Don’t look, don’t look, don’t?—
Their eyes met. He was sucking in his lips, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter.
She looked away fast, warmth flooding her chest.
The rogue pea flying across the table had made her feel more alive than three years of performing grief. And this stranger—this duke who clearly felt as out of place as she did—understood exactly why. The realization made her throat tight.
“Thank you, Lord William,” she said quietly. “That’s very kind.”
And it was kind. He meant well. They all did.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? Everyone meant well.
No one asked if she’d actually lost anything worth grieving. Her late husband had died a hero, and she felt entirely unworthy of the cause. The guilt stung more than she cared to admit.
Her gaze drifted to the centerpiece. The elaborate bowl of fruit seemed designed more for display than eating. One apple sat at the top of the pile, slightly lopsided, as though it might tumble at any moment. She reached out to steady it.
The moment her fingers made contact, she knew.She picked it up and turned it slowly. The weight was wrong. The texture was wrong. Wax. Painted to look real. Of course, it was. Even the fruit was pretending to be something it wasn’t.
Margaret stared at it, something bitter and sharp rising in her throat.And she thought, with a clarity that burned: We’re fakes.
Fake apples on a table of excess. Fake grief worn like armor. Fake widow pretending her heart was broken instead of simply… empty.
Margaret Foley was a liar.
And she was getting desperately tired of it.
CHAPTER 3
Henry hadn’t spoken a single word since sitting down. Not one. Which was absurd, given the only thing expected of him at a dinner party was actually speaking. But every time he opened his mouth, his brain offered comments like “Quite many forks, aren’t there?” or “Do you think the chandeliers are heavy?” and he had the good sense to keep those thoughts to himself.
To his right sat Mrs. Jane Sims, an older widow who seemed utterly fascinated by her beef. She’d been cutting the same piece of meat for approximately five minutes, her attention so focused, Henry wondered if she was trying to communicate with it.
To his right sat Lady Margaret Foley. She seemed far too composed for someone so young. Her mourning blacks made her skin look like porcelain and her eyes?—
He shouldn’t be noticing her eyes. She was a widow. A grieving widow. Probably devastated. Definitely out of his reach.
Except she didn’t look devastated. She looked… trapped. Henry knew that expression. He’d worn it himself every day for the past six weeks. The careful blankness. The performance of being fine when everything inside you was screaming.
He watched as she reached for the centerpiece—an elaborate tower of fruit—and plucked an apple from near the top. She turned it in her hands, frowned slightly, then set it back.
The gesture felt significant, though he couldn’t say why.
She murmured something to Lord Cavendish on her other side—the man who’d made a fuss about the seating arrangement earlier. Then she turned her attention to her plate.
Henry should say something. Anything.
He turned to Mrs. Sims. “The beef is quite tender.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
He tried again, louder. “I’ve always been fond of—” No, wait, that was worse. Don’t mention being fond of things. Dukes weren’t fond. Dukes were… what? Appreciative? Discerning?
“—turkey. And mutton.” Stop talking. “But I like beef, too.”Argh! Stop!“Never seen this much meat at a time, though.”
The words hung in the air like an accusation.
Henry closed his eyes. Wanted to sink through his chair and disappear beneath the table. He’d just told a widow he’d never seen this much meat before. At a charity dinner. For fallen soldiers. He was going to purgatory.
