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“YOU’VE GOT DREADFULLY good luck.” Daisy declared, wheeling her chair toward her bedroom. “Papa’s at his club.”
The walls inside Daisy’s bedroom were painted a cheerful tangerine, and Margaret exhaled. If her dress weren’t destroyed, this would almost seem normal.
Daisy’s mother wouldn’t let Margaret stay for long. Margaret couldn’t have the luxury of postponing this conversation, no matter how unpleasant recollecting the experience was, and no matter how little she desired to see pity in her friend’s gaze.
Margaret was frequently pitied. More pity was intolerable.
Daisy swung the door shut, and her bright blue eyes gleamed. “Reveal everything. Disclose your secrets. Lay out your skeletons.”
“No skeletons,” Margaret blurted.
“Pity. My parents won’t let me have a real one, and I wouldn’t mind a metaphorical one.”
Daisy’s interest in medicine was renowned, but Margaret still shuddered. Skeletons could remain in neatly groomed cemeteries, underneath equally neatly shaped tombstones and, on special occasions, adorned with tasteful selections of flowers.
Daisy rotated her wheelchair against the wall. “You came from the ball. Was it as dreadful as you imagined?”
Margaret settled into a chair. “Worse.”
Daisy shivered. “The nice thing about being friends with you is that I do not feel I’m missing out. Now what happened? Were you confined to the smoky wallflower section beside the chimney?”
“Worse.”
Daisy’s eyes widened. “You weren’t dancing the whole time, were you? Making a spectacle of yourself with your inelegant dance steps.”
Margaret drew herself up. “How do you know my dance steps are imperfect?”
Daisy smirked. “I’ve seen you walk.”
Margaret scowled. But it was true: she was a dreadful dancer, no matter how much her instructors corrected her, no matter how effusively they beseeched her to improve, and no matter how much Margaret desired to do just that.
“I wasn’t dancing,” Margaret said sullenly, crossing her arms.
“But you did attend the ball?” Daisy gazed at Margaret’s dress, as if pondering whether she may have fallen into a muddy puddle and only just managed to drag herself out.
“Naturally.” Margaret raised her chin. “Besides, Mama would never have stood for not attending.”
Daisy was silent, her gaze intelligent. This was the moment to disclose everything, but Margaret found her heart clenching as if desiring to stomp out her vocal cords.
Finally, Margaret sighed. “I wasn’t by the fire, and I wasn’t dancing. I—er—was on the duke’s bed.”
Daisy’s mouth dropped open.
“So I wasn’t uncomfortable,” Margaret continued with an odd laugh. “The bed was soft.”
“And you were truly in his bed? Not a guest room?”
“Oh, the duke was present too.”
Daisy remained silent, though her eyebrows leaped upward.
“I mean, he wasn’t present the whole time,” Margaret explained. “That would be inappropriate.”
“I suppose there’s a limit to inappropriateness,” Daisy said faintly.
“Precisely,” Margaret agreed. “I didn’t choose to be on his bed.”
“Did he sweep you up and put you there? Is the duke’s by-blow going to make an appearance in nine months?”
“Nonsense. He didn’t touch me.”
Daisy looked at her strangely. “Did your mother by any chance place you on the bed?”
Margaret gave a miserable nod, and Daisy’s eyes welled.
Margaret averted her gaze. “She had help.”
“But she orchestrated it?”
“Yes.” Margaret’s voice squeaked. “She brought a bishop to ‘discover’ us.”
“She meant for the Duke of Jevington to be accused of compromising you?”
“Indeed.”
“And her plan didn’t work,” Daisy said gently.
“Precisely.”
Daisy squeezed her hand sympathetically, but then giggled. “So, the duke found you on his bed?”
“It’s not amusing,” Margaret said.
“Are you certain?” Daisy’s eyes gleamed, and Margaret felt her lips twitching.
“How did he react? Did he touch you?”
“He touched my wrists, but that was because I asked him too.”
“If I were alone with him, I would ask him to touch more than my wrists,” Daisy breathed.
Margaret widened her eyes, and Daisy’s cheeks pinkened.
“It wasn’t a matter of pleasure,” Margaret said hastily. “Naturally!”
“Naturally,” Daisy repeated with an air of dubiousness.
“I was restrained to his bed. Obviously, when he entered, I had to ask him to untie me. And the best location to put restraints has always been on one’s wrists. Something about making it hard to use one’s hands.”
“Hands are quite important,” Daisy agreed.
“Yes. I suppose it would be far more uncomfortable if they went about tying people’s chests.”
“Ah, the bovine technique.”
Margaret shot her friend a quizzical glance.
“Normally rendered by cowboys with the use of something called a lasso,” Daisy added.
For the moment they were silent, contemplating the eccentricities prevalent in Britain’s former colonies. On another night, Margaret might have added a comment about the passionate American distaste for tea, but this was no time for small talk, even of the indubitably interesting sort.
“I climbed out the window and ran away,” Margaret said. “She’s probably upset.”
