The Duke's
Loveless Bargain
Preview
Prologue
London, Sixteen Years Later
The ball was, as all good parties were in the height of the Season, a tremendous crush.
Unfortunately, that was literal. Holding her breath and lifting the two glasses of lemonade to shoulder height in an attempt to stop them spilling, Margaret wriggled through the last of the crowd and came out in a small circle of space near the wall.
There was a row of chairs circling the ballroom, designed for the infirm and for chaperones and matrons, but also for tired young ladies who had few acquaintances and few to no names on their dance cards.
Like Margaret, for instance.
Mr. Arthur Green was sitting where she had left him, spreading out his thin frame to keep all three seats free. He smiled nervously as she approached, lifting a hand to fiddle with his spectacles, like the shy young man that he was.
“Thank you, Miss Molyneaux, you are very kind. I really should have fetched the lemonade myself.”
She smiled. “It’s quite alright, Mr. Green.”
Privately, she thought that the nervy, mild-mannered Mr. Green would have had worse luck in forcing his way through the crowd than she had. She handed over one lemonade, and glanced around, a frown furrowing her brow.
“Where is Marigold?”
“Hm? Oh, Miss Marigold is dancing, I think. A gentleman came to ask her shortly after you went for the lemonade.”
Margaret bit back a sigh. Marigold was seventeen, and really too young to be out at all, but their mother had decided that this would be her year, and so here she was. She seemed to be exclusively targeted by leering old gentlemen, and almost all of Margaret’s time was taken up with fending them off. She had no time to look for a suitor of her own, although Mr. Green did seem promising.
He was around twenty years old, two years younger than herself, the fourth or fifth brother in some rich household with not too many prospects for himself beyond what his own wits could carve out. So far, Margaret had found him difficult to talk to and almost comically afraid of most women, but he was kind, and one never knew where these things might go.
She peered around and caught sight of Marigold in the middle of the dance floor. Immediately, her heart dropped.
“It’s a waltz,” she said aloud. Mr. Green, mid-sip, spluttered.
“Why, I… yes, I suppose it is.”
“Marigold isn’t supposed to waltz.”
Mr. Green shifted uneasily. “Oh. I did not know you were opposed to the waltz. I know that some people do find it rather improper, but…”
“I don’t find it improper, not for a grown woman who can decide whether she wants to waltz or not, but my sister is barely seventeen, and she expressed discomfort with the dance. And is that… is that Lord Tumnus?”
She knew it was, even before she said the words. The wretched man was close to forty these days and had never so much as looked twice at a woman over the age of nineteen. In fact, his tastes were rumoured to run even younger than that, which perhaps explained why he had pounced on Marigold with such eagerness.
“Excuse me,” Margaret muttered. “I must just deal with this.”
Before she could storm over to the dance floor, Mr. Green was on his feet, shifting uneasily.
“You don’t intend to intervene, do you, Miss Molyneaux? It would be rather shocking, you know. The dance will be over in a minute or two, anyway. Why not let it run its course?”
Margaret eyed the spinning couples with trepidation. She could see Marigold’s golden head rotating in the middle of the crush, in the arms of a tall man with a face like an axe, leering down at her with nauseating intensity.
“No,” she said decidedly. “I must do something.”
She moved forward, or at least she would have, if a woman had not detached herself from the crowd and stepped in front of her, so abruptly that Margaret actually bumped into her.
Margaret’s heart sank yet again. At this rate, she could expect her heart to do its beating from down in her boots.
“Lady Alice Bow,” she stammered, backing away. “I did not see you there.”
The woman in question shook out her skirts, straightened the heavy rope of pearls at her neck, and smiled at Margaret. It was not a pleasant smile.
“Heavens, Miss Molyneaux, how clumsy you are! I fear that you have stepped on the hem of my skirts. See, there is a tear.”
Margaret who knew fine well that she had not stepped on the wretched woman’s skirts, looked down anyway. Indeed, there was a small tear at the hem of the fine, emerald-green silk gown, about the length of a thumb.
“I fear I must ask you to pay for the cost of the gown,” Lady Alice said, sighing in false regret. “Of course, I could just ask you to sew up the tear, but I think that would be rather humiliating, wouldn’t it? I could never ask you to do such a thing.”
Margaret allowed herself to imagine slapping Alice’s perfectly proportioned face.
The fashion was for fair beauties at the moment, which meant that Alice’s rich, flaxen curls and Marigold’s golden hair were all the rage. Alice was tall, willowy, and pale, with pursed pink lips and large, fluttering blue eyes. She always knew what colours would suit her best, and her dresses were cut in the newest and most expensive styles, as colourful as possible.
