But she would need to tread carefully. Lewis Upchurch might be a good catch, but he would not be an easy one, and she was by no means certain of her ability to snare him. For a moment she stood where she was, shocked by her mercenary thoughts.
A few years ago, when she learned of the inheritance coming to her upon her twenty-fifth birthday, she’d thought she had no need to marry. Great Aunt Josephine, a spinster herself, had seen to that. Margaret had planned to take her time, marry for love or not at all. But with the odious man beside her determined to spoil that plan, she was willing to compromise. She would never marry a man she loathed, but she could marry charming, handsome Lewis Upchurch. She had been quite infatuated with him once. Had even rejected his brother in hopes of winning him. And Lewis, she believed, had admired her. He had certainly flirted with her.
But then her beloved father had died, and Margaret had lost interest in Lewis Upchurch and society at large. She had remained home in mourning for more than a year. When she had reentered society earlier this season, Lewis had shown renewed if sporadic interest in her, but nothing had come of it. Was she too late?
Pushing back her shoulders, Margaret removed her mask and steeled her resolve. Enticing a proposal from Lewis Upchurch was her best hope, her only plan for escaping the Benton house and the vile snare set for her by Sterling and his nephew.
As if her thoughts, her intentions, had been declared aloud, the young man beside her stiffened. She risked a glance at Marcus Benton and found him following the direction of her gaze across the room. His wide-set catlike eyes narrowed. He looked at her, smile smug beneath his pug nose. He was not a tall man, only an inch or so taller than she. Dark tousled hair fell over his forehead in imitation of casual ease, yet she knew his valet had spent half an hour arranging it. She had once thought Marcus handsome, but no longer.
He took her arm, but she shrugged it off. Inhaling deeply, Margaret strode across the ballroom, empty now between dances. At the head of the room, musicians relaxed over punch and ale, laughing amongst themselves. Directly ahead of her, Lewis Upchurch faced Mr. Saxby and the woman she did not recognize. Like Margaret, her face was exposed. She wore the clingy Grecian robes of a Diana. Margaret would have liked to speak to Lewis alone, but she dared not wait or her courage would fail her. Perhaps the other couple would excuse themselves.
Margaret bolstered herself by remembering that Lewis had shown particular interest in her in the past, seeking her out for dancing, escorting her in to supper on several occasions, calling the next morning as etiquette required. Lewis had been pleasant and attentive, not to mention heartbreakingly handsome. But he had never proposed. Perhaps she had not encouraged him properly. After all, she had been in no hurry to marry.
Until now.
Besides Marcus Benton, only one man had ever proposed marriage to her, and that had been two years ago, before Lewis returned from the West Indies and turned her head. The memory of the way she had coldly and abruptly rejected Nathaniel Upchurch, Lewis’s younger brother, still brought a stab of guilt. Nathaniel would have married her once, but she had certainly crushed any feelings he held for her. At all events, Nathaniel was far away in Barbados, and had been for nearly two years, managing the family’s sugar interests in Lewis’s stead. Even Nathaniel—meek, pale, studious, bespectacled younger son that he was—would have been a better fate than Marcus Benton.
Margaret smiled as she neared the trio, hoping no one noticed her brazen approach. She willed Lewis to look her way, hoping his face would light up when he saw her. She paused before them and Lewis glanced over, but her appearance brought no light to his countenance. If anything, caution shadowed his dark eyes, at least that was how her insecure soul read his expression.Don’t appear too eager,she reminded herself. A man like Lewis Upchurch was accustomed to desperate women and their desperate mammas throwing themselves at him. She must be careful.
“Miss Macy,” he acknowledged politely.
She nodded at him, then turned her most beguiling smile—she hoped—on his friend instead. “Mr. Saxby. You may not remember me, but I was at school with your sister, Lavinia.”
Piers Saxby was a few years older than Lewis, his features somewhat ordinary. But he invariably embellished his appearance with all the trappings of a dandy: fine clothes, quizzing glass, and snuffbox.
The man’s dull grey eyes lit with recognition if not interest. “Ah, Miss Macy, of course. Indeed, I recall Lavinia mentioning your name.” He bowed, and Margaret dipped a curtsy sure to show off her feminine curves. She hoped Lewis was watching.
But when she glanced back up, her heart fell. For Lewis had already returned his attention to the woman beside him. The very beautiful woman, Margaret now saw at closer range.
Sensing her gaze, Lewis Upchurch cleared his throat and said dutifully, “Miss Macy. Have you met the lovely Miss Lyons?”
Margaret turned to the striking brunette. “I have not had that pleasure.”
“Then allow me. Miss Barbara Lyons, may I present Miss Margaret Macy. I believe you are acquainted with her stepfather, Sterling Benton?”
The woman’s dark eyes sparkled. “Indeed I am. An exceedingly handsome man and most charming too. Do you not find him so, Miss Macy? Why, if he were my stepfather I should never leave home.”
Margaret swallowed the hot retort burning her throat and pasted on a false smile. “I don’t actually think of Mr. Benton as a stepfather, as I was already grown when he married my mother.”
“Quite right, Miss Macy.” Barbara Lyons grinned. “If I were you I should not care to think of such a man as my stepfather either.”
Margaret shuddered at the woman’s innuendo.
“How you must enjoy living in Mr. Benton’s fine house in Berkeley Square,” the woman added.
Margaret noticed neither she nor Saxby showed any sign of leaving Lewis’s side.
“I miss the country, actually,” Margaret replied. “And from where do you hail, Miss Lyons?”
“Ah, you must excuse us, Miss Macy,” Lewis Upchurch interrupted. “For Miss Lyons here has promised me the next dance, and the musicians are even now preparing to play.”
“Oh... of course,” Margaret faltered, observing with chagrin that as yet only one musician had returned to his place. “Em... enjoy your dance.” She again curtsied and turned away.
It hadn’t been thecut direct, but close to it. Cheeks flaming, she walked toward the door, trying not to hurry, hoping her mortification was not obvious to the milling throngs. Nor to Marcus Benton.
She escaped the ballroom and hastened across the hall to the salon designated as the ladies’ dressing room for the evening. Inside, her friend Emily Lathrop tied a cloak about her shoulders and replaced her reticule over gloved wrist.
“Emily! How glad I am to see you. Are you leaving already?”
