1
London, 1839
“Stand up straight, Margaret. Good Lord, if you slouch in such a manner, you’ll make everyone think you have a physical deformity. It has been difficult enough to find you a suitable gentleman this season. Impossible in fact, but Lord Winthrop has expressed an interest in you, and we don’t wish to scare him away.”
Margaret Lainscott gave her aunt, Lady Dobson, a strained smile. “Of course, Aunt.” Winthrop wouldn’t do. If she could terrify him into fleeing England, Margaret would do so.
A trickle of perspiration ran between the small hollow of her breasts. Margaret could feel it sliding down her skin in a most unpleasant manner. The ballroom was dreadfully hot even though the doors had been thrown open to the gardens outside. The crush of the ton was stifling. The only thing worse than being paraded around her aunt’s little ball like a half-lame mare no one wanted was enduring her aunt’s company.
If only her father hadn’t decided to inspect the new vein of tin on his own that spring morning three years ago, Walter Lainscott would still be alive. Margaret would be at home in Yorkshire playing the piano and drinking tea instead of having Aunt Agnes dangle her before every eligible but uninterested bachelor in London. It was no secret Lady Dobson could barely tolerate the reminder of her younger sister’s shameful and unfortunate marriage to a tin miner. Not only was Margaret the byproduct of a union with a common tradesman, but she was too long in the tooth at the age of twenty-six to attract more than passing attention. In addition to her age, Margaret was only passably pretty in comparison to this season’s crop of debutantes. Most of the ton considered her to be shockingly plain. Margaret’s only redeemable qualities, according to her aunt, were that she could play the piano and possessed an obscenely large dowry.
“Oh, look, there’s Lord Winthrop now.” Aunt Agnes flipped her fan and widened her eyes in delight.
Bollocks.
Margaret ran her gloved hands down the folds of her gown, leaving indentations in the lush fabric. Best to get this over with as soon as possible.
“Miss Lainscott.”
The smell of pomade and talc instantly reached her nostrils. Winthrop smelled like a sweaty infant. The impoverished heir to an earldom had rapidly become her aunt’s favorite potential suitor for Margaret’s hand, though why she favored him was a mystery.
If given the choice, Margaret would prefer not to marry at all, but Aunt Agnes had made her expectations clear in that regard. She had no inclination to allow Margaret to continue living on her charity which meant Margaret had to marry. Margaret had reconciled herself to such a fate. It was the only way to escape her aunt and possibly give herself some control over her life. But not just any gentleman would do.
She dropped gracefully into a curtsy and lowered her eyes, lest he see the distaste hovering in them. “Lord Winthrop.”
“How are you finding the weather, Miss Lainscott?”
Margaret gave him a timid nod, careful not to meet his eyes, pretending extreme shyness in his presence. “Very fair, my lord.”
Limited intelligence was Margaret’s first requirement in a potential husband, for such a husband would be easier for her to control. He must be pleasant, polite, and somewhat attractive. She preferred he have a passion or hobby he adored. Hunting, breeding horses, fishing. Perhaps carpentry or playing chess. Something which would compel him to spend the bulk of his time away from Margaret. Of course, it would also be lovely if her future husband possessed a country estate where Margaret could take up residence and escape the confines of London. But that last requirement was the least important.
Margaret regarded Winthrop with a keen eye, taking in his massive, sweating form. He more than surpassed her first requirement. The piece of toast she’d had for breakfast that morning possessed more brains than he did. Winthrop was polite and appeared pleasant, but Margaret thought his good humor to be false. She sensed cruelty and malice in his eyes, as if his true nature was hidden behind a pompous demeanor. And he possessed no interests outside of playing cards or betting on horses that she could see.
Winthrop would be intolerable as a husband.
There was also the question of children. Winthrop was an only child. He’d want an heir. Margaret wasn’t opposed to performing her wifely duties, she was only against sharing a bed with Winthrop.
Thankfully, after expending a small bit of his limited attention on Margaret, Winthrop