“Hawthorne was steadfast.”
Margaret took the offered cup and saucer with a grateful smile. “And you’ve said Westfield was not.”
“No,” Elizabeth said with a sigh.
“Are you certain?”
“I could not be more certain if I’d caught them in the act.”
Margaret’s mossy green eyes narrowed. “You took the word of a third party over that of your fiancé?”
Shaking her head, Elizabeth took a fortifying sip of her tea before answering. “I had a matter of grave urgency to discuss with Lord Westfield, grave enough that I ventured to his home one evening—”
“Alone? What in heaven’s name would goad you to act so rashly?”
“Margaret, do you wish to hear the tale or not? It’s difficult enough to talk about this without you interrupting.”
“My apologies,” came the contrite reply. “Please continue.”
“I waited several moments after I arrived for him to receive me. When he appeared, his hair was damp, his skin flushed, and he was attired in a robe.”
Elizabeth stared into the contents of her cup and felt ill.
“Go on,” Margaret prodded when she didn’t speak.
“Then the door he’d come through opened and a woman appeared. Dressed similarly, with hair as wet.”
“Good grief! That would be difficult to explain. How did he attempt it?”
“He didn’t.” Elizabeth gave a dry, humorless laugh. “He said he was not at liberty to discuss it with me.”
Frowning, Margaret set her cup and saucer on the end table. “Did he attempt to explain later?”
“No. I eloped with Hawthorne, and Westfield left the country until his father passed on. Until the Moreland ball last week, we’ve never again crossed paths.”
“Never? Perhaps Westfield has collected his error and wishes to make amends,” Margaret suggested. “There must be some reason he’s pursuing you so doggedly.”
Elizabeth shivered at the use of the word “pursuing.” “Trust my judgment. His aim is nothing as noble as making amends for past wrongs.”
“Flowers, daily visits—”
“Discuss something less distasteful, Margaret,” she warned. “Or I will take my tea elsewhere.”
“Oh, fine. You and your brother are a stubborn lot.”
But Margaret was never one to be denied, which is how she’d convinced William to give up his agency life and marry her. Therefore, Elizabeth anticipated the moment when Margaret would return to the subject of Marcus and was not surprised when it came later that evening.
“He is such a beautiful man.”
Elizabeth followed Margaret’s gaze across the crush of guests at the Dempsey rout. She found Marcus standing with Lady Cramshaw and her lovely daughter, Clara. Elizabeth pretended to ignore him even as she studied his every move. “After hearing about our past, how can you be taken by the earl’s pretty face?”
She’d deliberately avoided social events for the last week, but in the end had accepted the Dempsey invitation, certain the Faulkner ball up the street would be more likely to attract Marcus. The annoying man had found her anyway, and dressed so beautifully. His deep red coat fell to his thighs and was liberally decorated with fine gold embroidery. The heavy silk gleamed in the candlelight as did the rubies that adorned his fingers and cravat.
“Beg your pardon?” Margaret turned her head, her eyes wide with bemusement. She pointed her fan across the room. It was then that Elizabeth saw William and she blushed furiously at her mistake.
Margaret laughed. “They make a stunning couple, your Westfield and Lady Clara.”
“He is not mine and I pity the poor girl if she’s caught his eye.” She lifted her chin and looked away.