* * *
“I sawyour hat flying in the wind, like an exotic bird. It’s a shame you lost it, but what a spectacular exit it made!” The Duchess of Monfort lowered herself to sit beside Margaret, warmth and goodness arriving alongside her.
“It rather was, Your Grace.” She hadn’t thought of it in such a way. “What would it be like, do you think, to fly?”
“It is terrifying but also spectacular. Monfort has taken me on a few occasions, and I can only admit that I love it and I hate it at the same time. And I insist you call me Abigail.”
“Either you are speaking in metaphors or you have a great sense of humor.”
“Oh, but no, we went up in a basket that was attached to a hot air balloon before we married, and twice since.”
“Didn’t you find it frightening?”
The duchess’ entire face lit up. “Terrified the first time. I couldn’t imagine being contained in a basket but Monfort assured me it was quite safe. It’s the hydrogen balloons that are the most dangerous.”
Margaret stared at the lady sitting beside her and shook her head in wonder. If one did not know the duchess, they would assume her to be a spinster, one who spent her days attending to the needs of an ailing mother or aunt. But a secret smile lit her eyes and it reminded Margaret of Hugh when he spoke of Penelope and the twins.
“Monfort has changed a great deal since your marriage.” No one called him the Duke of Ice any longer. Such a comment was a bold one for Margaret to make, but Abigail’s very presence invited meaningful conversation.
“I am happy that I am not the only one to notice this.” Abigail’s smile fell for just a moment. “It is difficult for one to lose a spouse. And he lost his children as well.” She tilted her head. “But you would know this, more than most.”
She did. “Lawrence and then my mother a few years later.”
“You and Lord Asherton were childless?”
“We were.” Margaret stared across the room only vaguely noting the light-hearted conversations going on around them. “It will be four years tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow is your birthday, is it not?” Abigail frowned.
Margaret grimaced. “It is.”
Abigail’s expressive eyes stared at her sympathetically. “Four years is not so very long. I can see by your face that you loved your husband. Were you in love with him, as well?”
“I was.” Of course, she had been.
Abigail touched her hand. “You must take time tomorrow to memorialize your loss. Perhaps go somewhere alone and celebrate the years you spent with your dear Lord Asherton. And then, afterward, perhaps you will not find the celebration planned for tomorrow night by your brother and my cousin to be so tedious.” She smiled apologetically.
“So, they are planning something? I had asked Penelope not to.”
“I believe it was your brother who insisted upon the event.”
Margaret groaned a little and then laughed. “Well, I thank you, anyhow, for warning me. And perhaps I will take your advice.” She had done her best to try to ignore the significance of tomorrow’s date.
“My love.” The Duke of Monfort approached to stand at his wife’s side. “Lady Asherton.” He bowed.
“Your Grace.” Margaret nodded. If one had never seen the man with Abigail, they would assume him to be cold and without feeling. He stood taller than most, slim yet quite imposing. Only when his gaze fell upon his duchess did his aristocratic features soften.
“It’s getting late. Shall we retire for the evening?” The loving concern in his voice confirmed the rumors Margaret had heard earlier. Of course, his duchess must be carrying. As Abigail smiled up at the duke and then took his arm, allowing him to lead her out of the drawing room, a pang of wanting hit Margaret so acutely that she forgot to breathe for a moment.
Left alone for the first time all evening, Margaret wandered toward one of the terrace doors and slipped outside. The air was not as cool as it normally was this time of year.
Today was October 14th. Tomorrow would be the 15th. She had been a widow for four years. A thirty-year-old widow.
Perhaps that was what was the matter with her. She leaned against the stone half-wall that surrounded the terrace and stared into the darkness.
“Am I being overly sentimental, Lawrence?”
“Aren’t women supposed to be?”
