Page 29 of The Spinster’s Stolen Heart (Willenshires #5)

London, Sixteen Years Later

The ball was, as all good parties were in the height of the Season, a tremendous crush.

Unfortunately, that was literal. Holding her breath and lifting the two glasses of lemonade to shoulder height in an attempt to stop them spilling, Margaret wriggled through the last of the crowd and came out in a small circle of space near the wall.

There was a row of chairs circling the ballroom, designed for the infirm and for chaperones and matrons, but also for tired young ladies who had few acquaintances and few to no names on their dance cards.

Like Margaret, for instance.

Mr. Arthur Green was sitting where she had left him, spreading out his thin frame to keep all three seats free. He smiled nervously as she approached, lifting a hand to fiddle with his spectacles, like the shy young man that he was.

“Thank you, Miss Molyneaux, you are very kind. I really should have fetched the lemonade myself.”

She smiled. “It’s quite alright, Mr. Green.”

Privately, she thought that the nervy, mild-mannered Mr. Green would have had worse luck in forcing his way through the crowd than she had. She handed over one lemonade, and glanced around, a frown furrowing her brow.

“Where is Marigold?”

“Hm? Oh, Miss Marigold is dancing, I think. A gentleman came to ask her shortly after you went for the lemonade.”

Margaret bit back a sigh. Marigold was seventeen, and really too young to be out at all, but their mother had decided that this would be her year, and so here she was. She seemed to be exclusively targeted by leering old gentlemen, and almost all of Margaret’s time was taken up with fending them off. She had no time to look for a suitor of her own, although Mr. Green did seem promising.

He was around twenty years old, two years younger than herself, the fourth or fifth brother in some rich household with not too many prospects for himself beyond what his own wits could carve out. So far, Margaret had found him difficult to talk to and almost comically afraid of most women, but he was kind, and one never knew where these things might go.

She peered around and caught sight of Marigold in the middle of the dance floor. Immediately, her heart dropped.

“It’s a waltz,” she said aloud. Mr. Green, mid-sip, spluttered.

“Why, I… yes, I suppose it is.”

“Marigold isn’t supposed to waltz.”

Mr. Green shifted uneasily. “Oh. I did not know you were opposed to the waltz. I know that some people do find it rather improper, but…”

“I don’t find it improper, not for a grown woman who can decide whether she wants to waltz or not, but my sister is barely seventeen, and she expressed discomfort with the dance. And is that… is that Lord Tumnus?”

She knew it was, even before she said the words. The wretched man was close to forty these days and had never so much as looked twice at a woman over the age of nineteen. In fact, his tastes were rumoured to run even younger than that, which perhaps explained why he had pounced on Marigold with such eagerness.

“Excuse me,” Margaret muttered. “I must just deal with this.”

Before she could storm over to the dance floor, Mr. Green was on his feet, shifting uneasily.

“You don’t intend to intervene, do you, Miss Molyneaux? It would be rather shocking, you know. The dance will be over in a minute or two, anyway. Why not let it run its course?”

Margaret eyed the spinning couples with trepidation. She could see Marigold’s golden head rotating in the middle of the crush, in the arms of a tall man with a face like an axe, leering down at her with nauseating intensity.

“No,” she said decidedly. “I must do something.”

She moved forward, or at least she would have, if a woman had not detached herself from the crowd and stepped in front of her, so abruptly that Margaret actually bumped into her.

Margaret’s heart sank yet again. At this rate, she could expect her heart to do its beating from down in her boots.

“Lady Alice Bow,” she stammered, backing away. “I did not see you there.”

The woman in question shook out her skirts, straightened the heavy rope of pearls at her neck, and smiled at Margaret. It was not a pleasant smile.

“Heavens, Miss Molyneaux, how clumsy you are! I fear that you have stepped on the hem of my skirts. See, there is a tear.”

Margaret who knew fine well that she had not stepped on the wretched woman’s skirts, looked down anyway. Indeed, there was a small tear at the hem of the fine, emerald-green silk gown, about the length of a thumb.

“I fear I must ask you to pay for the cost of the gown,” Lady Alice said, sighing in false regret. “Of course, I could just ask you to sew up the tear, but I think that would be rather humiliating, wouldn’t it? I could never ask you to do such a thing.”

Margaret allowed herself to imagine slapping Alice’s perfectly proportioned face.

The fashion was for fair beauties at the moment, which meant that Alice’s rich, flaxen curls and Marigold’s golden hair were all the rage. Alice was tall, willowy, and pale, with pursed pink lips and large, fluttering blue eyes. She always knew what colours would suit her best, and her dresses were cut in the newest and most expensive styles, as colourful as possible.

Margaret was well aware that besides the likes of Lady Alice and her own younger sister, she resembled a modest sparrow next to a pair of flamboyant parrots. Margaret’s hair was a light brown, thick and wavy but fairly ordinary, her eyes an unremarkable brown, her face even-featured but not brilliant, while her figure – well, there was no denying it. She was solidly built.

At least, that was what her mother had said, when the two girls were dressing for the party tonight.

“Try not to stand beside your sister too much, Margaret,” she’d said, almost as an afterthought. “You’ll look ugly if you do. What possessed you to choose that plum-coloured muslin? It quite drains you. Still, it’s too late to change, and besides, everybody will be looking at Marigold anyway.”

It was odd how words could burn into a person’s brain and stay there, resurfacing at the worst moments. Such as now, for example.

