Page 31 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

U nlike her mother’s house on Grosvenor Square, Somerstead Hall had a dedicated breakfast room.

Margaret descended that morning a little later than usual, hoping she would catch Alexander and the others on their way out.

Most married ladies she knew took their breakfasts in bed.

But Margaret had begun her stay at Somerstead by eating with the others and preferred not to arouse suspicion by breaking their routine.

And there is nothing to be gained from wallowing in my misery and guilt all alone in my chambers. I will have to tell Alexander about my father’s letter someday, but for now...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the butler, coming out of the breakfast room with an empty tray.

He bowed to her and stepped aside, allowing Margaret to enter.

Alexander was deeply engrossed in studying a newspaper, visibly skipping the society pages in favor of more important news.

Isadore sat by herself a few seats down, buttering a roll.

Bastian, who usually stuck beside Isadore at the table, was nowhere to be seen.

Margaret silently took the chair between Isadore and Alexander, nodding as a maid came forward to pour her drink. The scents of black tea, orange, and cream wafted into her face. Wiltshire's morning fog was a sea of white beyond the windows, clinging to the far corners of the garden.

“It’s a terrible morning for a walk,” Isadore said, setting down her knife. She tore her roll to pieces. “But that’s where Mr. Hawthorne has gone, if you were wondering, Your Grace.”

“I was wondering, yes.” Margaret eyed the breakfast buffet nervously. Pastries, eggs, and cheese, some now-cold kedgeree for Carlisle, yet she couldn’t rouse her appetite. “And Lord Somerton is absent too."

“He knew I would be down early,” Alexander explained, not looking up from the paper. “I have an errand this morning in town.”

Margaret sighed quietly. The feud between Alexander and Carlisle was growing worse by the day.

They refused to be in the same room with one another except at dinnertime, where Carlisle would talk to Margaret all evening just to avoid having to address Alexander.

For a newly married couple, they had barely spent a moment alone since their arrival.

And with the way things were going, it seemed unlikely that would change.

Perhaps theirs was going to be a marriage of convenience.

“Which is somehow highly inconvenient,” she said under her breath.

“What was that?” Isadore asked.

Margaret started, filling her mouth with a bite of toast so she didn’t have to answer.

Isadore provided her with some conversation while she finished her meal, eventually rising from the table and excusing herself, saying she needed to prepare herself for the day ahead.

Margaret watched as she left, both relieved and terrified that it was just her and Alexander for once—and the ever-watchful maids.

“Miss Bell seemed fully prepared to me,” Margaret said. “What plans was she speaking of?”

“I offered to bring Isadore into town with me,” Alexander explained, folding his newspaper and setting it aside. He called for more coffee. “She is growing restless here at the manor and asked for a change of scenery.”

“Oh.” Margaret’s toast tasted suddenly bitter, and she set it down on her empty plate. “You are calling her Isadore now?”

“I found the formalities draining.”

“I see...” She wiped her fingers, correcting the furrow that formed in her brow. “I might have liked a trip into town too, you know.”

Her husband paused mid-sip of coffee. “Mrs. Howard said you were meeting with the head gardener today to discuss the summer renovations. I would have asked you to accompany us if I had known that was not the case.”

“We are meeting later this afternoon.” Though her desire to discuss roses was dwindling by the second. “But for the rest of the day, I will be alone.”

“I cannot say we will be returned in time for you to meet your appointment.” He stiffened, having decidedly given up on his coffee. He turned to excuse the maids, and they left silently, closing the door behind them. “Is more the matter than me failing to invite you into Salisbury?”

“I do not know what you mean,” she lied.

Alexander raised a brow. “You have hardly eaten—and not just this morning either. Something has changed in you, Margaret. I would like to know what.”

Margaret stared into her plate. Her abandoned corner of toast looked pitifully up at her. She tried to summon a sarcastic reply, something that would divert him. This was hardly the time to discuss the letter.

“It’s nothing. I suppose?—”

“If you say that you are tired, I will not believe you again.”

“But I am tired...” She swiped up her teacup, taking an angry sip. “I have spent the last two weeks acting as a middleman— middle-woman—between you and Carlisle. And quite frankly, I am exhausted. And when Carlisle is not here, you and I have not... We have not...”

There were many things they did not have . Margaret knew better than to discuss such things at the breakfast table. She pushed her plate away, feeling suddenly homesick for Katherine and Eliza, knowing they would have to meet soon anyway, if her father’s letter held any truth.

“You cannot blame a woman for feeling a little lonely in this large, solitary place.” The words struck closer to home than she expected.

“Either way, you needn’t worry about me.

I will find my own entertainment today. It’s important that I learn to amuse myself.

And that failing, I’m certain Helena or Lady Jane will accept a visit from me while you show Isadore the wonders of Salisbury. ”

It took all her courage to look up at Alexander. His face was set in stone. He did not believe her.

The ticking clock on the mantle seemed to grow louder until finally Alexander stood and crossed to her side of the table. She braced herself, unsure what he planned. He settled gently in a free space on the table, pushing her plate back toward her.

Margaret was flustered for an entirely different reason now, ashamed by the tenderness in his demeanor. She didn’t deserve kindness from him, not when she was lying to him, deflecting from what was really gnawing away at her.

“It has never been my intention to make you feel lonely,” he said. “But I cannot resolve what I do not understand. Would you prefer it if we called your family here to Wiltshire?”

“What?” Margaret met his gaze, heart fluttering against her ribs. “I could never ask that of you.”

“Your sister.... It cannot be easy to be parted from her so suddenly. I will make arrangements if you ask me. Your family is mine to protect—as you are mine to protect. There are enough rooms here to host a small army. It would be no trouble.”

