“An understanding, as you know.”
“Only that?”
“Yes.”
Anne studied her carefully.
“You do not sound convinced.”
“It is not a romance,” Margaret said. “It is a solution.”
The words felt solid when spoken.
Eleanor folded her arms lightly.
“Solutions do not usually look at one another the way you did at the ball.”
“That was not how it seemed.”
“No, but then it never is, is it?”
Margaret turned away under the weight of their scrutiny.
“You imagine far more than exists.”
“Do we?” Anne asked.
“Yes.”
Her denial would have carried more strength had her pulse not quickened at the memory of his hand at her waist, his voice lowered to her alone, the promise of a kiss interrupted by scandal. Eleanor noticed the color in her face at once.
“There,” she said, unable to suppress a small smile. “That is not practicality.”
Margaret pressed her lips together.
“I am marrying a Duke. I ought to be pleased with myself about that.”
“That is not why you blush.”
“I will have my own chambers,” Margaret said, attempting steadiness. “My own independence. There are no expectations beyond respectability.”
“None?”
“None.”
Anne considered this carefully.
“And you are content with that?”
Margaret paused. She had been content when the offer was made. It had felt merciful, protective. It had felt like breathing after drowning. Now, standing in a bridal gown with the murmur of guests beyond the door, the promise of separation seemed less inviting.
She wanted a partner, someone that she could love, but that was too much for her to ask for. A lady in her position would have been content to be offered any sort of arrangement, and she knew that, but there was still a part of her that longed for more.
“I am prepared for it,” she said.
“That is not the same as contentment,” Eleanor replied.
Margaret did not answer. A knock sounded at the door, light but unmistakable.
