“What does it matter if it’s similar to something another dressmaker designed? Isn’t every gown a copy of a gown that came before it? You’re being ridiculous, as usual, Edith,” Lady Sheffield returned.
“That’s beside the point. You saw it, didn’t you, Margaret? The one with the puffed sleeves that billowed out like a bell—past the elbows.”
Margaret nodded. “It was lovely. Too many ruffles for my liking but imitation is the highest compliment. Everyone in London will know Madam Chantal created the dress first.”
What did it matter? Dresses? Weather? Society?
“I suppose you have a point.” Lady Riverton bobbed her head. The plumes on her head swayed and tilted, bringing her own mother to mind.
“My Lady, I have failed spectacularly in telling you how lovely you look this evening.” Baron Linde, the son of an old friend of her mother’s, approached and made a short bow in her direction. He was young and handsome, and she wondered if his pockets were not in a similar condition to George’s. Were impoverished gentlemen standing in some invisible line queuing up to sell her townhouse out from beneath her?
Was she truly that pathetic?
His cunning smile was nearly her undoing.
She’d smile and laugh and listen to all those people who needed listening to. She would nod and answer questions, and perhaps someday she’d even entertain some gentleman’s flirtations.
But not today.
She touched her fingertips to her forehead. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll retire early.” Glancing around and not catching sight of Penelope, she addressed Lady Sheffield. “Would you be so kind as to inform Penelope when she returns?”
“Shall we send up any tonics?” Lady Riverton frowned in concern.
Margaret shook her head. “I am simply tired. It has been a long day.”
And it had been an even longer night before that. A wonderful, poignant, passionate night that she would remember fondly in the years to come.
“You’ve been quite brave, Lady Asherton, in light of that nasty business with Mr. Kirkley.” Lady Riverton had likely been dying to ask her about it all evening.
The baron’s eyes lit up.
“Hush, Edith,” Lady Sheffield chastised. “Run along, Margaret, and I’ll make your apologies to Penelope.”
Margaret made her escape an instant later. As she stepped into the empty corridor, a choked sob escaped unchecked, sending her running toward her chamber.
There were times, she surmised, when a woman must allow herself to fall apart if only for a day or two. This was one of them. Because she’d found a gentleman she could love. He was gentle and passionate, and she’d never felt more connected to anyone in her life.
One little problem.
He did not love her back.
* * *
Unwilling to returnindoors and even less willing to return to his chamber, the bed they’d shared the night before, Sebastian headed up the hill behind the house. Perhaps he would avoid sleeping that night altogether. Even the thought of her mouth on him, of her hands working a very special magic, along with the look in her eyes that managed to be bold and timid at the same time had him growing hard.
For Margaret.
Maggie.
And only for her, God damnit. How long would it be before he stopped wanting her?
He leaned forward, picked up a rock, and dashed it into the trees. The resulting thud and sound of leaves gave him no satisfaction whatsoever.
Nonetheless, he threw another before marching onward.
He’d told Margaret about Angel. She’d been a skeleton in his family’s closet since her death, but she’d never been far from his thoughts as much as he’d tried to push them away. If he kept busy enough, if he focused his energies on things he could perhaps have some control over, perhaps those memories would cease to haunt him.
There were days when it had worked and others when it did not. If only he could wipe away parts of his life the same way chalk was erased from a slate. But life was not that way, because as much as it hurt to remember, it would be even worse to forget.