Margaret was well aware that besides the likes of Lady Alice and her own younger sister, she resembled a modest sparrow next to a pair of flamboyant parrots. Margaret’s hair was a light brown, thick and wavy but fairly ordinary, her eyes an unremarkable brown, her face even-featured but not brilliant, while her figure – well, there was no denying it. She was solidly built.
At least, that was what her mother had said, when the two girls were dressing for the party tonight.
“Try not to stand beside your sister too much, Margaret,” she’d said, almost as an afterthought. “You’ll look ugly if you do. What possessed you to choose that plum-coloured muslin? It quite drains you. Still, it’s too late to change, and besides, everybody will be looking at Marigold anyway.”
It was odd how words could burn into a person’s brain and stay there, resurfacing at the worst moments. Such as now, for example.
“I haven’t torn your gown, Lady Alice,” Margaret said, lifting up her chin to look Lady Alice in the eye. “See how smooth the edges of the tear are, hardly frayed at all? It’s been punctured by a heeled boot, I think. See, I am wearing dancing slippers. They are flat. The tear would be longer and ragged, if I had stepped on it.”
Lady Alice’s smirk dropped from her face. “Oh, of course, I should have known better than to argue with you, Miss Molyneaux. You’re quite the scholar, if I remember rightly.”
Mr. Green stepped forward, and Margaret immediately wished he had not.
“Oh, do you two ladies know each other?” he said, glancing nervously between them.
Alice hesitated, but only for a moment. Her eyes lit up, and a truly beautiful smile graced her face. She turned the full force of it on Mr. Green, who blinked and began to blush.
“We were at finishing school together, Mr. Green,” she said, her voice light and melodious. That was the kind of skill the finishing school had taught – how to speak nicely. Margaret had never paid much attention.
Mr. Green was turning decidedly red. “Oh, how pleasant. You must be friends.”
Friends? Margaret wanted to scream. Why on earth do you think we should be friends? Haven’t you been listening to any of this?
“Indeed,” Alice laughed, blinking slowly. She reached forward, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Now, I remember you, Arthur. Your father was a great friend of my father. I remember your older brothers chasing you around the attics when you were small, and locking you up in a trunk. Do you remember?”
“I do remember,” Mr. Green said, laughing as if he hadn’t just confided in Margaret how terrified he had always been of his older brothers. “Of course you were there – I’d quite forgotten. My older brother, Thomas, was quite in love with you. He used to tell anybody who would listen that he would marry you when he was older.”
Alice threw her head back and laughed. It was a very ladylike laugh.
“Oh, how hilarious. Well, I only remember you, Mr. Green, presenting me with a little bouquet of daisies one day when I visited your family, when you were no older than eight or nine. Do you know, I think I still have them pressed in a book somewhere?”
Mr. Green’s face lit up. “Truly? You kept them?”
Margaret turned away. It was painful to watch. She had seen Alice try this trick on a great many gentlemen. She knew how to be fascinating – another skill taught at their finishing school – and how to make a gentleman feel as though he were the most interesting creature alive. And while he believed that, well, they would do frankly anything for her.
On cue, the music stopped, and the dancers broke out in applause. There would be a moment’s reprieve before the next melody commenced, and the flurry of parting with former partners to seek new ones would ensue.
“Oh, a new set is starting,” Alice remarked, her tone calculatedly light. “I do so love to dance. Don’t you, Mr. Green? Unfortunately, I have no partner.”
This development was not a surprise to Margaret, but apparently it entirely bowled over Mr. Green. He hesitated, flushing red, clearly summoning up his courage.
“Would you care to dance, Lady Alice? I should hate for you not to be able to dance when you wished to do so.”
Alice gave a pleased, surprised little exclamation, and threw a triumphant look over the man’s shoulder at Margaret.
“Oh, Mr. Green, I should love to!”
He glanced apologetically at Margaret and handed over the half-finished lemonade.
“Do excuse me, Miss Molyneaux.”
“Think nothing of it,” she answered automatically, but the pair were already moving off towards the dance floor, arm in arm. Arthur shot one last glance at Margaret, and then the crowd swallowed him up.
Oh, well done, Alice, you have managed to get the last laugh once again, Margaret thought sourly, draining the lemonade. But now you have to dance with him, don’t you?
