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CHAPTER TWO

“ W hat were you thinking, Margaret?” Catherine, the Duchess of Rosehall sighed as she rubbed her temples with both her hands, the onset of a headache already very much wreaking havoc.

“Me!” Margaret cried out. “It was nae my fault!”

“I told you not to drink that much. Did I not tell you?”

“Maybe ye shuid have warned me o’ strange men sleepin’ in beds that you had been tellin’ me would be empty!”

“Did you not see him sleeping there?” her sister moaned. Despite her Scottish heritage, Catherine had worked hard to properly adapt her accent since her marriage. Truly, Margaret found her even harder to understand this way. “How did you manage to undress and climb into bed without taking notice?”

Margaret had no good answer for that. She had run the night over in her head a dozen times, trying her best to piece it together, unable to fathom the circumstances which had led to her bedding down beside the duke without knowing she was doing so. I am never drinking again…

“You might have warned me,” Margaret protested, even if she knew this to be her fault, and not her sister’s.

“So, this is my fault?” her sister scoffed. “Of course it is.”

“You ken I have na head for wine.” She was desperate to pass the blame, and she knew it. As did her sister. “You shuid have told me nae to have as much as I did.”

“I only saw you drink the single glass,” she pointed out. “Although it was a rather odd concoction…” She frowned. “Perhaps it was mixed with something? It was very sweet.”

“It might have been nice to ken,” Margaret mumbled.

“I assumed you were an adult,” her sister responded plainly. “Perhaps that is where I was mistaken.”

“And the room ye sent me to!” Still, Margaret needed to pass the blame. “How was I to ken anyone else might have been kippin’? It was early. You assured me everyone would still be at the party.”

“Dae nae dare blame me,” Catherine warned her, slipping back into her natural brogue accent.

“Dae nae dare blame me!” Margaret shot back.

“It is neither of your faults.” Sitting beside Catherine was her husband, Sampson, the Duke of Rosehall. He ran a hand through his thick head of hair, shaking his head as he wore a look that might suggest something smelly was being held under his nose. “The fault lies with Lysander.”

“Who?” Margaret asked.

“The duke,” he explained. “Perhaps I should have suspected that he would retire to bed early.” He scoffed. “The man never was one for social gatherings. Truly, it was surprising enough that he came at all.”

“Well, that is just great.”

“And he should have handled things better,” Sampson continued, the look of disgust turning into a scowl. “As surprised as I am sure he was to find you in his bed –”

“It was me bed!”

“—There was no need for things to escalate as they did.” He groaned and his shoulders slumped as if all the energy had been sucked from his body. “What a mess.”

What a mess indeed.

It was just Margaret, her sister Catherine, and her brother-in-law, Sampson, at the moment, which Margaret was beyond grateful for as she was sick to death of being gawked at by complete strangers as if she had chosen to attend breakfast completely naked.

Which might have been less embarrassin’, considerin’ whit happened .

Never before had she felt so exposed, nor had she been the center of such hostile attention.

Lucky that her sister was there to rescue her, which amounted to being whisked away and thrown in the back of a carriage before Margaret had a chance to do or say anything that might have made the situation worse. Although even Margaret was not so gifted as that.

Their destination was the Dukedom of Rosehall, Catherine’s home, where Margaret had been staying as a guest for the past week.

Not that she anticipated remaining for much longer, as she very much suspected that by the day’s end her sister would have the good sense to pack her things and send her back to Scotland.

At which point this most heinous of incidents could hopefully be forgotten.

Or so Margaret hoped…

“I suppose it does not matter who is at fault,” Catherine sighed. At least she believed Margaret’s story, knowing her sister well enough to admit that the incident had not been purposeful and that there was no chance anything untoward had happened. “What matters is what we are to do about it.”

“Agreed,” Sampson said. He took his wife’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “The next few days are going to be vital if we’re to navigate through this mess without finding ourselves on the wrong end of a scandal.”

“Might I suggest somethin’?” Margaret began.

“What if we were to da nothing? By which I mean, send me home.” She looked between her sister and brother-in-law.

“I da nae live here. I da nae care one way or another what people say of me. Let me return ta Scotland, at which point we can pretend that nae of this happened.”

