down on her knees and slid partially beneath the bed, wedging both books between the frame and mattress. Satisfied the books were hidden and wouldn’t be discovered, Margaret smoothed her skirts and made her way to the drawing room.
Of all the rooms in her aunt’s home, Margaret hated the formal drawing room the most. She’d been berated in the lavishly decorated crimson and gold chamber more than once since arriving in London. The tasseled pillows and paisley damask covering of the sofa were stark reminders of Margaret being given over to her aunt’s care. Grief-stricken over her father’s death and devastated at being unceremoniously wrenched from her home, Margaret had been dumped into the drawing room to await the pleasure of Aunt Agnes. Seated on the sofa, the blood-red walls closing in on her, Margaret had faced the chilly reception of her aunt, a woman she’d met only once before. There had been no warm embrace. No condolence on the death of Walter Lainscott. Not a bit of affection was spared on Margaret. Instead, Aunt Agnes berated her for nearly an hour at the stain Margaret represented on the perfect lineage of her mother’s family. A shameful secret Lady Dobson had kept from the ton she now had to acknowledge.
“There you are, my dear.”
Margaret halted briefly in the doorway at the uncharacteristic cheery greeting, the hair on the back of her neck raising. Her aunt was never pleasant, at least not to Margaret.
Aunt Agnes sat perched on her favorite chair, an uncomfortable piece of furniture with little padding and a hand-embroidered silk covering. The stitching on the chair was so delicate and fine, one risked tearing the fragile depiction of roses climbing up the cushions with only the slightest movement.
Margaret avoided the chair as if it carried a disease.
Oddly enough, her aunt was smiling, a startling toothy grin which frightened Margaret nearly as much as the cordial greeting. Dressed all in blue, today’s turban held a large peacock feather sprouting from the center.
“Come and sit, Margaret. You look especially lovely today. The dress suits you.”
Margaret glanced down at the light brown day dress with its motif of acorns carefully stitched into the skirt and along the bodice. It was one of her favorites but had never elicited any compliments from her aunt.
Oh, God.
Instantly she knew why she’d been summoned to the formal drawing room. She should have guessed. The season wasn’t over yet but apparently, Aunt Agnes didn’t have any intention of waiting to see if Lord Carstairs would call again. Margaret swayed ever so slightly as she made her way to the sofa, her foot catching on the wooden leg so that she fell with a whoosh into the cushions.
I thought I had more time.
Aunt Agnes gave her a gleeful stare, the small, beady eyes snapping in triumph. A fresh pot of tea sat before her on the table, along with a selection of sandwiches.
Horrid woman. She can hardly contain herself.
A sharp rap sounded at the door of the drawing room. “Lord Winthrop.” Henderson, her aunt’s butler intoned, a hint of satisfaction coloring his announcement.
Aunt Agnes brought up her chin. The peacock feather waved at Margaret, tendrils fluttering with mockery.
The dreadful clomp of too large feet clad in ridiculous shoes sounded in the hall seconds before the twin odors of sweat and talc permeated the drawing room. Winthrop was dressed in burgundy velvet, far too rich and heavy for the warmth of the day. Moisture had gathered between his brows and atop his upper lip, glistening in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
A giant, moist pear. Margaret kept herself perfectly still, determined not to shirk from him in disgust. Such a thing would delight her aunt and would not halt the proceedings.
Winthrop waddled forward, greeting her aunt politely. “Lady Dobson.”
“Lord Winthrop, what a surprise to have you call,” Aunt Agnes said. “Margaret and I were just about to have tea. Please join us.”
“Miss Lainscott.” He took Margaret’s hand. “You are looking especially lovely today.”
Margaret could do little more than stare at Winthrop and try to rein in her mounting horror at what was about to occur. She thought briefly about suddenly developing a headache, but Aunt Agnes would see through such a ploy. Could she faint? Perhaps collapse over the tea tray?
Winthrop settled his heaving form next to Margaret, making his appearance here even more glaringly apparent.
No. No. No.
She told herself to remain perfectly still and to keep her eyes trained on her lap. She managed not to cringe