She would tire of him soon enough, probably long before the dance ended. She would abandon him as soon as she could, secure in the knowledge that she could easily steal him away from Margaret, should the necessity arise. Mr. Green, shy again and feeling as though he had done something wrong, would make his way back to the seats, but Margaret would not be there when he arrived.
Margaret would have felt sorry for him, if all of her empathy wasn’t being used up on herself. She had lost count of the times that Lady Alice had swooped in during a party and scooped some man away from Margaret.
A gentleman and a lady stepped out of the crowd, and Margaret shook herself out of her maudlin thoughts and hurried to meet them. The lady was trying to twist away, but the gentleman had her hand trapped in the crook of his arm.
“There you are, Marigold,” Margaret said shortly, throwing a vague smile at the gentleman. “Here, I have some lemonade for you.”
The man scowled at her. “Ah, you must be the sister. We haven’t been introduced, so…”
“I am Miss Molyneaux,” Margaret interrupted. “And I’m sure you needn’t worry about us not being introduced, as I don’t believe you were properly introduced to my sister either before you asked her to dance, Lord Tumnus.”
He narrowed his eyes, and Marigold took the opportunity to whisk her hand out from his arm and came to stand beside her sister. She smiled gratefully up at her and drained the lemonade.
Marigold was already very much admired. She had had no proper coming-out party – they could not afford such a thing – but she was sweet, and beautiful, and formed like a perfect little doll, and apparently that was enough to put her on a level with all kinds of plainer heiresses.
Lord Tumnus sniffed, gaze raking Margaret up and down with visible disdain. “It’s Margaret, is it not?”
Margaret kept a tight smile on her face. “It is Miss Molyneaux, actually.”
“Goodness, your parents liked their M names, didn’t they?”
“Very much so. We usually call my sister Goldie, though. If you’ll excuse us…”
“Now, wait a moment. I’m going to fetch Miss Marigold here some refreshments, and we’re going to sit and talk for a moment, aren’t we?”
He smiled briefly down at Margaret, the smile never getting anywhere near his eyes.
She smiled too, equally insincere. “Oh, I think not, your lordship. I think Marigold wants to stay with me, don’t you, dear?”
Marigold nodded earnestly.
“There you are, Lord Tumnus. Marigold needs to rest, and frankly I’m not sure that our mother would approve of…”
“Actually,” he interrupted – quite a rude thing to do, interrupting a lady, although Margaret was used to small slights like that by now – “It was your mother, Lady Keswick, who introduced us to start with.”
A cold sensation crept down Margaret’s spine, and she glanced down at her sister, eyebrows raised questioningly. Marigold gave the tiniest nod.
“I see,” Margaret managed, voice tight. “Well, thank you for taking care of Marigold for a while, Lord Tumnus. We shan’t keep you any longer.”
She didn’t wait for him to argue or to insist. Instead, Margaret simply tightened her arm through Marigold’s and towed her sister off into the crowd. Her heart pounded for a moment or two, until she assured herself that they were not being followed and allowed herself a breath of relief.
“Thank you, Maggie,” Marigold whispered, voice tight. “I don’t like him. He makes me feel… he scares me, Margaret. I didn’t like how he looked at me. It was like he was hungry.”
Margaret shivered. “Well, you’re safe with me, you know that. But what was Mama thinking of when she decided to introduce you to him?”
“I don’t know, but I want to go home. Will you ask Mama if we can go home, Maggie?”
“I shall tell Mama that we are going home,” Margaret corrected firmly. “Just stay with me, and we’ll find her.”
“Thank you, Maggie. What happened to Mr. Green, by the way? He seemed very nice. I thought he liked you.”
“So did I, until Lady Alice Bow appeared and charmed him away.”
Marigold pulled a face. “I hate that woman.”
“You, my dear, are too sweet to hate anyone. Lady Alice has a grudge against me, that’s for sure.”
Marigold frowned. “But what did you do to make her so angry at you?”
Margaret shook her head, sighing. “I haven’t the slightest idea, Goldie, not the slightest idea.”
Chapter One
Some months later
Martha started violently, her tea catching the side of the cup and pooling untidily around the saucer. The sudden shout that now reverberated down the hall towards her caught her entirely unaware, her stomach cramping with an immediate flurry of fear.
“My lady!”
Her lady’s maid, Bessie, stumbled into the drawing room, not stopping to close the door.
“You must hurry, Your Grace,” she gasped, catching Martha’s hand as she rose to her feet, her skirts an impediment to her hasty departure. “He has returned sooner than we expected.”
