either the duchess or Romy. She pushed Margaret into Winthrop’s waiting carriage without so much as a word, her boiling rage at Margaret so fierce it threatened to suffocate them both.
Margaret turned to look out the window as the coach rolled back to her aunt’s house. Well, she had wished to be compromised tonight, though the evening had taken a rather sharp departure from what she’d originally intended. Had it been Carstairs who’d compromised her, he would have asked to speak to her aunt discreetly and promised to arrive the following day with his solicitor bearing a formal proposal of marriage. Instead, Margaret had become merely another young lady whose reputation was irrevocably destroyed by a notorious rake. Welles was known for his sexual exploits and his pleasure palace, not for his honorable intentions.
Welles would never offer her marriage. It simply wasn’t in his character.
If there was one bright spot in this entire fiasco, it was that being compromised by a man with Welles’s reputation did ensure one thing. Not even Winthrop would have her.
Margaret would have to live the remainder of her days outside society due to her fall from grace. That didn’t actually bother her too much, except she would be dependent on her aunt’s charity until she could find some sort of employment. Once she turned thirty, a portion of her inheritance would revert to her. Perhaps she could teach piano or become a governess.
Unlikely once your indiscretion becomes public knowledge.
Aunt Agnes may well turn her out. Margaret had no other family to seek refuge with, except for a distant cousin on her father’s side whom she’d never met and who lived in Scotland.
Once they arrived at her aunt’s home, Aunt Agnes left Winthrop’s carriage without a word to Margaret. Thin shoulders stiff, her aunt picked up her skirts and walked up the stairs to her rooms without bothering to see if Margaret followed.
Margaret slept little that night, her thoughts anxious and disjointed. There had to be a way out of the situation she found herself in. She’d worked so hard at endearing herself to Carstairs. My God, she’d studied fly fishing. Her mistake, Margaret could see, was confiding in Welles. The pain at his betrayal was made worse by her own feelings for him. Why had he ruined everything for her? Because he could?
The question kept her in bed for the remainder of the day.
Margaret, by nature, was a problem solver. Her intelligence set her apart, she told herself, from those poor girls who depended on others to think for them. She accepted her limitations, namely the fact that she was only passably pretty and came from tin miner stock. Instead of lamenting her circumstances, she had always chosen to find ways to circumvent obstacles. When her aunt had thrust her into the season against her wishes, Margaret had adopted a shy, retiring manner to remain beneath the notice of any fortune-hunting lord. When she had rebelled at her aunt’s rules, and the piano had been taken from her, Margaret had become docile as a way to get what she wished even though it chafed at her constantly, like an itch begging to be scratched.
A wave of self-pity engulfed her.
All she’d wanted was a pleasant, slightly stupid husband so she could play the bloody piano and help her fellow female musicians.
Two days after the duchess’s ball, Margaret decided it was finally time to face the music, so to speak. She could not continue to wallow in self-pity and lie in bed cowering from the world. Margaret was made of sterner stuff, though she’d pretended not to be. She would discuss the situation calmly with her aunt, apologize profusely, and make it clear to her nothing except a kiss had been exchanged. She would express her regret to Winthrop for any discomfort she’d caused him. Then Margaret hoped to convince Aunt Agnes to send her away to the country, preferably back to Yorkshire. At least it was familiar.
Her aunt sat on her favorite chair in the formal drawing room, as if knowing Margaret would seek her out. The painfully thin, sticklike figure became rigid at the sight of her niece, clearly poised for attack at the slightest provocation.
“Good morning, Aunt.”
“Margaret.” The flinty eyes ran over Margaret, not bothering to hide her dislike. “I did wonder when you would decide to face me after what you’ve done. An heir to a duchy. My, my, I would not have thought you so ambitious, or so stupid. Are you still