“She’s probably outraged. Most women would have stayed there. You could have nabbed a duke.”
Margaret sighed. “Nobody would have believed he was compromising me, anyway.”
“I don’t believe that’s true.”
“O-Of course it is,” Margaret stammered.
Perhaps Daisy didn’t see how other people interacted with Margaret, but Margaret did. She was a wallflower, and wallflowers never bedded dukes.
“The duke would have declared that my mother and I staged a false compromising situation,” Margaret said. “And everyone would have believed him”
It was obvious.
Utterly.
Daisy tilted her head, shifting her long blond strands. Perhaps she’d interrupted Daisy brushing her hair.
It was late, and Margaret shouldn’t be here. If only her parents had bought a house in Mayfair, instead of their large townhouse with its unusually large garden. If only Margaret could have gone straight home.
“Perhaps he wouldn’t have done that,” Daisy said.
“I couldn’t force him to marry me. I couldn’t begin married life that way.”
“Of course not,” Daisy said, her voice warm. “And that’s the real reason you’re my dearest friend. And the reason the duke would have been lucky to have been forced to marry you.”
“Nonsense,” Margaret said.
The duke could marry anyone. He shouldn’t be saddled with a woman everyone was happy to dismiss.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I had no intention of coming here and being despondent. I’m—er—afraid I lost my reticule. Not that I had much coin in it any way. Do you think I might borrow fare for a hack?”
Daisy straightened. “You intend to return home?”
Margaret nodded.
“After what your mother did?” A strange outrage sounded in Daisy’s voice, an expression that Margaret did not associate with Daisy’s normally pleasant disposition.
Margaret nodded again. “Of course.”
“I’m certain my mother will put you up.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows.
“Well.” Daisy looked down as her cheeks pinkened, before she raised her gaze and leaned toward Margaret. “We don’t have to tell her.”
Margaret giggled. “I’m sure she’s eagerly waiting for me to leave.”
“You can climb up the window,” Daisy said.
“Last time I fell.”
“You can’t fall every time.”
“I doubt dark will improve my abilities.”
“Then we shall tell her,” Daisy amended. “Obviously, you can’t go back. Who knows what your mother will do next?”
Margaret frowned momentarily. Then she raised her chin in that time-honored tradition of people intent on making the best of dubious circumstances. The gesture might have dubious wish fulfilling merits, but nevertheless, Margaret vowed to not worry. “All I need is a plan. Well, all I need is a good plan. And then I can move from my home and live happily ever after.”
Margaret was not going to let her mother continue to take control of her life. Not when her mother’s plan involved tying her to beds.
“What you need,” Daisy said, “is to marry.”
Margaret gazed at her friend suspiciously.
Normally, Daisy displayed a reasonableness that Margaret appreciated. Margaret had never thought Daisy was given to uttering maddening statements, and it was unfortunate that Daisy had apparently lost her sense at this precise moment.
“I’m not going to claim that the duke compromised me.”
“Then don’t marry the duke,” Daisy said. “But remember, if you marry, you won’t be subjected to your mother’s crazed attempts.”
Margaret frowned. Technically, Daisy might have a point. Her mother had bribed someone before the season began to laud her to the Marquess of Metcalfe. Unfortunately for Margaret’s mother, the woman she’d chosen had ended up marrying the marquess. Mama had dragged Margaret to every ball this season, sometimes shuttling her to a different one before Margaret had even had a chance to test the canapes. All Mama’s work hadn’t mattered: no one was courting Margaret. Perhaps no one ever would.
“No one will marry me,” Margaret said. “That’s why I’m in this situation.”
“Your ‘being tied to bedposts’ situation?” Daisy’s lips twitched.
Margaret crossed her arms. “It’s not amusing.”
Daisy raised an eyebrow, and Margaret sighed.
Perhaps it was amusing.
Even if the incident had been terribly awkward.
“I don’t want to marry just anyone,” Margaret said. “I have standards.”
“And so you should,” Daisy said.
Margaret scrutinized her friend. For some reason, Daisy continued to smile and nod, as if they were having a normal conversation; as if her friend was entirely incognizant that every word she uttered was of the nonsensical variety.
“No one wants to marry a Scottish woman whose father is in trade. When people make conversation, they wonder that I’ve been invited at all.”
“It’s because your father is very rich.”
“I know, but—”
Daisy shook her head. “You’ll be fine.”
Margaret considered telling her that every word was absurd. Naturally, Margaret wouldn’t be fine. Men were not known to rave about the frizziness of overly thick hair or the lack of a willowy figure.
“Men don’t want to court me.”
“Precisely.” Daisy beamed. “Which is why you’ll need to rapidly advance your social position.”
Margaret narrowed her eyes. Daisy blithely discussed the impossible. If Margaret had been able to rapidly advance her social position, Papa’s money would have seen to that.
“You just need some help,” Daisy mused.
“Mothers are supposed to help,” Margaret said.