Martha moved with as much swiftness as she could, one hand at her throat as she hastened towards the door. Bessie paused for a moment, craning her neck to see into the hallway before continuing onwards. Martha’s heart was pounding so violently that it was almost painful, but it would be nothing compared to what her husband would do, should he find her.
“Quickly, Your Grace!” Bessie whispered, trying to pull Martha along beside her. “You must hurry. Please!”
Martha struggled with her skirts, her slippered feet sliding on the highly polished floor as she attempted to run towards the grand staircase that would lead to the safety of her bedchamber and the double lock that she had ensured was fastened to the inside of her door.
It was her refuge. She had spent so many days and nights within, fearing that her husband would, one day, manage to break through the strong, thick wood of her door – but he had never once succeeded. Whenever he was called away to London, as he appeared to be very often, she would have the servants check her door thoroughly, making quite certain that it would protect her.
Her husband’s roar of rage ran through the house and Martha’s breath caught with a sudden, stifling fear. He was closer than she had realized, the sound of his voice chasing after her, nipping at her heels.
“Martha!”
He was there now, his footsteps hurrying towards the staircase. Twisting her head to look over her shoulder, she saw him cling to the rail, trying his best to put one foot in front of the other. She could tell he was thoroughly inebriated, which in itself was both a blessing and a curse. There was little chance of him catching her now, but it also meant that she would have to remain in her room for some days. She knew full well that the Duke of Pembroke would continue to drink until he passed out from the near-constant infusions of brandy and whiskey he consumed.
Bessie had the door to Martha’s bedchamber already opened by the time Martha reached it, slamming the door shut behind them both. Martha helped her to turn both of the heavy keys that sat, ready and waiting, in the locks, before pushing the heavy dresser in front of the door as well, ensuring that no-one could come in and no-one could get out.
“Here, Your Grace.” Bessie handed her the keys and Martha took them at once, feeling the cool metal in her hand. It gave her some reassurance, knowing that the locks were strong and that she was the only one with the keys. The Duke could not get in.
She was safe.
Despite that knowledge, the pounding on the door ripped a shriek from her mouth. Bessie was by her side at once, as tears began to prick at Martha’s eyes from the shock of what had just occurred. Carefully, Bessie led her towards the warm, welcoming fire that burned in the grate, seating her carefully beside it.
“There you go, Your Grace,” Bessie murmured, softly. “You are quite safe now. I am sorry there wasn’t a lot of time to get you here, but none of us expected the master to return so soon.”
Martha closed her eyes against the moisture that threatened to fall from them. She would not cry over her husband, not again. There had already been too many tears and too much sorrow. It did nothing to help her and could do nothing to change her situation. She simply had to remain strong, determined to protect herself and her staff in any way she could.
“It is not your fault, Bessie,” she said softly, patting her maid’s arm. “You need not apologise.” Opening her eyes and ignoring the shouts, the screams and the constant barrage of insults that were making their way from the door to her ears, Martha tried to smile. “I just pray that my tea tray was brought up.”
Bessie, who had done this a good many times before, let out a dry chuckle that seemed entirely out of place given the circumstances. “Indeed, my lady. The moment the carriage was seen coming up the drive, the cook was ordering everyone about like they were in the infantry! Your dinner tray is here also, and I have all that we shall require to make as much tea as you desire.”
Slowly, the banging on Martha’s door began to lessen, the shouts becoming quieter as her husband began to give up his attempts to get at his wife. Martha let out a long breath which shuddered out of her, taking with it the trembling that had settled in her limbs since she had found sanctuary in her room.
“The dinner tray, then,” she stated to Bessie, who smiled and brought it over at once, as though it was quite normal for her mistress to be taking dinner in her room whilst her bedroom door was locked and bolted like a castle in order to keep her husband away. “I thank you.”
Bessie nodded, with a slight flicker of concern in her pale green eyes. “May I make you a pot of tea now, Your Grace?”
Martha assented, hearing her husband kick the door in one last attempt to gain entry, which was just as futile as the last. Then, there was nothing but silence.
“Yes, I think so,” she murmured, her heart now back at a fairly normal rhythm. “Thank you, Bessie. You have, as usual, proven yourself more than dedicated. I do not know what I would do without you.”
