“The scandal would be insurmountable,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “If you care for Emma, or for me, or even for Miss Winter herself—do not do this. You would ruin her.”
She released him abruptly and swept away, leaving him standing amid the laughter and chatter of the fair—breathless, and for the first time in years, holding something bright and dangerous in his chest.
Hope.
Chapter Nineteen
For as long as she could remember, Maggie’s evening ritual had been to sit before her looking glass—if she had one—and brush her hair. One hundred strokes, every night, before she plaited it for bed.
Of course, there was nothing unusual in that. Most ladies brushed their hair before sleeping; it was a perfectly ordinary task. It ought to take no more than five minutes—ten, if she lingered.
Tonight, however, she had been sitting there for nearly an hour. Not because her hair was tangled, but because she could not seem to lift her hand to finish the strokes. Her own reflection gazed back at her: pale, drawn, and faintly disbelieving. A single candle burned on the table, its flame trembling in the faint draft. Her hair fell loose about her shoulders like a curtain, warm and heavy and oddly comforting.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Neil standing at the Shy, the stone poised loosely in his hand, his eyes narrowed upon the bottles. She saw the muscle in his jaw tighten, saw his arm draw back to throw.
Clack.The sharp crack of impact echoed in her head, followed by Emma’s delighted squeal. The child had gone to bed that night clutching her new ragdoll—Goldie, she’d called her. A good, sturdy name for a doll.
Something in Neil had seemed unbound that afternoon. Lighter. Less careful. As if, for once, he had allowed himself to breathe. She’d caught his eyes on her more than once, and there had been something in that look she could not name.
You are a fool,she told herself sternly, lifting the brush again. How many strokes had it been? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? She would start at twenty, just to be sure.
Do not make this into something it isn’t. He does not think of you. He cannot.
She told herself this again and again, as firmly as she could—though the words did not seem to take root.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine… forty, forty-one.
She lost count again.
With a soft groan, Maggie set the brush down and leaned back in her chair, pressing her hands over her face.
What is wrong with me?
It was clear she would not sleep tonight. Not yet, at least. After a moment’s hesitation, she rose, pulled on her robe, and eased open her door. The candlelight flickered ahead of her as she stepped into the dim corridor.
The house was utterly still. Lord and Lady Farendale, she’d been told, had retired the moment dinner ended, and Lady Constance had gone with them. They had spoken of leaving at first light—and Maggie hoped they would.
She tiptoed down the wide staircase into the Great Hall. Even with her candle, the vast room seemed full of shifting shadows. The portraits on the walls appeared to watch her as she passed. It was not a place one lingered in after dark.
Still, the morning room drew her onward. Even had she been blind, she thought she might have found it by instinct.
No curtains hung at the windows, and moonlight streamed through the glass, silvering the shrouded furniture. Once, the room must have been full of warmth and laughter, when Neil’s sister had presided over it. Now it felt hollow, stripped of its life.
The pianoforte stood in the corner, right where it had been left. The dust sheet covering it had been thrown back halfway, exposing the gleaming ivory keys and the deep brown wood beneath. Maggie set her candle on its polished surface and lowered herself to the stool. Her fingertips came to rest lightly on the cool keys.
She wanted to play something different this time. Something that belonged to her mood. Music seemed to rise inside her like water from a spring.
She began softly—the slow, mournful opening notes of Beethoven’sMoonlight Sonata.
She had never memorised the entire piece, and soon her playing faltered. The silence that followed was deeper, almost aching.
“I always find that a sad composition.”
Maggie flinched, spinning around.
Neil stood in the doorway, watching her. He carried no candle, and she was inclined to think that he had been dressing for bed. He wore the same breeches and Hessians she’d seen him wear at the fair, but had stripped down to a loose, almost transparent linen shirt.
On that note, Maggie suddenly recalled that she herself was in her nightgown, with only a threadbare robe over it all. She swallowed and did her best to work moisture into her mouth.
