For a second he stood there, stilled, one hand grasping his brother’s cravat, his other fisted. Across the distance, his gaze met hers. Margaret sucked in a breath at the intensity in those eyes. Intense not with love or longing, but with undisguised disgust. His thin lips twisted into a scowl, making his long nose hawklike.
If she had thought Lewis’s recent snub painful, Nathaniel’s reaction felt far more cutting, though not a single word had been exchanged. It was as she had feared. He had never forgiven her and could not stand the sight of her.
Margaret turned, snagging Emily’s hand and pulling her away.
“What a brute!” Emily panted behind her. “Are you not glad you rejected him when you did?”
Margaretwasrelieved. How fierce he looked. She had never before been frightened of him, nor had she imagined him capable of violence.
Margaret paused only long enough to whisper in her mother’s ear that the Lathrops were taking her home, then hurried away before she might object. Distracted as she was by the fight, her mother vaguely nodded. Sterling stood several yards away, his gaze trained on four guests in regimentals escorting the Upchurch brothers from the room.
A married woman could not own
property, sign legal documents or enter into
a contract, or keep a salary for herself.
—the legal doctrine of Coverture,English Common Law
Chapter 2
On the short ride to Berkeley Square, Margaret remained quiet as Emily described the fight to her parents. Her mind was preoccupied, reviewing the disturbing images, the disturbing memories, and her utter failure to achieve her ends.
The stately coach halted before Sterling Benton’s tall, terraced town house, and Margaret thanked the Lathrops and bid them good-night. The groom handed her down, and she walked the few steps to the front door. When the liveried footman opened it for her, she did not miss the crease in his brow at seeing her arrive alone. Perhaps he feared Sterling might somehow blame him for failing in his watchdog duty.
Margaret sailed past the lackey without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. Crossing the hall, she lifted her skirt to avoid tripping as she climbed the many stairs.
Reaching the third level, she tiptoed first to Gilbert’s bedchamber. She peeked through the open door, getting a little lump in her throat to see her brother sprawled across the bed, hand under his cheek and hair askew, looking very much like the little boy she still thought him. She crept inside and pulled the bedclothes to his chin. Margaret prayed Sterling would not pull Gilbert from Eton as he threatened to do. Gil needed to learn all he could if he was to go on to Oxford and into the church, as their father had always hoped.
Next she stopped at her sister’s room. More modest than her brother, Caroline’s door was closed. Margaret inched it open and peered in, finding her asleep as well. At sixteen, Caroline would be attending balls very soon. Leaning over the bed, Margaret stroked the caramel-colored hair from her sister’s brow. How innocent she looked. How sweet. A swell of love bordering on the maternal filled Margaret’s breast.
Caroline’s eyes fluttered open before drifting shut again. She murmured sleepily, “How was the ball?”
“Lovely,” Margaret whispered, having no wish to worry her. “Sweet dreams, sweetness.”Sweetness—her father’s nickname for her. How long had it been since Margaret deserved the moniker?
She slipped from her sister’s room and, taking advantage of their absence, crept down to the adjoining bedchambers Sterling and her mother shared. In Mamma’s dressing room, she was surprised not to see the miniature of Stephen Macy displayed anywhere. It had been on the dressing table not long ago, she was sure. Margaret could understand not wanting it in the bedchamber, where Sterling would have to see it. But here in Mamma’s private dressing room? Margaret opened the top drawer, and there it was, face down. How disloyal it seemed. She turned over the portrait and studied it, shaking her head in wonder. How much Gil was beginning to look like their father. “We have not forgotten you,” she whispered to the handsome, youthful image. “At least, I have not.”
Returning the small portrait to its place, she wandered through Sterling’s dressing room. How impeccably neat everything was. She hoped his fastidious valet wouldn’t catch her in there.
On Sterling’s dressing table, she saw a handful of coins—guineas, crowns, and shillings.
Dared she?
As it was, she didn’t even have coach fare, let alone money for lodgings, should the situation continue to escalate... or rather, deteriorate. She ought to have something put by, just in case. She should not be completely at Sterling’s mercy until her inheritance came.
Yet Margaret was a vicar’s daughter. She knew stealing was wrong. But was this really stealing, she asked herself, when he had taken her jewelry?
It was a loan, she decided. She would pay him back when she had money of her own. A few coins would seem a trifle then—but now? They might make the difference between escape and a trap. She selected several, but did not take them all—that would be too obvious. How cold the coins seemed against her fingertips, as she tucked them into the pocket of her “milkmaid” apron. She felt their weight all the way back to her room.
Once there, she slid the coins into her reticule. A few minutes later, Joan came in and helped her change into her nightclothes. As Margaret climbed into bed, the distant sound of the front door shutting surprised her.
They were home early.
She quickly blew out her bedside candle as Joan gathered the discarded clothing and backed from the room, closing the door behind her.
A few moments later, someone tapped lightly on her bedchamber door. Her stomach lurched. Was it her mother, or Sterling?
“Margaret?” someone whispered.
