It was only when he stepped into her room the following morning, hoping to speak with her, that he saw the folded paper placed squarely at the center of the desk that something in his chest tightened.
Margaret’s handwriting was unmistakable. He broke the seal. At first he read quickly, expecting something small, perhaps a note about the household, or a message explaining some minor matter that required his attention, but the further his eyes moved down the page, the slower he read.
Then he read it again. Each line struck with quiet precision. There were no accusations in the letter, no anger written between the words. Instead Margaret thanked him for his protection, for preserving her dignity when she had needed it most, and for securing a future for her sisters that would have otherwise been uncertain. The gratitude hurt more than blame would have.
By the time he reached the end, his hand had tightened around the paper. She would not remain where she had not truly been chosen. For a moment the room felt strangely still, as though the world itself had paused. Then, the meaning settled fully.
Margaret had left. She had felt truly unwanted, and left.
Nathaniel pushed back from the desk so abruptly that it scraped sharply against the floor. The housekeeper passing in the hall turned at the sound, but he was already moving, the letter still clenched in his hand.
“Your Grace?” she called after him.
“Have the stables prepare a horse,” he said without slowing. “Immediately.”
Within minutes, he was riding.
The air was cold and sharp against his face as Ravensmere disappeared behind him, the dark shape of the house shrinkingagainst the horizon. His mind replayed the letter over and over again as the horse carried him down the long road.
She believed she had not been chosen. The realization hit him harder with each mile.
The scene at the ball returned to him with brutal clarity; Arabella’s sudden movement, the feel of her hand on his coat, the unwanted press of her mouth against his neck just as the door had opened. Margaret’s face in the doorway.
He had tried to explain. He had started toward her, but she had already turned away. And now she was gone.
Nathaniel urged the horse faster.
The ride felt endless, though he knew the distance well enough. Fields passed in darkness, hedgerows blurring at the edges of his vision while the first faint gray of morning slowly crept across the sky.
By the time he reached the familiar road leading to Fairleigh House, the sun was warming the air.
The servants were not yet fully awake when he arrived. His horse had barely stopped before he was already dismounting, boots striking the gravel. A startled footman opened the door moments later, clearly unprepared to find the Duke of Ravensmere standing on the threshold.
“I need to speak with Margaret,” Nathaniel said.
The servant hesitated only briefly before bowing and hurrying inside. Nathaniel remained in the entrance hall, the early morning light filtering faintly through the tall windows. Every minute stretched painfully long as the house slowly stirred to life around him.
At last, Lady Fairleigh appeared. Her expression was calm but guarded as she approached him.
“Your Grace.”
“I would like to speak with Margaret,” Nathaniel said.
Something in his voice must have carried more urgency than he intended, because Lady Fairleigh studied him for a moment before answering.
“She will not come.”
The words landed like a closed door. Nathaniel drew a slow breath.
“I need to explain what she saw.”
Lady Fairleigh did not respond immediately. Instead, she turned her head slightly toward the staircase, where another figure had appeared quietly in the hallway.
Miss Emily.
She had clearly been awake long enough to hear at least part of the conversation. Her gaze moved between them with careful attention before she stepped forward.
“If you will excuse us for a moment, Mama,” she said.
