Page 1 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

M argaret tried to keep the chattering of her teeth to a minimum.

She cemented her jaw, staring down into her teacup as it warmed her hands, the smell of black tea wafting up into her face.

The fire was crackling in the hearth of the drawing room, but it made no difference with the lack of fires in the rest of the house, a drop in the bucket against the relentless cold from outside.

She had learned a fair amount about house management in the last six months, and her economizing was getting better.

But admittedly, it had been a mistake to cut back on the wood stores so early.

She had hoped that if they all congregated in one room – Margaret, her sister, and her mother – then they wouldn’t notice a difference.

For her part, Eliza seemed unaffected, scribbling away in her sketchbook on the divan, legs kicking in the air as she sketched fairies and princesses.

The divan had once belonged to a set of two.

The other had been sold last month at an auction along with the rest of their finer furnishings.

Gone was the fifteenth- century dining table from the Abbey of La Chaise-Dieu, and her father’s roll-top desk, hand-crafted by Riesener, and the Anatolia tableware that had been in the family for generations.

Piece by piece, the family’s dignity and legacy had been sold to the highest bidder.

Margaret sighed at the state of things just as the housekeeper entered with the post. Along with the butler and a chambermaid, Mrs. Cooper was all that remained of the staff.

Margaret couldn’t bear to look at her for too long, ashamed that Mrs. Cooper was forced to manage the squalid little house that theirs had become.

“Another letter from Baron Faversham,” her mother said as she sifted through the mail. “Not addressed to me but to you.”

Margaret turned to send Mrs. Cooper away, gulping at the sight of the familiar chicken-scratch script in her mother’s hands. Katherine raised her brows in challenge and presented Margaret with the letter. The door squeaked on its hinges as Mrs. Cooper left, another reminder of her family’s failure.

“His lordship is obviously still willing, despite the games you are playing with him,” Katherine pressed, throwing the letter down on the empty seat beside Margaret.

Her mother rose to start pacing, clutching her coral necklace and staring into space, turning the beads around in a loop as she ruminated over their situation.

“We have been over this. Whether he is willing or not does not change my feelings on the matter.” Margaret tried to speak as gently as she could, setting down her cup and glancing at Eliza.

Little girls didn’t need to hear things like this.

“He is almost sixty with four daughters, each one older than me. When we have spoken, he stares dumbly at me like I am a witless cow and he is a man purchasing this year’s livestock. ”

“He is a respectable match, and that is all that should matter to you,” Katherine continued, her face frighteningly neutral.

Margaret had always looked more like her father: pale with dark hair and light eyes.

Eliza took after their mother – bright, warm, and with the same green eyes that were boring desperately into her now.

“Read the letter at least and see what he has written.”

Margaret sighed, licking her lips anxiously as she reached for the letter opener. She scanned the letter quickly, then shrugged.

“He has written what he always writes – that he tires of our correspondence and wishes for me to go to Winchester to spend time with him in person.” She folded the letter and set it in her lap.

“I cannot go. Being seen in Winchester with him will all but confirm our betrothal... and you agreed you would give me more time to find an alternative solution. The season has not even begun yet. We do not know what – or who – might fall upon us. Good things may happen yet.”

It was a vain hope with time working against her.

All of the Pembroke properties had been sold, and what pittance of an income remained could just about cover the costs of managing and heating the London house, feeding themselves, and employing the staff.

There would be no money for new dresses that season, or for much transportation.

Eliza’s governess was gone, as were Margaret’s tutors.

Even if she could attract a decent suitor that season with everything stacked against her, no man in their right mind would marry a woman without a dowry, drowning in her father’s debts.

“You would sell me to a man who sees me as little more than a broodmare with the right lineage, only fit to give him the son he is so desperately wants,” she continued absently.

Margaret squeezed her eyes shut against the haunting clicking sound of the beads.

“No woman should be forced into a marriage like that. I have heard the stories of your youth. You were allowed to marry Papa for love even while your father objected to the match.”

“And where did that love get me?” Katherine cut in.

She stared through the window onto the street.

“Alone with my two daughters, abandoned by my husband, and suffocating under the weight of his dues. A woman cannot subsist on love alone. Baron Faversham is a sage and cautious man who has seen the ruination of this family at your father’s hands and has offered us the chance to start afresh.

And let us speak plainly – he has at most ten more years to live, after which point you will be free to live as a rich widow.

There will be no better match for you, little Meg, and no future but the workhouse for Eliza and me if you do not accept. "

Bile tickled at the base of Margaret’s throat as she stared mutely at her mother. She hated that pet-name, Meg . Her father used to call her that – before he ruined their lives and fled the country once his mistakes finally caught up with him.

The way her mother spoke about things, as if it were a small, inconsequential favor she was asking, made Margaret feel sick.

As a young girl, Margaret had hoped for a love-match like in the stories, and then, after one disappointment too many, she had just wanted to be left alone.

If she had to marry, it should have been a simple, functional match – two people of similar ages with similar goals and values.

If she didn’t have that minimal respect for herself, then she had nothing.

“I won’t do it,” Margaret whispered.

She dared a look at her mother. The rise and fall of Katherine’s chest increased. Margaret was walking on thin ice, testing her patience. Her mother loomed over her as she approached, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Like father, like daughter... Your selfishness will cost us everything,” Katherine muttered.

“How dare you compare me to him...” Margaret was aghast, and she shot into a stand.

“If you are so determined for Baron Faversham to have a new wife,” she grabbed the letter and thrust it at her mother, “then you should marry him. I am not the reason we have nothing. You have yourself to blame for Papa not trusting you enough to?—”

The slap landed faster than either of them expected, the sound of the attack ripping through the air.

Margaret clutched her cheek in astonishment, flesh searing where her mother had struck her.

Katherine froze, eyes widening in shock, looking at her hand like it had had a mind of its own.

The scratching of Eliza’s graphite stopped, and Margaret glanced over at her.

Her sister had always been a quiet child, escaping into books and art.

She had retreated even further into her own world now that their father had disappeared.

But the horror that swept across her face didn’t need to be spoken to be understood.

“It’s alright,” Margaret said to Eliza, forcing a smile while her eyes stung with tears. “Mama and I are just... playing.” She dropped her gaze guiltily to the floor, ashamed of the lie, before scooping up her remaining correspondence and hurrying out of the room.

Katherine didn’t try to stop her. Margaret rushed up the stairs to her cold and empty bedroom as the tears fell from her eyes.

She paused in front of a dusty-looking glass and wiped her cheeks, examining the red welt on the left side of her face.

One of Katherine’s rings had caught on her cheekbone, tearing open an inch of skin.

Her mother had never been a violent woman.

The strain of their finances had changed them all.

This was a long and painful death for her family, slowly rotting away while all of society watched.

They had no close relations to depend on, and most of their friends had ostracized them completely.

Their titles couldn’t protect them forever. One day, the money would run out.

“So perhaps Mother is right,” Margaret whispered at her reflection, a bead of blood forming on her cheek. “The only hope that remains for us lies in Baron Faversham’s cold embrace.”

She unfurled her hands, revealing her post. Behind Baron Faversham’s letter was a message from a friend. Helena had written, inviting Margaret to some function out of respect. The sending address was not far from Winchester.

A decent excuse to get out of Mother’s hair for a while, she thought sadly. And if I should happen upon Lord Faversham while I am there, I can ask him for more time to consider his offer...