“Margo,” her twin said threateningly, “stop playing with your frock and answer me.” Her scowl turned on Henry. “And don’t even try to look innocent, Henry Mortimer, when I just saw Margo’s entire fundament exposed to all of Derbyshire.”
“Mywhat?”
“Your bum,” said Henry helpfully, and then blushed a delightful carnation pink.
Matilda seemed considerably less charmed than Margo felt. “What are you twodoinghere?”
Margo gave up on her gaping bodice. “For heaven’s sake, Matilda. We were looking for you. We’ve been chasing you ever since you left. Did you think you could run off without a backward glance and I wouldn’t come after you?”
Matilda’s jaw was clenched, and her eyes were bright with rage. “Yes, in fact, I did think that, Margo, becauseI told you not to come after me.”
Margo felt an answering fury rise inside her. “You do not know what you are about.”
“Of course I know what I’m about. It’smy life,for Christ’s sake. It’s no one’s business but my own.”
“And Ashford? Where in God’s name is he? Or has he left you by yourself out here?”
Matilda’s face was white and set. “When we came upon you two rolling around in the dirt, I asked him to let me speak to you alone. And do you know what, Margo? He listened to me. He respected my wishes. Unlike you.”
Margo felt the impact of her sister’s words, a direct hit in the center of her chest. But it was easy for Ashford—his heart wasn’t tangled up in fear and love and worry and anguish as hers was.
“I don’t trust him,” she said. The words came out flat.
“You don’t know him!”
“Neither do you,” Margo said incredulously. “You’ve known him for what—a month? Six weeks?”
“I’ve known him long enough.” Matilda’s lips pressed together. “I love him. And it’s my choice, Margo. It’s not up to you.”
Panic had settled somewhere above her breastbone. She didn’t know how to get through to Matilda, and she was afraid, so afraid—
She didn’t want to lose her.
“Just because you and Ashford have—certain—desires—in common, that does not mean—”
“Stop it,” Matilda hissed. “I know you think I am unnatural—”
“I don’t, damn it!” Merciful heavens, whatever it was that tangled pleasure up in submission, Margo supposed they shared it. She gritted her teeth so hard she felt a muscle in her jaw creak. “I do not—I am trying not—blast it, Tillie! You can let Ashford whack you with a crop all day if you like—”
“How generous of you,” Matilda ground out, “when I just found you arse up in the woods with Henry Mortimer!”
“That’s different—”
“How is it different?” Matilda demanded. “Tell me!”
“I am not marrying Henry!”
The words rang out, clear over the distant sound of the waterfall. There was an awful finality to them, a leaden certainty that she had not intended.
She glanced over at Henry. His gaze was fixed on the trees ahead of him, and he did not look at her. But his mouth—his mouth was a grim flat line, and there was no sweet pink flush on his cheekbones.
“I am—” She didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, Henry, I—” She gave her head a little shake, trying to clear her mind. She couldn’t think about Henry right now. She had to focus on Matilda.
She attempted to choose her words carefully for once. “Could you not simply have an affair with Ashford? Does tying yourself to him for life not seem a trifle precipitate? I am not saying he is not the right person for you, Matilda, but if you would only take the time to be certain—”
“I am already certain.”
Margo drew a breath to try to argue her point, but Matilda gave a short sharp sigh and kept going.
