Once home, he roamed around the house, wondering what he was to do now. How did engaged men occupy their time? All those of Jacob’s acquaintance continued to live the same way they always had—a life that involved constant parties and a non-stop round of pleasure—and that did not come to an end after they married. Nor did they cease keeping company with their mistress or mistresses.
But those engaged men did not have a future father-in-law who had threatened to ruin them no matter what the cost. Perhaps he should have thought this through a bit more and selected a woman whose father didn’t care how he behaved. Perhaps a father who was blinded by his title would have served his purpose much better after all. But how was he to know that Miss Whitmore’s father loved his daughter quite so fervently? Such familial love was not something with which he was acquainted.
But it was too late for that now and he would have to find a respectable way to pass the time for the duration of this engagement. But how? He supposed going to his clubs would still be acceptable, but what fun would that be if he could not go on to a party afterwards?
There was nothing for it. He drafted a note, handed it to the footman and asked him to deliver it immediately. It looked as if he was about to become a respectable man courting a respectable young lady, whether he liked it or not.
‘You must change your dress immediately and get Molly to do something about your hair!’ her mother cried out, rushing into the parlour and causing her paintbrush to slide across the canvas, leaving an annoying line of red paint.
‘Why?’ Margaret asked, dabbing at the damage with a damp rag.
‘The Duke has sent a card, inviting you to take a ride in his carriage this afternoon. In Hyde Park.’
‘I’ve already made plans for later this afternoon. I intend to visit Alice and Primrose to inform them of my…’ she took in a breath ‘…engagement.’
‘Those wallflowers can read all about it in the newspaper like everyone else,’ her mother said, pulling the paintbrush out of Margaret’s hand.
She swallowed her annoyance. ‘Neither is a wallflower.’
Not any more. That was another reason why she’d been dreading the Season. She’d be all alone in the wallflower corner, without her two friends providing support and good company. ‘Primrose is now a young lady of independent means and Alice is a countess.’
‘A countess?’ her mother said, adopting a facetious tone as if such a title was something to be sniffed at. ‘Not as good as a duchess. But you’re not a duchess yet, and until you’re married you must do nothing to upset the Duke. So, get ready. Now.’
Her mother tossed the brush onto the table, took hold of Margaret by the shoulders and pushed her towards the door. ‘And I hope you weren’t wearing that dreadful paint-splattered smock when he came to ask your father for your hand?’
‘No, I was wearing—’
‘Why your father chose that time to meet the Duke, when I was attending my Ladies Benevolent Society meeting, I’ll never know. I should have been present,’ she added, as Margaret was pushed down the hallway towards the stairs.
Margaret could say her father knew exactly what he was doing when he chose that time, but for the sake of family harmony said nothing and walked up the stairs as commanded. Molly was waiting for her in her bedchamber, heated curling tongs at the ready, presumably already having received instructions from her mother.
‘He said he’ll be here at three o’clock, so that gives you plenty of time to get ready. Molly, you know what to do.’ With that, her mother thankfully departed.
‘Right, miss, let’s make you beautiful,’ Molly said, gesturing towards the seat in front of the dressing table.
Margaret admired her lady’s maid’s optimism but said nothing and sat down so she could attempt the impossible.
Once she’d been curled, backcombed, plaited and heaven knew what else, Margaret changed from her sensible grey skirt and dark blue blouse into a cream linen skirt and jacket and a lacy white blouse.
She stood up so Molly could perform an inspection and, once deemed acceptable, her lady’s maid handed her a cream parasol and white gloves.
At least her mother had not insisted she be tortured by the strong-handed Gertrude, but it was still a lot of entirely unnecessary fuss. It mattered not how much effort went into her appearance; she was nothing to the Duke. She had heard him say so with her own ears.
Nothing, she reminded herself as she walked down the stairs, trying to fight off those annoying and irrational nerves making her stomach churn.
This drive in his carriage was simply a continuation of the pretence they’d started while at the Earl of Northwood’s Kent estate. It was no reason to get flustered. She just needed to keep in mind at all times what the Duke had said to his friend.She means nothing to me. All the ornate hairstyles in the world would not change that.
She entered the drawing room and momentarily halted in the doorway, her heart doing another of those vexing flips, just as it had continually done while the Duke was going through the motions of asking her father for her hand.
She lifted her head higher, determined that at all times she would retain an outward appearance of composure, regardless of what was happening inside her traitorous body.
He stood up and smiled at her. A smile she refused to return, lest she revealed how unsettled his blue eyes could make her feel, and how easily he could undermine the defences she had built up around herself.
She bobbed a quick curtsey, then turned her full attention to putting on her gloves and doing up the small buttons at the wrist, as if such a task demanded her utmost concentration.
Once each button was secure, she looked up to see her mother smiling at her in an exaggerated manner, like the Cheshire cat, presumably as an instruction as to how she was supposed to comport herself in the Duke’s company.
Margaret stifled a sigh. This outing was going to be stressful enough without her mother’s relentless and not so subtle hints as to how she should behave so the Duke did notslip through her fingers.
