Page 7 of Her Summer Duke

He sat there quite stunned, as her words hit his heart like well-placed arrows. He could see that Lady Phoebe was listening with intense interest. She pushed her food around her plate yet her eyes watched them intently, from under lowered lashes.

“Lady Margaret, do you say that you would wish to break off our promised betrothal, just like that?”

Lady Phoebe reached out and laid her hand on Hugh’s own hand, ever-so softly.

“She does not mean it, Your Grace, I am sure. You do not mean this, Lady Margaret. Please, do tell him that you jest.”

Hugh felt Lady Phoebe’s cool hand atop his and for a moment his thoughts lingered there, where her hand touched him. He glanced at her to see if her eyes were on him, but she immediately turned her brown eyes toward her plate. He did take notice of her fine porcelain hands, so much like his dear mother’s hands. Now that his certainties had all been stolen, he discovered that he was noticing far more about the people around him.

Lady Margaret pressed her lips tightly together, placed her cutlery neatly by her plate, and folded her arms in front of her.

His voice was roughened by the emotion he felt.

“Lady Margaret, are you not consumed by passion for me, deep in your heart? We are above this pettiness, are we not? After eight years, have we not found the truth of our love for one another?”

He awaited her response with a feeling of almost despair – this was not going as he had hoped, when he had knocked on her door, not at all. Through it all, Lady Mantrell sat calmly, ignoring their conversation, and focusing on her food. He wished that he could be so sanguine.

~~~~~

Margaret considered his words, and almost laughed – a bitter laugh, to be truthful, for his visit, and this conversation, had made her realise how unsure she truly was of her own feelings on the matter of His Grace of Saltonbury. For Margaret knew the thrill of passion, yes, indeed, there was no mistaking true passion. She felt that passion for Ensign Chester, that wild passion of love, a love that she felt certain the Ensign returned, even though he had not had the opportunity to tell her so, beyond those few whispered words on the terrace.

Nothing in her mind or body felt those signature sensations of passion when she was with the Duke of Saltonbury. She bowed her head, as if she was going to deliver a requiem.

“Your Grace, dear Saltonbury, I am deeply grateful that you saved my life when I was ten years old. Deeply, ever-so humbly grateful. But I am not in love. I have reached that conclusion, after a great deal of thought.”

He rose slowly from his chair, quietly begged their forgiveness for his departure, bowed and left the room. Moments later, they heard the solid echo of the front door closing.

Margaret stared at Phoebe sitting opposite her. She would discuss it all with her later, but for now, with Lady Mantrell regarding her with disapproval from the other end of the table, she would say nothing more. Both she and Phoebe turned their attention to finishing their dinner.

Matters of the heart could wait, but the hunger of the stomach could not be ignored, if a lady wished to avoid fainting at inopportune moments. Still, the remainder of the meal was quiet, filled with a tension unexpressed.

Lady Mantrell, who had long been widowed, but who had, in her youth actually married for love, was never predictable in her comments on relationships. She had always behaved as if it was a foregone conclusion that Margaret would follow her father’s wishes, and marry the Duke, but occasionally, Margaret had wondered what Lady Mantrell really thought on the matter. She had never been quite brave enough to ask.

This evening, as they rose from the dinner table, Lady Mantrell quietly asked that the two young women join her in the parlour for a little congenial chat with tea. Neither of them would think to deny Lady Mantrell such a request, having both been properly raised to honour their elders, and being rather fond of the woman.

Lady Mantrell sat in her favourite chair, adjusting her pillows behind her back. She glanced at Lady Phoebe.

“Please, if you would be so kind as to pour our tea, dearest.”

Margaret glanced out the large window at the summer sky, just darkening into the deep blue of late evening. She wanted to run out the door and continue running until she went past Bath Abbey into the hills beyond, but she sat quietly observing her guardian.

She was not at all sure that she wanted the conversation which would follow, for surely she would be admonished for causing the Duke to depart so precipitously, for having undoubtedly hurt his feelings. Lady Mantrell went on, as if unaware of Margaret’s concern.

“It has come to my attention that there are certain changes occurring in your feelings and attitudes, my dear.” Her eyes rested on Margaret.

“I am concerned, Lady Margaret, for, whilst I would be delighted if all went as your father had planned, and you married the Duke, I would not want you to be unhappy. And it seems to me that you are no longer truly content with the thought of marrying him. Perhaps it is best if you consider your feelings very carefully indeed. Far better to cry off, and disappoint the man, than to spend your whole life miserable. But if you wish to cry off, do it soon, because if things progress to a formally announced betrothal, with a wedding date planned, and then you cry off, the impact on your reputation will be far worse.”

Margaret’s eyes widened. Was it truly possible that, even before this evening’s rather disastrous dinner conversation, Lady Mantrell had suspected her doubts? She secretly wondered how much information the woman had ascertained from her maid, or from others.

The stout woman began to stir her tea nonchalantly.

“You have been promised for some time, obviously, and the heart can take a turn.” She glanced up from her stirring. “One way or another. Especially as you were so young when you were promised. To begin with, you were smitten by him, because he was a hero to you. But I do believe that you have, rather, grown out of that.”

The echoing of the spoon against the sides of the teacup seemed deafening to Margaret’s ears. Lady Mantrell put the spoon down, and sipped her tea. Margaret picked up her own teacup and sipped, thinking frantically – what could she say?

“Aaah, umm… yes. I will think on it closely, and attempt to clarify my feelings. Thank you for your understanding, Lady Mantrell.”

~~~~~