Bessie smiled, inclined her head and disappeared into Martha’s dressing room, which was a small adjoining room where Martha would sometimes take her baths, when she had the opportunity to do so. On occasion, The Duke of Pembroke had attempted to sit outside Martha’s rooms until she was forced to remove herself from it – and since no dinner trays or the like could be brought up, he had thought himself very clever indeed. He had not known that, these last few months, Martha’s dressing room had been transformed into a small pantry with enough staples placed within it to keep Martha and Bessie free from hunger for a good many days. It had been Bessie’s idea and Martha was indebted to her for such wisdom, knowing full well that she might not have survived so long into her marriage were it not for her loyal staff.
Closing her eyes tightly, Martha let out her breath slowly, desperate to compose herself completely. This was not an unusual occurrence but neither was it what she had expected her marriage to the Duke of Pembroke to be. When they had first wed, he had seemed to her to be everything a gentleman ought to be – handsome, well-spoken and seemingly quite unaffected in his manner, which had been something of a surprise to her given his title and fortune. Unfortunately for her, she had discovered too late that her husband was nothing more than a violent drunkard, spending as much of his time as he could throwing whatever liquor he could find down his throat. Martha felt herself shudder involuntarily, recalling how he had called for her that fateful night, when she had been so innocent about her husband’s true character. She had approached him as a newlywed bride, only to discover that the Duke of Pembroke intended to assert his dominance over her. He was unyielding in his ways, ensuring she understood her position within both his household and his regard. His cruelty left her feeling diminished, bruised and alone.
He had not accounted for Martha’s quiet inner strength though.
When she had awoken, bruised and sore, Martha had determined that she would never again let herself be treated in such a fashion. She would not retreat to the shadows of fear that her husband so obviously wanted her to cling to. No, she would be strong. She would not allow his physical strength to dominate her, no matter how much he wanted it to be so.
And so, now a few months later, it had come to this. A life where she never saw her husband. He would either be in London and she would have the house entirely to herself, or he would return home and she would live in her rooms. She had not conversed with him for months and had no intention of doing so in the future. Of course, the Duke of Pembroke railed loudly and often at her through the door of her bedchamber but Martha was quite determined. She would not do as her husband expected and give herself to him willingly, so that he might treat her with such disrespect and dishonor – and certainly would not even consider allowing herself to bear his child given what sort of father the Duke of Pembroke would be!
“You haven’t eaten a single bite, Your Grace.”
Jumping in surprise, Martha’s fork clattered from her hand back down onto the tray.
“Here now,” Bessie said, gently, handing it back to her. “The master has gone, I think. You need to keep your strength up, Your Grace. There isn’t any good in sitting here letting that food go cold.”
Martha smiled, hearing the note of concern in Bessie’s voice. “You are quite right, Bessie. I was lost in thought for a moment, that is all.”
Bessie nodded and moved away, leaving Martha sitting quietly by the fire, captured still by her own thoughts. Would she ever be free from the Duke? It did not seem like it, for despite his near-constant state of inebriation, he still appeared fairly hearty and, from what she knew, managed to conduct his business well enough whenever he was in London. Divorce was not something he would even consider and certainly she, as a lady, would never be allowed to bring such a thing to the courts. Therefore, there was nothing else open to her other than to continue to live in the way she was now.
Martha ate absentmindedly, trying not to allow her spirit to become fatigued and drop low. To do so would bring her only more difficulty. For a moment, her mind flickered towards the only other person who might be able to come to her aid – the brother of the Duke, the Marquess Josiah Elkins, if she remembered correctly. Her brow furrowed, recalling that she had been introduced to him long before she had been introduced to the Duke himself. He had been a quiet sort, seeming reflective and considered but once she had become engaged to the Duke, he had become almost statue-like. He had chosen to keep well away from both herself and his brother, as though he thought the idea of his brother marrying an orphaned – albeit wealthy – young lady of the ton to be a particularly wise idea. She could still remember him now, his dark eyes wreathed in shadows as he had watched the Duke and her accepting the congratulations of every other person in attendance at their wedding. He had not said anything to her at all, had not even come to congratulate them both. Instead, he had remained quite silent, glowering from under half lidded eyes.
I do not think he will come to my aid. I do not even know where he resides. With a sigh, Martha shook her head to herself and speared another piece of chicken. Even if she knew of his place of residence and wrote to him, what if Lord Elkins, instead of helping her, spoke to his brother about what she had done? A shiver ran down the length of her spine, sending an icy hand to grasp her heart. It would be all the worse for her then. The Duke might decide to use his brother’s strength to help him break down her door and finally get himself inside, breaking apart her haven. The truth of it was, Martha realized, she had no knowledge whatsoever about Lord Elkins character. Mayhap he too liked to drink himself into oblivion, perhaps he also enjoyed using his fists to beat others into submission.
