Lady Westbrook waved a hand. “This is my nephew’s house, and you are his servant. He’s never cared much for formality, and it is not my place to correct that. Let me speak plainly, Miss Winter.”
Maggie’s stomach tightened. She said nothing, waiting.
“You are a pretty girl,” Lady Westbrook said at last, still not quite meeting her eyes. “And you are very good with Emma. My nephew, like most men, is susceptible to such qualities. He adores his niece, and you are attached to her. It is only natural that he should be fond of you for it. But today, I would ask that you remain quiet—unobtrusive. Let Lady Constance attend to Emma. Just for this afternoon. What do you say?”
Maggie met the woman’s eye squarely. It was clear what was being asked: to step back and do nothing, so that Lady Constance might display her sweet, feminine qualities before the duke—prove her worth by tending to the child, the surest path to his regard.
She realised that Lady Westbrook was waiting for a response. This was not a command given idly, then, but one that demanded acknowledgement. Maggie cleared her throat, summoning her composure.
“I have no wish to distract anyone, Lady Westbrook,” Maggie managed at last. “I’ll keep to myself. But Emma is my charge, and if she needs me, I’ll not stand idle.”
Lady Westbrook blinked. She nodded slowly, eyeing Maggie with open curiosity.
“Very well. A fair bargain. Good day, Miss Winter.”
And just like that, she was gone—sweeping toward the door where the party was gathering in the sunshine. The duke followed soon after, Lady Constance clinging to his arm.
Emma skipped between them all, darting back now and then to clasp Maggie’s hand.
“Hold my hand, my love,” Lady Constance called as they crossed the courtyard, extending a silk-gloved hand.
“I want to walk with Miss Winter,” Emma pouted, and returned promptly to Maggie’s side. Maggie didn’t resist; she held the little hand all the way to the hill.
The day was indeed glorious. The grass gleamed in the sun, and a soft breeze ran whispering through the trees. Below, the lake shimmered like a fallen piece of sky.
Ahead, footmen trudged up the slope, bearing hampers, chairs, and baskets. By the time they reached the crest, everyone was a little breathless. The footmen spread blankets and began to arrange the picnic.
Lord Farendale dropped heavily into a chair that immediately began to sink into the soft ground.
“Set this chair on firmer earth, you fool!” he bellowed at a startled servant.
Lady Constance ignored him, tugging the duke toward the edge to admire the view.
“Can I make a flower crown?” Emma asked suddenly.
“Of course,” Maggie smiled down at her.
“I don’t know how to make them, though. Will you teach me?”
Before she could reply, Lady Westbrook’s smooth voice intruded.
“Lady Constance is ever so clever at making flower crowns. Why not ask her, my dear?”
Emma frowned. “I want Maggie to teach me.”
Lady Westbrook’s glare landed on Maggie like an accusation. Biting her lip, Maggie forced a smile.
“I am certain Lady Constance makes ever such nice flower crowns. Better than mine. You should let her show you.”
Emma did not seem pleased, but she shrugged anyway, sighing.
“Very well.”
Lady Westbrook smiled, pleased. Emma scurried off to collect the flowers from her crown.
“Well done,” Lady Westbrook murmured approvingly.
Maggie met her gaze coolly. “I only want what is best for Miss Emma.”
