Fred froze where he stood. It was as if the name had turned him to stone. A name Maggie hadn’t uttered in nearly ten years. “What did you say?” he asked in a dangerous whisper.
She took a step back from him. Her heart beat swift as a hare caught in the sights of a hunting hound. “I believe you heard me.”
Fred advanced on her. “That boy—that bastard—was a thief and a liar. He stole your jewelry—”
“Spare me that old story, if you please. I’m not as gullible as my Aunt Daphne.” She glared at him. “I see you for exactly what you are.”
There was no remorse in Fred’s face. No sign of regret over what he’d done to Nicholas so long ago. Quite the reverse. “He should have been hanged.”
“If he had been,” Maggie said, “you’d be no better than a murderer.”
Fred gave her an accusing look. “Is this why you continue to refuse my hand? Because of him? Because you’re still pining for him after all these years?”
“Did you think I’d forget? You stole my happiness away from me.”
“A stable boy.” He gave a derisive snort. “And for his memory you’d relinquish Beasley Park? I don’t believe it.”
Her spirits, already so low after the visit to the solicitor, sank even further. “No. I’m not stupid. I may yet marry you. You’ve given me little choice in the matter. But make no mistake. Whatever the future holds for us, I shall never, ever love you.”
The Parkhursts’ estate was located just outside of Chiswick. Maggie and Jane traveled there Saturday evening in the company of Jane’s brother and Aunt Harriet. It was a long drive from Green Street, but not a lonely one. The usually dark road was alight with elegant carriages bound for the ball, the glow of their lamps leading the way to the drive of a grand house emblazoned with torches.
At a quarter past ten, guests were still arriving steadily. Traffic was backed up in the drive, coachmen only able to move their horses a few feet at a time.
George rapped at the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to stop. “We’ll get out here,” he said. “If you all don’t mind winding our way to the front steps? It will be quicker.”
He handed each of them down onto the cobbled drive. It was a balmy evening, scarcely worthy of the light wrap Maggie had brought. She was glad to leave it behind in the carriage. Her new gown wasn’t meant to be covered up. It was made to be shown off—every shimmering, clinging inch of it.
Indeed, Madame Clothilde had outdone herself for the occasion, creating a stunning confection of Clarence-blue silk, cut low at the bosom with short, fluttering sleeves and an overskirt embroidered with delicate beadwork that flashed and glittered in the candlelight.
When she’d first come to London, so many years before, Maggie had never worn anything half so daring. But as Fred had taken pains to point out, she wasn’t a young girl anymore. She was a woman of six-and-twenty. A veritable artifact. Surely no one could object if her ball gown clung to her curves, antiquated as those curves must be.
As she stepped into the entry hall, she felt numerous sets of eyes upon her. Her pulse quickened. Was Lord St. Clare here? It was difficult to tell in such a crush.
Jane caught hold of Maggie’s hand. “Stay close.”
Maggie was grateful for the security of her friend’s grasp. Jane and her aunt Harriet were each in possession of one of George’s arms, but Maggie had no such support.
She passed through the receiving line and into the ballroom. A sea of faces greeted her, both familiar and unfamiliar. It had been many years since she’d last appeared at such a grand event. Beasley Park was a long way from Chiswick, and even if Maggie had been in London for more than a flying visit, her health wouldn’t have permitted attendance. Crowded ballrooms were anathema to invalids, and dancing was all but out of the question.
“Heavens.” The plumes on Aunt Harriet’s fashionable turban quivered as she looked about the crowded room. “So many people.”
“We shall find you a comfortable chair, Aunt,” George said.
Jane craned her neck. Her own modest dress—a dove-gray creation, trimmed with a pattern of seed pearls—made her look every bit the mature, elegant lady. “There, George. I see Lady Featherstone and Mrs. Herron by the window. You’ll wish to sit with them, won’t you, Aunt?”