Meg took a deep breath. She and Lucy had discussed this in detail, but nerves were getting the better of her now that the time had come. She was sitting in the breakfast room with her parents, who rarely spoke to each other, even at meals. She pushed the eggs around her plate, counted three, and lifted her head to look at her mother.
Her mother was gorgeous, or would have been if anger hadn’t settled into every line of her face. Meg could only suspect the reason for her mother’s unhappiness was because her husband had gambled away every bit of security they had. Father went out drinking and playing hazards nearly every night. Mother had long ago given up attempting to stop him.
Meg’s childhood had been marred by frightening screaming matches between her parents on more occasions than she cared to recall. She had huddled beneath her blankets in bed but their voices had carried, farenough for her to understand what they fought about. Father couldn’t stop gambling and Mother couldn’t forgive him for it.
Meg didn’t blame her mother for being angry with her father, but Meg had seen her father come home with red-rimmed eyes and regret on his face. Something had been clear to her always: Her father wanted to stop but was unable to.
Still halfheartedly pushing the eggs around her plate with her fork, Meg glanced over at her father. He’d always been fun loving and quick to smile and joke and pat her on the head when she’d been small. He was handsome, her father, exceedingly so, blond with bright green eyes, though the years and the stress and the drinking hadn’t been kind. He had wrinkles near his eyes, but the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth reminded her of the man he once had been.
She tried to imagine her parents when they were young. They must have been in love at one point, or so Meg chose to believe. Was there any love left between them? Had it ever been there to begin with? She couldn’t quite imagine them laughing together or holding hands the way she’d seen Sarah and Christian do. She wanted Sarah’s type of marriage, to a man she both loved and respected, and Lucy was going to help her get it.
“Mother.” Meg forced herself to speak before she lost her nerve. “There’s something I wanted to ask you, ask both of you.”
Her father didn’t so much as glance up from his paper. It was yesterday’s paper, brought home from whatever club or gaming hell he’d frequented last night. She wondered if he’d even heard her. Probably not.
“What’s that?” Mother asked, taking a drink from a teacup that Meg suspected was laced with brandy.
Meg straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “The Duchess of Claringdon has asked if I may be her… sort of… ward.”
Her mother’s head snapped up, and a scowl covered her face. “Ward? What do you mean, ward? What sort of nonsense is that?”
Her father glanced up from the paper. His eyes narrowed on Meg. “You don’t require another family, Margaret. What in the devil’s name are you talking about?”
It was ironic that the only thing her parents seemed to agree on was making her life more difficult. Meg took another deep breath. “I wouldn’t be a ward… exactly,” she continued, cursing herself for bungling this important conversation. She shouldn’t have used the wordward. “Her Grace would simply, you know, oversee my clothing and be my chaperone and…”
“She’s already spent far too much time with you as it is,” Mother snorted. “I’ve no idea why such an important lady as the duchess would take an interest in you of all people.” Mother downed more tea.
“I don’t think you should get your hopes up, Margaret,” Father replied, turning his gaze back to his paper. “A rich lady like that might take an interest in a wallflower from time to time but she’ll bore quickly and soon be on to the next amusement.”
Meg squeezed the napkin in her lap. She’d expected such insults, was prepared for them. “We’re friends, Father. The duchess has agreed to provide me with gowns and I intend to pay her back once I marry well and—”
“Marry well?” Her mother’s voice dripped with incredulity. “What makes you think you’ll marry well?” Her voice took a biting tone. “Your father’s put an end to that. Even a duchess’s fine clothing can’t make up for the fact that you haven’t any dowry. I doubt the duchess has offered to provide you with one.”
Her father gave her mother a withering glare and returned his attention to his paper.
“Of course not,” Meg replied. “That would be inappropriate, but she’s offered to help and I’d like to accept her offer. It’s very kind of her.” Meg blew out a breath, prepared to make her final argument. “Besides, my prospects cannot possibly be any worse with her help.”
Her mother’s scowl intensified, but she lifted her brows and shrugged. “I suppose you have a point.”
“What exactlyareyour marital prospects this Season, Margaret?” Father asked from behind his paper.
This was it. Her opportunity to mention Hart. To see if her parents had thawed toward his family in any way, to determine if there was hope.
“Sarah’s brother, Hart, has been helping me. He’s come to a few of the balls and danced with me. I’ve garnered some attention as a result.” Of course her parents would already know this if they’d been paying any attention.
The paper snapped against the table, rattling the silverware. “Hart Highgate? Highfield’s heir?” Father sneered.
“Yes,” Meg said, forcing herself to meet her father’s gaze. Nothing but anger covered his features. The kindness had vanished from his eyes.
“That young man is just like his father, cares nothing about anyone other than himself,” Father continued.
“You’re one to talk, Charles.” Mother’s eyes narrowed to slits.
Meg jumped in before they had a chance to go at each other. “He’s been helping me. He’s been quite kind.”
“The Highgates aren’t kind,” Mother interjected. “They’re pompous and self-centered and—”
It was no use. Meg needed to return their attention to the matter at hand. “Do I have your permission to allow the duchess to help me?”
