysteriously.
The lady’s maid’s eyes lit with the glow of new tales to share in the housekeeper’s parlor.
“Well, it is ze Gowland’s Lotion for you, miss,” she said, prescribing the popular remedy for a whole host of ladies’ complexion complaints.
Miss Durand’s accent brought Monsieur Fournier to mind, and Margaret found herself smiling wistfully. She would miss the man—his desserts as well.
Margaret regarded herself in the looking glass. She had not looked as pretty in months. She had no wish to be vain, but she did want to feel as confident as she could before facing Sterling Benton.
She fingered the neckline of the gown, wishing she might wear the cameo necklace her father had given her. She blinked back tears.Ah well.
Rising, Margaret took a deep breath, steeling her resolve. It was now or never.
———
In rose satin slippers she skimmed down the stairs and into the drawing room. Sterling sat slumped in a high-backed chair near the fire, glass of brandy in his hand, staring at the flames.
He didn’t look over but must have heard her enter. Likely Murdoch had already shared the “good news” of her return.
“Come to gloat, have you?” he asked.
She frowned. “No.” She glanced around the empty room. “Mother is still out?”
“Apparently.”
She steeled herself. “Where is Marcus?”
He turned his head and frowned at her, eyes bleary, cheeks flushed. “Do you really not know, or are you merely pouring salt in the wound?”
