“Then the gowns are a celebration,” Poppy beamed. “My sister’s good fortune means goodness for all of us. We are grateful to you for that, of course.”
“Yes,” Emily sighed, “so very grateful that you shall be a duchess. Truly, the sacrifices that you have made for us.”
She had meant it in jest, but Margaret took it personally. She did not like the way that Emily had changed of late. She had always been more aware of what was happening than Poppy, but never outwardly upset by any of it. Suddenly, that had changed a great deal, and Margaret did not know quite what to do about it.
She went to her room, her sisters on her heels. They joined her in her room, and Emily leaned back slightly against her chair, clearly unconvinced by it all but unwilling to press further in front of Poppy.
“So?” Poppy asked. “What was he like?”
Margaret felt heat rise unexpectedly beneath the simple question.
“Composed,” she said.
“Stern?” Emily asked.
“No.”
Poppy leaned forward again.
“Did he hold your hand?”
Margaret hesitated only a fraction too long. She wanted to say no, but she could not lie to them about something so intimate. Poppy gasped, clearly thrilled.
“He did!”
“It was for appearance,” Margaret replied quickly. “That was all.”
Emily watched her closely.
“And how did that feel?”
Margaret rose and crossed to the window, looking out at the narrow street. A delivery cart rattled past. It was easier to look at that than at her sisters, one that was too pleased about it all and the other far too skeptical.
“It felt different than I expected.”
Poppy sighed dreamily.
“That is how it begins.”
“You sound like Eleanor.”
“Good. I like Eleanor.”
Emily stood, joining her at the window.
“And how did you expect it to feel?”
Margaret looked at her reflection in the glass before answering.
“Manageable.”
“And it was not?”
“It was more.”
Poppy laughed softly behind them.
“You are falling in love.”
