“I do not,” Margaret protested, clearly offended. “I am not prone to wandering beaches alone thinking romantic thoughts. I have no romantic thoughts to think, firstly. Beyond that, I would not consider a lonely beach the place to wallow in my own drama.”
“Pardon me,” he said with a smile, bowing in mock penitence before her. “Perhaps it’s not a matter of brooding, then. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. A dashing young man, perhaps? It seems just the sort of secluded place to encounter a lover.”
He loved to tease Margaret like this. She seemed bothered by any suggestion of marriage and the change it might bring. She had spoken often about how she wanted life to continue forever like this, full of wind and beauty and freedom. Just as he expected, she frowned at his words.
“Molly is a good girl,” she said. “She wouldn’t do anything inappropriate.”
“She didn’t come when we called.”
“Perhaps she saw you waving and knew that our girlish conversation would be overwrought by an annoying boy,” Margaret snapped sourly, emerging at the top of the cliff and pausing only a moment to look back on Molly’s solitary figure before hurrying to her horse and taking the lead rope back in her hand.
“Now you’re just being unkind,” Nigel teased, unoffended.
He moved to climb back onto his horse, but Margaret interrupted him. “Let us walk back,” she said, a little wistfully. “I don’t want the ride to be over yet.”
He had seen this look in her eyes before, the desperation to stay out in the wind and sea breeze, to avoid the proper halls and parlours where she was being systematically turned into a young lady worthy of the London season. He nodded.
“Walking sounds wonderful.”
They moved along, both walking on the inside with their horses flanking them, so close they were nearly touching. Nigel was distracted by her nearness, but he could see that she hadn’t noticed. She seemed absorbed with her own thoughts.
“Are you looking forward to your first season in London?” he asked eventually.
She bit her lip and smiled half-heartedly up at him. “How did you know I was thinking of that?”
“It has concerned you for some time.”
“Father says fifteen is plenty old enough to step out into society, but I cannot believe it,” she said. “I know that it will be exciting in a way, but it seems a shallow sort of adventure at the heart of it. After all, what do elegant silk gowns and proper manners have to do with real living?”
“They have everything to do with real living when you are destined to be Lady Margaret,” he said with a teasing smile. Usually, it brought a twinkle to her eyes to hear him refer to her in the terms her father used almost exclusively. But today she frowned and looked away.
“Yes, I suppose so.” She took a deep breath. “It’s only that it seems so delicate, as though it could all blow away in a moment. Have you heard about the way people talk about society? They talk about saying just the right thing and walking just the right way, and avoiding a bad reputation. It seems to me that a person could be very careful in every regard and still be misunderstood. It doesn’t seem worth it. Here, with you, I know that even if I was very dreadful and shocking, you would not disown me. But it seems as though a teacup raised in the wrong fashion could turn me out onto the streets.”
He laughed gently, for he could see she was serious. “You have a unique perspective on the situation, that is for certain,” he said. “But you are an engaging and intelligent young woman. You will not blunder into mistakes, I am certain.”
She cocked her head to the side and looked at him. “Thank you, Nigel. Do you know, the cook told me a few days back that you have a way with words, that you don’t speak like the other children in the village.”
“I’m not a child, Maggie,” he said quietly.
“Can’t we be children just a little longer?” She reached over impulsively and looped her arm into his as they had when they were children. He did not pull away, but the nearness made his heart ache.
“I speak like this because I grew up in your shadow,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “I was always reading the books you thrust upon me, always listening to you ramble on in that pious tone of