Bile crept up her throat. He did not realize precisely what he was protecting, but she couldn’t refuse his offer without raising his suspicions. And she wanted to see Eliza again more than anything.

“Then perhaps a visit would not be out of the question,” Margaret replied, reaching nervously for her tea again. “And in the meantime, I will send a note to Brockenhedge to see about Helena. You may enjoy your day in town without worrying about me.”

Alexander smiled half-heartedly down at her.

"It would be easier if you showed me this letter directly,” Helena said, looking back at the manor as they continued their walk toward the river. “No one will see us from this far away.”

“I cannot take that risk,” Margaret argued. “And you arrived so quickly, I did not have time to prepare. His Grace is still here—and the others are home too.”

“I was not that quick. Well, maybe a little. Brockenhedge is only fifteen minutes away, and I have been clawing at the walls for something to do. My aunt is excellent company... until she is not. And neither of us knows when Mama and Papa are coming back. A little like your father. Oh, please, Margaret, the waiting is killing me.”

Margaret swallowed, nudging Helena’s elbow sharply. “Might you not say that so loudly?”

They paused at the edge of the path where the trees thinned. The river glinted between the birches in the weak, late-morning sun. There were no gardeners in sight, but Margaret cast a cautious glance behind them all the same.

“Do you really think someone is listening through the hedges?” Helena asked. “Honestly, Margaret, you are just as paranoid as Aunt Jane.”

“You would be just as cautious in my place,” Margaret muttered. She listened for sounds and heard only the distant hiss of the Avon River. “And Lady Jane’s suspicions are not unfounded. No one can be trusted. Not even those we hold closest, as evidenced by Augusta’s recent actions.”

Helena sighed, then made a point of going around and checking for spies before returning to Margaret and dragging her a few meters from the main path.

“It’s clear. Now, you said Augusta hid the letter from you?”

“Only for a few days.” Margaret hesitated, jaw tight. “It arrived at Somerstead Hall from a courier in town. Augusta intercepted the letter when she heard my name being called, and when she saw my father’s handwriting, she could not bring herself to give it to me, worried it would sadden me.”

“And has it?”

“What do you think?” Margaret pressed her eyes shut. She had read the letter so many times that the words were burned into her eyelids. “It was dated a week ago, Helena. You know what that means... My father is alive, and given how the letter was delivered...”

“He is here... in Wiltshire.”

Margaret let out a shaky breath, the words appearing in her mind.

What I left behind haunts me. Not the comforts of our house, the titles and trappings of our life—but you, my daughters, and my wife.

You are my pride... Ruin was inevitable, and I could not bear for you to watch it consume me.

Far from you, I have not been idle. I have tried to rebuild what I squandered in silence. And when the time is right...

“ I will return to you ,” she finished aloud.

“That is what he wrote. Not as a beggar or a king, but as the father I wish to be. When the time is right, we will meet again . And when I find you, Margaret, I will look upon the new life you have built without me and stand at its edge with a smile. Your support at this time means everything. ”

She waited a moment. Helena had gone quiet. She stared at Margaret wordlessly, looking as perplexed as Margaret felt.

“He plans to return?” Helena gazed off into the distance. “This is madness...”

“More than madness, it is simply cruel.” Margaret clasped her hands tightly, suppressing her rising anger.

“To think of him presenting himself before Alexander... I would die of shame, Helena. And if I do not die, my husband may very well cast me off, and that would just as easily cause my death. It is one thing to be the son-in-law of a man who, in essence, no longer exists. But if Papa does resurface... No, I cannot think of it. I wish never to see him again.”

“You do not mean that,” Helena said, shaking her head. “I am far from your father’s greatest defendant—curse him for abandoning you—but I know you, Margaret. If he were to reappear, you would accept him back into your life. And if there’s a chance he has amended for his past?—”

“He could not. It’s impossible. The ton may have warmed to Mother and me again, but we were not the ones who cheated and lied. And what he has written about my support can only mean money. He is not looking for forgiveness. He is looking for money.”

She laughed miserably.

“I was so much happier when I knew nothing, when I could pretend that he was gone for good. Since reading his letter, I have only felt sick—as though a disaster is fast approaching, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

The thought was too much to bear. Margaret fell to the ground and clasped her arms around herself.

Tears fell from her eyes as she rocked back and forth, remembering how frightened she had been when the bailiffs had come and taken everything; how determined she had been to rebuild their lives; how nervous but hopeful she had felt on the day she had married Alexander.

“Oh, Margaret... No, Margaret, you mustn't.”

Helena dropped into a crouch beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She pulled her in close, stroking her hair. She whispered some words of encouragement, though Margaret could barely hear them through her sobs.

But she did hear, “Wait. What’s that?” and slowly looked up.

Helena had frozen, pointing at a space between the trees. She looked nervously at Margaret and shushed her.

In the silence, Margaret heard it now. The faint sound of voices.

She blinked away her tears and stared through the trees.

In the faraway distance, where the river curved around the valley, two figures were standing on the bank.

A woman, turned partially away from them, was stepping toward a man.

He was of average height with dark hair.

It was impossible to make out their features clearly, though Margaret recognized the green coat the woman wore.

“That’s Isadore,” she whispered.

Helena squinted. “Miss Bell? Who is she speaking to?”

“It must be Mr. Hawthorne,” Margaret said, wiping away her tears. “He went out walking this morning.”

They watched in silence, not breathing, as the two figures approached each other until they formed a single dark shape on the riverbank.

“He kissed her,” Helena said.

Margaret felt her stomach twist. “But he is in love with another woman.”

And more importantly, she thought , she is Alexander’s sister.