Cavendish grinned. “I know. But pretend it’s true regardless. That’s what the rest of us do.”
Henry set down his glass. Straightened his coat. Rolled his shoulders back.
These women had mourned their husbands. They’d lost men they loved to war, disease, and accidents that stole futures in an instant. The least he could do was look them in the eye. Even if he had no idea what to say. Even if his hands still remembered being empty. Even if the nameDashfieldsat on his shoulders like a coat three sizes too large.
He could do this. He had to.
There was no going back because he never failed.
CHAPTER 2
Margaret Foley had become a liar.
Not the malicious kind. Not the sort who schemed or deceived for gain. But a liar nonetheless, standing in a ballroom wearing mourning blacks for a man she’d barely known. She was sorry he was dead. Truly. A young man had left for war and never come back, and the unfairness of that still caught in her throat when she let herself think about it. But sorrow was not the same as devastation, and Society demanded devastation.
A man she was supposed to grieve, whose death had, if she were being honest, been more relief than tragedy. The guilt of that relief sat like a stone in her chest.
She smoothed her hands over her skirts—black silk that cost more than her family’s quarterly income, donated by well-meaning patrons of theCharity for Local Widows of Fallen Heroes. Everything in her life now came with the label “charity case”: the dress, the small pension that kept her siblings fed since her parents passed from the lung fever two years earlier, the invitations to events like this, where widows were trotted out like tragic ornaments to remind everyone of the noble cause.
She hated it.
Not the help—she needed the help desperately. But the associated performance. The expected grief. The assumption that she’d loved a man she’d spoken to exactly three times before he left for war.
You poor thing. So young. So devoted.
If they only knew.
Margaret took a steadying breath. One evening. She could survive one evening of well-intentioned condolences and pitying glances. Then she could return to what mattered: keeping her siblings housed, fed, and as far from poverty as her meager resources allowed.
The ballroom was already half-full. Women in blacks and grays, clustered in small groups, their faces carefully arranged in appropriate sorrow. Men in evening dress, looking vaguely uncomfortable, as though grief were contagious and might ruin their digestion.
Margaret’s gaze found the long dining table. Place cards marked each seat. She spotted her name near the center. Good. Not at the head, where she’d be too visible. Not at the end, where she’d look forgotten. Just… there. Unremarkable. Exactly how she preferred it.
She started toward her chair, keeping her expression neutral—not too composed. The performance required precision. Too much grief, and people worried. Too little, and they judged.
“Lady Margaret, please accept my deepest condolences for your loss.” A woman materialized at her elbow. Mrs. Thornby, if Margaret remembered correctly. Round-faced, earnest, with eyes that shone with unshed tears. For someone else’s dead husband.
Margaret’s throat tightened. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“He was taken too soon. Far too soon. You must be devastated.”
I met him twice at dinner and once on a balcony where we discussed the weather, and then we were married.
“It’s been difficult,” Margaret said instead, which was true enough. Being a penniless widow with four younger siblings was exceedingly difficult. The grief part? Less so.
“Lady Margaret.” Another woman appeared on her opposite side, younger, red-eyed, actually crying. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
Margaret’s stomach dropped. She couldn’t fake tears. Wouldn’t. Some lines even she couldn’t cross.
“Your husband was an honorable man,” the woman choked out.
Was he? I wouldn’t know. We never had that conversation.
“Thank you,” Margaret murmured, because what else could she say?
The truth? That she’d been seventeen and foolish enough to step onto a balcony alone with a man who seemed kind? That they’d been caught by a sharp-eyed matron with nothing better to do than ruin young women’s lives? That the marriage had been arranged in mere days—a scandal quietly papered over with a hasty wedding and an immediate deployment? That her husband had left for war without even kissing her goodbye?
No. The truth wouldn’t do at all.