She shuddered violently, forced to set down her fork for a moment. The reality of her present, dire situation was that she could trust no-one but herself and the staff that had already proved their loyalty. Looking at the locked door, Martha felt the walls begin to slowly close in around her, her breathing quickening. There didn’t seem to be any way out. She was trapped in a prison of her own making, too afraid to leave in case the punishment outside would be greater than living her life inside the barred door.
There was no way out.
Chapter Two
The carriage ride home was cold, in more ways than one.
Goldie, wrapped in rugs and exhausted from dancing all night, fell asleep quickly, her head resting against Margaret’s shoulder.
“We should have stayed longer,” Lady Keswick said, voice flat and emotionless.
Margaret glanced over at her mother. “Goldie’s tired. It was the right time to leave.”
“If you say so.”
Lady Keswick was a remarkably good-looking woman for her age, and the rich black velvet of her mourning clothes only seemed to improve her figure and face. She was tall and graceful, with none of the stockiness that afflicted her oldest daughter. She had sharp, beautiful features, and an air of authority that seemed to make crowds part for her.
Or at least, it had done, before her husband died of a sudden apoplexy and left the Molyneaux house notably low on its finances. Lady Keswick had not seen fit to burden her daughters with the details, but Margaret was not a fool.
“You ought not to call her Goldie in public, you know,” Lady Keswick suddenly said. “It’s a rather childish nickname.”
Margaret bristled. “Mama, she is a child.”
“Nonsense. Marigold might be married by the end of the year, a woman grown.”
“She doesn’t wish to marry yet.”
Lady Keswick turned to look out of the window, although it was dark outside and surely all she could see would be her reflection, pale and hazy and staring back.
“I have been meaning to speak to you about something rather serious, Margaret, and I suppose that now is the best time.”
This was not a good sign. Drawing in a deep breath, Margaret steeled herself. At least Goldie was asleep and would not have to overhear anything troublesome. Margaret knew that her younger sister was fragile and tended towards anxiety. She was kind and wanted to alleviate everybody’s suffering all of the time.
Regrettably, the world was not fashioned in such a manner. Gentle and amiable
young ladies like Goldie were often devoured and discarded, or at the very least,
subjected to the advances of gentlemen like Lord Tumnus.
Who, apparently, had been introduced by Lady Keswick herself.
No, this “conversation” would be nothing good, Margaret was sure about that.
Lady Keswick took her time, fidgeting with her gloves and cuffs. For a moment, Margaret wondered whether her mother was actually nervous.
“It’s no secret that your father left us in a dire predicament,” she blurted out, quite suddenly. “The money is all but gone, and that’s before we take into account the debts he racked up. Your father was not a bad man, or a cruel one, but he was certainly foolish. There’s no dowry for you girls, not a penny. There is some money set aside for me, as a widow, but not much. Not enough to save us.”
Margaret swallowed. “I had guessed as much.”
Lady Keswick passed a hand over her face, and Margaret realised with a jolt that her mother’s hand was shaking.
“You are very clever, aren’t you, Margaret?”
She flinched. It didn’t sound like a compliment.
“Always guessing, always figuring things out,” Lady Keswick continued, a definite hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Well, let me tell you this. If you were pretty rather than clever, then perhaps you might have made a great match and saved us all. As it is, you can barely hold on to Arthur Green, the most unimportant son of a mediocre house. An offer from him…”
“…is not likely,” Margaret interrupted. She wasn’t entirely sure what drove her to say as much, only that her mother was likely to find out sooner or later, and it was probably best to just get it over with. “Lady Alice Bow took him away, and I fancy he’ll be dreaming of her for a while now.”
Not that Alice would think twice about a man like Arthur Green, even if he was too foolish to see it. Margaret felt sorry for him, even though she should probably keep her pity for herself.
“Wonderful,” Lady Keswick said, voice heavy and tired. “Well, Margaret, you are nearly three-and-twenty and have never been beautiful. You are clever, although that does not particularly work in your favour. You have never applied yourself to catching a man’s attention, and it’s too late to try now. I think it’s fair to assume that you are destined for spinsterhood.”
Margaret avoided her mother’s eye and picked at her skirts. It was last year’s dress, the plum-coloured muslin, and seemed to suit her worse than it had then. There were a few discreet darns on the hem, but they could not afford to replace the gown. New gowns for Margaret were a waste, anyway. As Lady Keswick had reminded her frequently, nobody would look at her.
