“Or perhaps,” Morgan said suddenly, his tone sharper now, “you brought me out here to show off your new acquisition to society.” He cast her a sidelong glance, his dark eyes gleaming with something that felt uncomfortably like accusation.
Margaret turned to him, startled. “I beg your pardon?” she blurted, the words spilling out before she could collect herself. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Merely that perhaps you are not the woman you make yourself out to be, Margaret,” he replied, his voice smooth but touched with skepticism. “Suffice to say, I am trying to know your true intentions. After all, are you not the advocate of ‘knowing each other’?”
His words struck her like a slap, and her grip on her parasol tightened. “If I didn’t know better,” she said slowly, “I would say you are making me out to be a woman with an ulterior motive, Your Grace.”
He inclined his head, his tone maddeningly even as he said, “You are as observant as you are clever.”
Margaret felt her mouth fall open, her shock quickly giving way to rising anger. Who was this man to accuse her so baldly and without cause? She searched his expression for any trace of humor, some indication that he might be jesting, but found none. His audacity was unparalleled.
“So tell me,” he continued, utterly undeterred by her growing irritation, “was our encounter truly just an accident? Or was it a lady out fishing at night?”
Fishing? Margaret’s heart pounded, and her breaths came shorter as her temper flared. She fought to keep her voice steady, though it was no small feat. “You think I orchestrated it,” she said, her words clipped.
“It is not a question of what I think,” he said smoothly. “I am trying to ascertain whether you did.”
Her gaze snapped to him, searching his inscrutable features. Was he serious? She drew in a steadying breath before speaking. “And do you truly believe,” she asked, her tone edged with cool precision, “that given a choice, I would try to trap a man like you into matrimony?”
Morgan’s lips curved slightly, though it was hardly a smile. “It is not so much the man as it is his title, pockets, and influence in society, is it not?”
“You are insufferable!” Margaret snapped. Her foot caught briefly on a loose stone, and she stumbled. Before she could regain her footing, Morgan’s hand tightened on her arm, steadying her with infuriating ease.
“Such venom,” he remarked, his voice a drawl, “from the woman who encouraged us to get to know each other. And I am merely making the effort to oblige her.”
Margaret clenched her teeth. “The only reason I am agreeing to this marriage is for my family’s honor,” she spat, her composure unraveling despite her best efforts.
“Oh, so you have made your decision,” he observed, his tone almost approving. “A wise one too,” he added with a nod. “Not to mention advantageous.”
Her hands trembled as she fought to rein in her temper. “If you truly think of me as a materialistic woman who’s after your influence and fortunes,” she said sharply, “then why did you make the offer for me?”
He turned his head slightly, his dark gaze resting on her with maddening calm. “As you think of your status in society, so too do I have my own honor and good name to protect.”
Every fiber of Margaret’s being screamed for her to turn on her heel and storm away, leaving him to stew in his own disdain. But to do so would only draw attention, and she could not risk rumors swirling before they were even wed. Instead, she gritted her teeth, lifted her chin, and forced herself to continue walking, her steps deliberate and her back as straight as a rod.
Beside her, the man who was to be her husband strolled with unhurried ease, his manner entirely unaffected by the tension crackling between them. The future looked bleak indeed.
Where was her gallant knight? Faced with this suspicious grouch, s he needed him now more than ever.
CHAPTER 8
“So, how was your little promenade?” Anna’s voice floated across the room, light in tone but not without its edge of curiosity.
Peggy looked up from her embroidery hoop, the delicate rose she had been working on now seeming unbearably tedious. She let out a long, slow sigh, setting her needle aside with deliberate care.
“Well, that doesn’t augur good news,” Anna observed, her blue eyes narrowing as she crossed the room to sit beside her cousin. “Do not tell me he was as impossible as they say. Or worse?”
Peggy hesitated, smoothing the folds of her muslin dress as though the action might somehow soothe her nerves. She could feel Anna’s gaze probing, ever watchful, and knew she must tread carefully. “The Duke is a tough nut to crack, but I am certain we will get along in time,” she said with a strained smile.
Anna raised one skeptical brow, her expression plainly unconvinced. “If you say so,” she replied lightly, though the concern in her voice was unmistakable.
Peggy busied herself by picking up her needle again, pretending a sudden fascination with the half-stitched petals on the fabric. She could tell Anna wanted to press further, but mercifully, her cousin held back. It seemed a rare reprieve, but one Peggy intended to seize.
Not long after Anna left, however, Peggy heard the soft rustle of skirts approaching. Her heart sank. She set aside her embroidery just as Aunt Petunia appeared in the doorway, her presence as commanding as ever despite her diminutive stature.
“How are you doing, dear?” Petunia asked, her tone gentle as she perched gracefully on the sofa beside Peggy.
Peggy felt a faint smile tug at her lips despite herself. “Did Anna send you to interrogate me, Auntie?” she teased, her voice light but held an edge of wariness.
