“Would you like tea, Lord Winthrop?” Aunt Agnes was practically dancing a jig she was so pleased.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Margaret, please pour.” Her aunt was still smiling, almost daring Margaret to defy her or attempt to escape her fate.
Margaret nodded, her manner docile, and poured tea, pausing only when Winthrop instructed her on the amount of milk he liked in his. Taking a deep breath, Margaret composed herself while her mind ran through a series of excuses she could use to leave the room and never return.
Perhaps she was wrong, and Winthrop was only here to pay one of his annoying and awkward calls upon her. She took in his elaborate coat and carefully styled hair. He wasn’t paying a casual call. Winthrop was about to pounce.
Winthrop and Aunt Agnes exchanged pleasantries while Margaret poured her aunt’s tea and tried to make herself as invisible as possible. Maybe they would forget she was there. Her aunt claimed Margaret to be so unmemorable, barely anyone recalled her presence. Wishful thinking in this case.
Panic roiled her stomach. Winthrop’s smell only contributed to her mounting nausea.
After demolishing two plates of tiny sandwiches, Winthrop put down the delicate porcelain plate he had clasped in one sweating paw. His eyes ran over Margaret with resignation.
“Miss Lainscott, would you care for a walk about the gardens? There is something I wish to discuss with you.” He inclined his head in the direction of her aunt. “With your permission, of course, Lady Dobson.”
No. No. No.
Margaret glanced at him from beneath her lashes, not trusting herself to raise her head. There was a crumb dangling at the corner of his mouth, stuck to the dampness that was Lord Winthrop. Margaret felt very light-headed. Perhaps she really would faint and land atop Winthrop’s hideous shoes. The pair he wore today were burgundy, to match his coat, with ornate silver buckles sporting tiny burgundy bows.
Oh, dear God.
“My gardens are lovely especially this time of year. And it is a perfect day for a walk. Margaret would be happy to take a turn with you. My roses are in bloom.” Aunt Agnes motioned for her to rise, eyes gleaming in anticipation.
Standing, Margaret forced herself to keep still as Winthrop took her hand, tucking her fingers into the fleshy meat of his forearm. The velvet he wore was already damp. What would it be like to be trapped beneath this…monstrosity? She could barely stand to be near him. The horror of the future her aunt planned for Margaret nearly made her faint.
Blinking at the sunshine as they moved outside, Margaret took in the garden. Birds were singing. The smell of roses filled the air. A perfect day and place for a marriage proposal.
Her stomach, already unsettled by the smell of Winthrop, lurched and pitched. She’d had nothing to eat since breakfast and the moment the sweating pear had appeared, Margaret had lost all interest in the tea tray. She placed a hand against her mouth. A hysterical scream was threatening to bubble up her throat as well as her breakfast.
“Miss Lainscott, I have come to know you quite well in the short time we’ve been acquainted. I feel we would get on well enough.” A beaded drop of sweat ran down the side of his nose.
At least he has the decency not to drag this horrifying situation out with a romantic declaration.
“I have come to the conclusion we suit, despite your background.”
I’m in desperate need of your dowry, though you are the daughter of a tin miner.
“I admire your maturity.”
A bit long in the tooth, nearly on the shelf, so I feel certain you’ll get no other proposal.
“Your aunt is in agreement.”
She doesn’t wish to fund another season nor wait to see if Carstairs reappears.
“I see,” was all Margaret managed to choke out. The aroma of the roses mixed with the smell of Winthrop’s talc invaded her nostrils and pores.
Oh, God, I’ll be smelling him the rest of my days.
“Miss Lainscott.” He mopped his brow with a hastily procured handkerchief already stained with sweat.
A bitter taste filled her mouth.
“I would be pleased if you would consent to be my wife.”
“I—” She swallowed and removed the hand at her mouth to press her fingers against her stomach. Margaret had one glance at Winthrop’s horrified face before she turned to the rose bushes lining the path. Leaning over the pale pink buds about to bloom, Margaret tossed up her breakfast right into Aunt Agnes’s prized rose bushes.