‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘This arrangement will be mutually beneficial, and hopefully, as you said, by the start of next Season Baron Winterborne will have settled down and forgotten all about this and our engagement can be terminated.’
And if Baron Winterborne went through with his threat, once it reached the divorce courts, Margaret would have the perfect excuse for ending the engagement. Either way, she could not lose.
She smiled to herself. What had started out as a bit of wilful mischief had turned out rather well, and she had to admit she had played this game rather skilfully.
Her smile faded. The only drawback to an otherwise ideal plan was that she would have to spend time with the Duke of Rosedale, a man who disconcerted her in ways she barely understood.
Chapter Three
The Duke wished to announce the engagement at the ball planned for that evening, and Margaret agreed. Knowing her mother as she did, it was certain that by the time of the ball, word would have spread far and wide and everyone present at the weekend party would be aware that the couple were to wed.
While it was customary to wait for the father’s consent, that too could be overlooked in this instance. Few men, even Margaret’s steadfast father, would have the fortitude to stand in the way of something both Margaret and her mother wanted.
Once the minor detail of the announcement had been discussed, Margaret departed the morning room. It wasn’t until she was back in her bedchamber that she realised she had forgotten to retrieve her drawing, the whole reason she had got herself into this peculiar predicament in the first place.
But there was nothing to be done about that now, so she settled herself in the chair beside the window and pulled her sketchbook and pencils out of her leather bag. Hopefully, some quiet time, lost in her drawing, would give her a chance to gather her thoughts and still her jangling nerves before the evening’s ordeal.
She looked out of the window at the garden below, her pencil poised above the paper. She knew she was being foolish. There was no reason for such agitation. She should be feeling relieved. Tonight, everyone would know she was to marry the Duke of Rosedale. Or at least, tonight everyone wouldthinkshe was to marry the Duke of Rosedale. Only she and the Duke would know the truth.
She had every reason to feel free at last. Yet her nerves didn’t seem to understand. One would almost think she was under the illusion that a real courtship with the Duke of Rosedale was about to begin. Perhaps her turmoil was simply due to the sudden change in circumstances. Whatever it was, Margaret wished the churning in her stomach and the skittering of her heart would settle down.
With as much determination as she could summon, she attempted to focus on sketching the sweeping gardens outside her window. Nothing was better at taking her away from her troubles or stilling her jumbled thoughts than focusing on her art. All she had to do was concentrate on capturing the look and feel of this spring afternoon, with the delicate green leaves of the beech trees fluttering in the soft breeze and the first blossoms of the lime trees about to burst into life.
She pressed harder on the page than she should, the pencil biting into the paper, the hard lines nothing like the tranquil scene before her. Dissatisfied, she ripped the page from her sketchbook, crumpled it up into a tight ball and tossed it to the floor.
Taking a slow, steady breath to still her thoughts, she tried again, but had hardly settled into her work when her mother burst in, already dressed in a ballgown, followed by Margaret’s lady’s maid.
‘Put that away!’ her mother cried out, flicking her hand at the sketchbook. ‘You have to get dressed for this evening.’
‘What? There is still plenty of time.’
‘No, there is not. Tonight, you have to make a grand statement with your appearance and demeanour and be the undeniable belle of the ball.’
Margaret sighed and placed her sketchbook and pencil on a nearby table.
‘Tonight, the world will know my daughter is to become a duchess,’ her mother said with her hand over her heart and her eyes closed, before turning to the maid. ‘You must ensure she looks the part.’
‘A duchess?’ Molly sent Margaret a questioning look.
She gave her maid a quick nod to tell her it was true, even if neither of her mother’s claims were completely correct. They were about to announce her betrothal to the guests of the Earl of Northwood, not the world, and she was not about to become a duchess, merely the temporary fiancée of a duke.
‘Would you like your hair styled more ornately than usual?’ Molly asked. ‘Something more fashionable?’
‘Yes, she would,’ her mother answered for her. ‘As ornate as possible and the very height of fashion, as becomes a duchess.’
With resignation, Margaret crossed the room and sat on the embroidered stool in front of the dressing table. In the looking glass, she could see Molly’s expression of delight as she got to work with her combs, brushes and heated tongs, every action monitored by her attentive mother.
While the style Margaret usually wore required a minimum of work, this creation involved much back-combing, plaiting and curling as if creating an intricate sculpture, and it seemed to take an age.
Finally, Molly declared her work finished and stepped back, looking towards her mother, rather than Margaret, for approval.
Her mother observed the hairstyle from every angle, then finally declared it a success.
Margaret had to admit, itwasa work of art. Her hair was piled high on her head, seemingly defying gravity, and somehow Molly had given it more volume than any head of hair could ever naturally have. Twists and braids were interwoven into the high chignon, and soft curls cascaded delicately down her neck and onto her shoulders.
‘So, what is she to wear tonight?’ her mother asked Molly.
Her lady’s maid removed the gown carefully from the wardrobe. ‘We brought the pink one with the silver embroidery for the ball,’ she said, which her mother surely knew as she had been the one to select it.