“I think so, too,” she said at last, when it was clear that some response was expected. “And we have years before Goldie can be expected to make a decent match. If we can just…”
“Not necessarily,” Lady Keswick interrupted. “There is a gentleman very interested in Marigold at the moment. She can marry at once, you know. Seventeen is not so very young.”
There was a moment of silence between them.
“I hope you do not mean Lord Tumnus,” Margaret said at last, voice strained.
Lady Keswick had the grace to look embarrassed. “He’s a rich man, Margaret. He doesn’t care that Marigold has no dowry. He might seriously consider marriage with her.”
A wave of nausea rushed over her, making Margaret genuinely afraid that she might vomit up the mixture of champagne, lemonade, and biscuits that were all she’d eaten in the past few hours.
“You cannot let Goldie marry that man,” she managed at last. “You can’t. He’s… he’s awful. Didn’t you hear that rumour about him and some poor, friendless girl out in the country? He’s a monster!”
Lady Keswick sighed. “Men are just like that, Margaret.”
“She was fifteen!”
“Girls mature faster, my dear, you know that.”
“Nonsense. Nonsense!”
“Keep your voice down,” Lady Keswick hissed, nodding at Goldie. “Unless you want to wake up your sister and discuss it with her. She is not of age, and I am her mother, and that means I shall decide what is best for her. I have a legal and a moral right to do so.”
“You cannot believe that Lord Tumnus is going to be the best for her,” Margaret hissed. “Even you could not believe that. Goldie is terrified of him, don’t you see?”
“And what would you have me do, Margaret? It’s not as if you are going to save us all. I don’t think you understand just how close we are to disaster. It’s not simply a case of having no money anymore. We are destitute. Despite having let go most of the servants and selling off all the land we can, while we can, we are going to lose the house. Your father’s creditors are drawing near, much like hawks surveying their territory, and it won’t be long before one of them takes decisive action. Once they sense an opportunity, the situation could deteriorate rapidly. And then, Marigold will be vulnerable, and prey to far worse men than Lord Tumnus. I can assure you that there are worse men than him, and you will have no way of defending her from them.”
Lady Keswick fell silent after this impassioned speech, spots of colour burning in her usually white cheeks. She sat back against the carriage seats, staring blankly out of the window.
Margaret found that she was holding her breath, and a pain was spreading across her chest. A headache throbbed between her temples, and she felt sicker than ever. It could be a combination of the sickly lemonade and her own tension, or it could have been the jerking and rattling of the carriage. The coach was in dire need of re-springing, as well as reupholstering, a thorough scrubbing, and a proper re-lacquering. Alas, they found themselves lacking the funds to undertake even a fraction of these necessary repairs.
“I see,” Margaret said at last. “It doesn’t seem fair that we’re left to deal with Papa’s debts.”
Lady Keswick shrugged. “It isn’t fair, but the money and land were all his. Now that he’s dead, his creditors have the right to take a piece of the estate before it passes to us. We’re women, my dear. We don’t really own anything, not even ourselves.”
Goldie shifted against Margaret’s shoulder, sighing in her sleep. Margaret’s heart clenched.
Not my sister, she thought, feeling ill. I can’t let this happen to her. I have to save her. I must save her. Nobody else will.
I can’t save her.
“So what do you propose?” Margaret said at last. “We push Goldie at Lord Tumnus, who may or may not deign to marry her?”
Lady Keswick was quiet for a long moment after that.
“Not exactly,” she said at last. “Not yet. Only a few hours before we left, I received this,” she withdrew a letter from her reticule, holding it up in something like triumph.
“And what does it say?” Margaret asked tiredly. She was thoroughly sick of her mother’s sense of drama.
“Let me give you a little context. One of your father’s creditors has written to me about the debt, seeking repayment. As he is – apparently – a gentleman, I thought I might try and throw myself on his mercy. I explained the situation, and waited to see what would happen.”
“A true gentleman wouldn’t chase a man’s widow and daughters to reclaim a debt,” Margaret snapped.
Her mother continued as if she had not spoken. “Imagine my surprise and curiosity when the gentleman wrote back, requesting to meet with me – and both of you – to discuss the matter further. He says – and I quote – that a mutually beneficial arrangement might be met.”
Lady Keswick sat back, smiling triumphantly. A sense of unease prickled in Margaret’s gut.
“That could mean anything. It could mean that he thinks we have valuable things in our home, or that he is our only creditor. He might be less of a gentleman than you think and have some nefarious scheme in mind.”