“Well, yes. But yours is rather too enthusiastic in the fulfillment of her duties. But perhaps...” Daisy was silent, then a smile frolicked over her lips.
Margaret stiffened as Daisy’s smile continued to grow, harboring all manner of ominousness. Only truly absurd thoughts might cause Daisy’s lips to extend to such a high manner or for her eyes to gleam with such foreboding.
Daisy leaned forward. “There is someone else who can help.”
“I hope you’re not going to volunteer your mother.”
“Nonsense. She wouldn’t be sufficiently motivated.”
“But who would be?”
“The Duke of Jevington.”
Margaret blinked.
She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. They seemed to have been extinguished by the mere absurdity of Daisy’s statement. Finally, she shook her head.
“It’s true.” Daisy leaned back confidently.
“You haven’t met him. He wouldn’t help me.”
“He was probably exceedingly grateful you didn’t stay in his room. You could be making preparations for becoming a duchess. Instead, you’re here. Not quite as lofty a location.” She smiled wryly.
Daisy’s home might be in a pleasant neighborhood, but the interior lacked the lavishness of some of Margaret’s other friends. No Roman busts perched on sideboards, and no Grecian goddesses stared down from elaborate painted ceilings. Daisy’s home seemed...cozy. After all, her parents had devoted time to hauling her from spa to spa in the hopes of healing her lameness. None of the efforts had worked, despite her father’s coffers and his eagerness to disperse coin. His coffers were rather less vast now, regrettably matching a similarly less buoyant spirit, and her mother hadn’t confronted the task of wheedling for generous curtain budgets and lauding the merits of updated furniture with the same vigor as other women of the ton.
“I can’t ask him to help me find a husband.” Margaret scoffed at the notion.
“The Duke of Jevington isn’t known to have a cruel reputation.”
“He’s also not known to have an insensible one.”
Daisy didn’t stiffen. Instead she removed her reticule from her desk, opened it up, and slipped some coin into Margaret’s hand. “My parents insist I keep it for emergencies. Jameson will help you get a hack. And tomorrow, you will call on the duke and tell him of your predicament.”
Despite the smooth drive of the carriage, now that London was dark and freed from its preponderance of hacks, wheelbarrows and people, Margaret returned home warily as she pondered her friend’s words.
Finally, the carriage stopped before her family’s townhouse. Margaret gazed at the forbidding building that loomed higher than the surrounding buildings, as if size could indicate grandeur. Her family had only moved there recently, and it felt as foreign as everything else in the capital.
Perhaps she should simply tell the driver to turn around and spend the night at Daisy’s.
But that was hardly a permanent solution.
Not for the first time, Margaret wished she were home—her true home. Everything had been easier before Papa’s business had taken off.
The driver opened the door, and Margaret exited the carriage. Her heart quivered, even though walking to the door was an action she’d done many times before, even though, normally, she was accompanied by either her mother or a maid.
Still, there was no point to tarry.
She raised her hand to the door knocker and tapped on it, wondering if the butler might have abandoned his post, given the late hour.
She need not have worried.
The door swung open immediately. Instead of the butler’s solemn expression, her mother appeared.
“My dear child!” Mama shrieked, enveloping her in an embrace.
Mama normally did not hug her. Hugs were reserved for small children, not for daughters one feared might achieve spinsterhood.
“I was so worried,” Mama squealed.
Margaret wondered whether she should remind her that she would not have been worried had she not decided to tie Margaret to the duke’s bed.
Lily pattered toward her, wagging her tail, oblivious that this night was unlike any of the others. Margaret crouched down and petted her dog’s pale coat.
“Ah, there you are,” Papa said. Even though light gleamed from his pince-nez in their customary fashion, Margaret saw the friendly creases around his eyes, even if he displayed less emotion than her mother.
“Young lady, you should have come home with your mother,” Papa said, as if remembering that this was a moment for parental showcasing, even if such moments were rare. “Why ever did you become separated from her?”
Mama looked at her nervously.
Margaret hesitated. Now was the time to tell her father everything, and yet, what would it accomplish? Papa might scold Mama?
No.
This was between her mother and herself. She just needed to be more careful, lest her mother decide to stage a false compromising scene again.
“I’m here now.”
Papa nodded. “Right, right. So you are.”
Another father might have become angry, with the air of a man who’d always pondered what it might be like to be a dictator and who took any misbehavior as a sign to fully explore that potential. Papa was not most men. When he halted his incessant meetings and perusals of various ledgers and reports, it was only to smile contentedly, as if he had a constant cup of chocolate in his hand. Papa was grateful for his good fortune and withstood the temptation lesser men had succumbed to of acting patronizing to everyone who’d not succeeded in becoming a titan.
Margaret shifted her legs. “I’ll go upstairs.”
“Quite sensible,” Papa said. “I—er—should get back to my books.”
Mama nodded, but there was an icy glint in her eyes, and when Margaret ascended the stairs, she wondered if she’d made a mistake in not saying everything.