Sampson grimaced. “Would that it were that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Margaret…” Catherine reached across the carriage and took Margaret’s hand. Her expression was pained and filled with remorse. “I am afraid that simply isn’t an option.”

“O’ course it is!”

“No, it isn’t.” She looked at Margaret, forcing her attention.

“This isn’t about you – at least not in the way you might think.

Even if you were to leave, what happened this morning will not just go away.

People will talk. Rumors will grow. It is the type of scandal that will follow you, no matter where you run off to. ”

“As I said, I da na care. Let them speak.”

“And what of Isobel? Or Graham?” Isobel and Graham were Margaret and Catherine’s younger siblings, both still in Scotland, both not entering Margaret’s frame of reasoning. Why would they?

“What of them?” Margaret said. “They have naught ta dae with this.”

Sampson laughed bitterly. “They will do, whether they like it or not. This scandal will attach itself to their names and their reputation, such that if either ever wishes to come to England and join the ton, to marry…” He shook his head and exhaled.

“It might be next to impossible, for who would wish to marry into a family where it is believed the older sister tried to seduce a duke.”

“I did na such thing!”

“We know that,” Catherine eased her, giving her hand another squeeze. “But that is what rumor does. The truth is forgotten because a good story is infinitely more appealing.”

Margaret felt herself getting flustered. And angry! Was I pure so stupid? Ta think that I could simply run from this and it would have na consequences? It should have been that easy. In a just world, perhaps it would. But there was nothing just about any of this.

She thought to her brother and her sister, both of whom she loved. Her stomach twisted itself into a painful knot as she considered how her actions might affect them. She only ever wanted the best for both, and that she might have ruined their lives without even trying pained her deeply.

“I… I did na think of that,” she said sullenly.

“Such is this world,” Sampson sighed.

“What do I dae?” She looked pleadingly between them both. “I want ta fix this. Tell me how I kin fix this.”

This right here was a perfect example of why Margaret had never desired to come south and join the ton.

She was of the Highlands, a life that was far simpler and easier to navigate.

People there did not judge as they did here.

They certainly did not look down on others for simple mistakes.

It is so pretentious. So utterly nauseatin’.

Margaret did not understand how her sister could stand it.

The happy couple shared a look that had Margaret’s stomach twisting even further. A sense of hopelessness shared between them. A sense that there was no fixing this, because it was like the rising tide, not to be fought away but accepted and braced for. The worst was yet to come.

Indeed, the worst looked to have arrived at the Dukedom of Rosehall before even Margaret had, racing here ahead of her as if to remind her of how little control she had of the moment. Or her life, for that matter.

“Who is that?” Catherine asked, looking out the window as the carriage rolled down the drive and toward the manor, where a single horse had been left at the front of the drive.

Sampson shuffled in beside her, frowning at the sight of it. “I recognize that mount.” He swallowed. “It belongs to Lysander. He must have raced to beat us here.”

“The duke!” Margaret scrambled over her sister and brother-in-law to take a look for herself, seeing only the horse, but understanding well enough the significance. “He’s ‘ere? Why?”

“Why do you think?” Catherine said.

Margaret’s stomach dropped. “What… what will he want with me?”

Sampson clicked his tongue as he considered. “Let us find out, shall we?”

The journey to the manor’s entrance was a short one, but it felt as if it took hours.

Margaret spent that time staring out the window, eyeing the horse, picturing the duke as she tried to reconcile what he was doing here and what he was sure to say.

He is going ta be furious with me. But what does that mean?

And what form will that fury take? She swallowed the lump in her throat, sensing that her day was about to get a whole lot worse.

Once inside, a butler found them at once.

“Your Grace,” he called for Sampson. “I must inform you, His Grace, the Duke –”

“Yes, yes,” Sampson waved the man down. “We saw the duke’s mount outside. Where is he?”

“In the drawing room, Your Grace,” The butler swept his hand to indicate the direction. “I told him that you would be informed of his arrival the moment you stepped inside.”

Sampson nodded once to the butler and then turned on Margaret and Catherine. “I think it is best if I speak with him alone–”