“Nefarious scheme? Goodness, Margaret, you read entirely too many novels. Still, I happen to know that this gentleman is single, and a duke. Imagine if he were to fall in love with Marigold?”
Margaret sighed. “Well, that isn’t likely to happen, is it?”
Her mother sniffed. “Stranger things have happened. Men of his calibre, my dear, do not need to marry rich women. Why should he not marry the pretty, young little thing?”
“Because Goldie is a child, Mama.”
Lady Keswick shook her head. “Not in the eyes of many men, my dear.”
That was an unsettling thought, and Margaret stayed quiet for a while after that. Only ten minutes later, they reached home.
***
Molyneaux Manor had once been a very fine place, the pinnacle of fashion and good taste. Of course, that was back when Margaret assumed that everything in her home was properly paid for, properly owned by them.
She was wrong about that. Only days after the funeral, the house had been stripped of its valuable things, which it turned out they had never properly owned at all. Lady Keswick had rushed around the house in a mad dash, trying to collect the things she wished to save before they could be taken by blank-faced men with notebooks. They marked off everything they took, noting its value beside.
Now, the place was emptier than before, dustier than before, and noticeably quieter. They hadn’t entertained since before Lord Molyneaux died.
Margaret was vaguely aware that she ought to miss her father, but then again, it wasn’t as if she’d seen very much of him before he died, except at the occasional suppertime. At times, it felt as though he’d never been there at all.
Goldie was put to bed almost immediately, yawning and stretching and entirely unaware of the conversation which had gone on over her head, about her future and theirs.
Upstairs, Margaret retreated to her own bedchamber. She had no lady’s maid, of course. The head housemaid used to do her hair and Goldie’s, and take care of their clothes, but the woman had put in her notice months ago, citing unpaid wages. Margaret felt guilty over that. She had gone to her jewellery box, intending to take something to sell to pay Lucy’s owed wages, only to find that the box was empty.
Her mother had taken it all, half a year ago, and admitted to it freely. They had had a shouting match over that.
She undressed quickly, shivering in her night things in front of the empty grate. Firewood, of course, was expensive, and not to be wasted on bedroom warmth. She would warm up quickly enough once she was in bed.
Margaret did not, however, get into bed right away. After a moment’s thought, she seized her candle and ventured out into the dark hallway. Almost all of the lights were off, except for her mother’s room at the end of the corridor, a beam of light making its way out into the hall.
Lady Keswick sat at her dressing table, applying a cold cream to her cheeks. She glanced briefly at Margaret in the mirror.
“Not asleep yet? I thought you were exhausted; you were so keen to come home. Did you want to borrow some of my cream? It’s very good for the skin. Very smoothing, very whitening,” she paused, glancing over at Margaret again. “You could certainly benefit from a night-time cream, I think. Some cream, or perhaps a powder…”
“I’m here to talk about that creditor,” Margaret interrupted. “I assume you’ve already told him to meet us.”
“You are right. He is coming tomorrow, so I expect Marigold and you to wear your nicest gowns and to be on your best behaviour.”
“You truly think he’ll agree to a deal? Even if he does, we’ll still have other creditors to worry about.”
Lady Keswick shrugged. “It’s an opportunity, is it not? I think he may be willing to help us because… well, because he’s a rather odd man. I don’t believe he’s been in Society these last few years, and he had a reputation as being somewhat harsh.”
“Then how do you know he won’t demand his money at once and throw us out?”
Lady Keswick screwed the cap back onto her little pot of cream, turning her face this way and that to admire her skin. She gave a small pout into the mirror, and Margaret was reminded for the thousandth time that her mother had been described as a Great Beauty when she was young.
“He is unpredictable, from what I have heard,” she continued, thoughtfully. “I think that if he was simply going to demand his money back from us, he would have sent bailiffs and collectors to do so. I believe he’s done so in the past. This meeting means something, Margaret. It isn’t a formality, or a courtesy. He’s not a man given to either. He wants something from us, and it’s not the money we owe him. I, for one, want to find out what it is.”
Margaret swallowed hard. Suddenly, it seemed colder than before, her nightdress even thinner and more flimsy than when she’d left the bedroom. The wooden floor was ice cold under her bare feet.
“Who is he, then, Mama? What’s his name?”
Lady Keswick sighed. “I imagine you’ve heard of him. It’s the Duke of Stonehaven.”
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“The Duke’s Loveless Bargain” It will be live on Amazon soon…
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