4
A Proper Introduction
“Good afternoon, My Lady.” Margaret’s intended removed his hat, took hold of her hand, and then bowed over it. Staring down at the top of his head, Margaret couldn’t help but be aware that his lips barely brushed the back of her gloves. Which was proper, of course. Proper behavior had never bothered her before. In fact, she’d always appreciated such an admirable trait where gentlemen were concerned.
She also noticed Mr. Kirkley’s hair. Although thick and black, it was interspersed with silver strands that appeared more wiry than soft. Oh, but she ought to have paid attention to such details before! Although by that point, she still would have found herself naked, in bed with a man who was not her betrothed.
“Mr. Kirkley.” Margaret curtseyed. He’d given her permission to call him George, when they were in private. But around others, even though most guests had shed some of the more dignified airs at the country house party, he wished for the two of them to maintain formalities.
The sun had already peaked and was sliding into the west. Even knowing she couldn’t remain hidden forever, Margaret had kept to her room as late into the day as possible.
She couldn’t help but search the faces of the guests already mingling outside
Would he recognize her? Would she recognize him?
“May I escort you to a table for refreshments?” Mr. Kirkley offered his arm with a kind smile. She accepted it with a vague nod.
Penelope’s plans for an outdoor tea included a large tent set up on the lawn along with several ornamental tables and chairs. In the absence of spring flowers, servants had arranged red, orange, and gold leaves in glass vases atop the white linen tablecloths. Delicate plates filled with tiny sandwiches and pastries had been placed at each setting.
Normally, Margaret would have taken great pleasure in such a festive occasion. Today, however, her nerves were decidedly on edge. She was fairly certain that he’d not gotten a look at her face. It had been dark. He would have possibly seen the color of her hair when she’d fled out the door. He might be able to discern her height.
But she had yet another, more worrisome concern.
Who else but George’s intended would be climbing into his uncle’s bed?
Ice chased through her veins at the thought.
Margaret had insisted upon having her long black hair pinned into a tight chignon at the back of her neck against her most excellent lady’s maid’s subtle protests. Esther had wanted to affect a more attractive style, a loose chignon with several braided strands entwined just as she’d been doing for the past several months, but Margaret needed to keep as low of a profile as possible. On this day, more than almost any other, she’d prefer to go unnoticed.
Rather than wear an ornamental feathered hat in the fair autumn weather, she’d covered her head with a large bonnet. She chose a simple, muslin gown with a modest neckline and long sleeves that came all the way to her fingertips.
It wasn’t quite as plain as something a companion might wear but neither did it live up to the wardrobe she’d worn in London.
She would be as close to invisible as possible.
With an embroidered pelisse draped around her shoulders and a new pair of leather half-boots, the ensemble was quite acceptable for a country garden party. In fact, she assured herself, it was not all that different from many of the other ladies, and for that, Margaret couldn’t help but feel grateful.
Perhaps the marquess would not even attend. Perhaps such a gathering was too stodgy, too bland for the young rake. She breathed in deeply in an attempt to slow her racing heart.
Mr. Kirkley led them beneath the large canvas tent and indicated a table where Penelope and Danbury sat, along with Lady Sheffield, the Duke of Montfort, his duchess, Lady Sheffield, a young American debutante named Miss Drake, and her mother. Margaret lowered herself to a chair in relief.
“Everything looks wonderful, Penelope,” Margaret commented. Perhaps she had nothing to worry about after all. She would drink some tea, participate in some vapid conversation…
“Isn’t it?” agreed the duchess, who happened to be Penelope’s cousin. The petite woman closed her brown eyes and inhaled deeply. “The air is so very fragrant here.”
Monfort smiled fondly at his wife and covered her hand with his. “It’s good to be away from London. The pollution has become intolerable.”
“Parliament ought to be able to do something about it. It’s bad enough in the springtime, unbearable in the summer,” Penelope added.
“What would you suggest, Lady Danbury?” Monfort asked. “Do we require certain populations to go without heat? Disallow traffic? Expel a percentage of the citizens to keep the population down?”
“I certainly have an opinion as to which populations ought to be culled,” George commented as he placed his napkin on his lap.
Margaret frowned. He meant the poor. She was certain of that. But culled? Such a comment ought not to be made even in jest.
“The smog is far worse outside of Mayfair.” Margaret’s brother steered the conversation in a different direction. Hugh was good at that. A garden party was no place to discuss politics.
“Indeed,” Penelope agreed. Although Margaret did not miss the scowl her sister-in-law sent in George’s direction. “I was thinking more along the lines of infrastructure. What with the chamber pots—”
“These pastries are divine, Penelope,” the duchess interrupted her cousin, for which, Margaret surmised, the others at the table were likely grateful. Margaret hated to think what they would be discussing if Penelope had been allowed to complete her sentence.
Those who knew Penelope were never surprised by some of what she would say in public, but George was not all that well-acquainted with her. Before Margaret could agree with the duchess and redirect the conversation, George’s eyes lit on something behind her and his expression transformed from annoyance to delight.
“Sebastian, my boy! Won’t you join us!”
Margaret jerked her gaze over her shoulder, across the lawn to where George had been looking.
It was him.
She almost forgot to breathe.
He did not wear a hat as most of the other men did and so the sun reflected off his shiny black hair. His breeches fit snugly, and he wore his shirt, waistcoat, and jacket with comfortable ease. Upon hearing his name, the marquess glanced up from the lady he’d been speaking to. He waved and then leaned down again, kissed the girl’s hand, and then turned to saunter across the lawn with a confident swagger. He met Margaret’s eyes for a moment, smiling, but quickly dismissed her in favor of others around her.
It was him.
She’d never gotten so much as a single look at his face and yet she knew with unmatched certainty that he was the man she’d nearly had relations with the night before. She lowered her lashes to her empty teacup and willed her heart to slow.
“My dear Lady Asherton, I’m honored to present to you my nephew, Sebastian Wright, Marquess of Rockingham. Sebastian, my boy, this is my—er, Lady Margaret Coats, the Countess of Asherton.”
Margaret forced her eyes to meet his. She was certain that he had not been able to see her face. The room had been completely dark. There was no way he could know she was the woman who’d climbed into his bed.