“I haven’t torn your gown, Lady Alice,” Margaret said, lifting up her chin to look Lady Alice in the eye. “See how smooth the edges of the tear are, hardly frayed at all? It’s been punctured by a heeled boot, I think. See, I am wearing dancing slippers. They are flat. The tear would be longer and ragged, if I had stepped on it.”

Lady Alice’s smirk dropped from her face. “Oh, of course, I should have known better than to argue with you , Miss Molyneaux. You’re quite the scholar, if I remember rightly.”

Mr. Green stepped forward, and Margaret immediately wished he had not.

“Oh, do you two ladies know each other?” he said, glancing nervously between them.

Alice hesitated, but only for a moment. Her eyes lit up, and a truly beautiful smile graced her face. She turned the full force of it on Mr. Green, who blinked and began to blush.

“We were at finishing school together, Mr. Green,” she said, her voice light and melodious. That was the kind of skill the finishing school had taught – how to speak nicely. Margaret had never paid much attention.

Mr. Green was turning decidedly red. “Oh, how pleasant. You must be friends.”

Friends ? Margaret wanted to scream. Why on earth do you think we should be friends? Haven’t you been listening to any of this?

“Indeed,” Alice laughed, blinking slowly. She reached forward, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Now, I remember you , Arthur. Your father was a great friend of my father. I remember your older brothers chasing you around the attics when you were small, and locking you up in a trunk. Do you remember?”

“I do remember,” Mr. Green said, laughing as if he hadn’t just confided in Margaret how terrified he had always been of his older brothers. “Of course you were there – I’d quite forgotten. My older brother, Thomas, was quite in love with you. He used to tell anybody who would listen that he would marry you when he was older.”

Alice threw her head back and laughed. It was a very ladylike laugh.

“Oh, how hilarious. Well, I only remember you , Mr. Green, presenting me with a little bouquet of daisies one day when I visited your family, when you were no older than eight or nine. Do you know, I think I still have them pressed in a book somewhere?”

Mr. Green’s face lit up. “Truly? You kept them?”

Margaret turned away. It was painful to watch. She had seen Alice try this trick on a great many gentlemen. She knew how to be fascinating – another skill taught at their finishing school – and how to make a gentleman feel as though he were the most interesting creature alive. And while he believed that, well, they would do frankly anything for her.

On cue, the music stopped, and the dancers broke out in applause. There would be a moment’s reprieve before the next melody commenced, and the flurry of parting with former partners to seek new ones would ensue.

“Oh, a new set is starting,” Alice remarked, her tone calculatedly light. “I do so love to dance. Don’t you, Mr. Green? Unfortunately, I have no partner.”

This development was not a surprise to Margaret, but apparently it entirely bowled over Mr. Green. He hesitated, flushing red, clearly summoning up his courage.

“Would you care to dance, Lady Alice? I should hate for you not to be able to dance when you wished to do so.”

Alice gave a pleased, surprised little exclamation, and threw a triumphant look over the man’s shoulder at Margaret.

“Oh, Mr. Green, I should love to!”

He glanced apologetically at Margaret and handed over the half-finished lemonade.

“Do excuse me, Miss Molyneaux.”

“Think nothing of it,” she answered automatically, but the pair were already moving off towards the dance floor, arm in arm. Arthur shot one last glance at Margaret, and then the crowd swallowed him up.

Oh, well done, Alice, you have managed to get the last laugh once again, Margaret thought sourly, draining the lemonade. But now you have to dance with him, don’t you?

She would tire of him soon enough, probably long before the dance ended. She would abandon him as soon as she could, secure in the knowledge that she could easily steal him away from Margaret, should the necessity arise. Mr. Green, shy again and feeling as though he had done something wrong, would make his way back to the seats, but Margaret would not be there when he arrived.

Margaret would have felt sorry for him, if all of her empathy wasn’t being used up on herself. She had lost count of the times that Lady Alice had swooped in during a party and scooped some man away from Margaret.

A gentleman and a lady stepped out of the crowd, and Margaret shook herself out of her maudlin thoughts and hurried to meet them. The lady was trying to twist away, but the gentleman had her hand trapped in the crook of his arm.

“There you are, Marigold,” Margaret said shortly, throwing a vague smile at the gentleman. “Here, I have some lemonade for you.”

The man scowled at her. “Ah, you must be the sister. We haven’t been introduced, so…”

“I am Miss Molyneaux,” Margaret interrupted. “And I’m sure you needn’t worry about us not being introduced, as I don’t believe you were properly introduced to my sister either before you asked her to dance, Lord Tumnus.”

He narrowed his eyes, and Marigold took the opportunity to whisk her hand out from his arm and came to stand beside her sister. She smiled gratefully up at her and drained the lemonade.

Marigold was already very much admired. She had had no proper coming-out party – they could not afford such a thing – but she was sweet, and beautiful, and formed like a perfect little doll, and apparently that was enough to put her on a level with all kinds of plainer heiresses.

Lord Tumnus sniffed, gaze raking Margaret up and down with visible disdain. “It’s Margaret, is it not?”

Margaret kept a tight smile on her face. “It is Miss Molyneaux, actually.”

“Goodness, your parents liked their M names, didn’t they?”

“Very much so. We usually call my sister Goldie, though. If you’ll excuse us…”

“Now, wait a moment. I’m going to fetch Miss Marigold here some refreshments, and we’re going to sit and talk for a moment, aren’t we?”

He smiled briefly down at Margaret, the smile never getting anywhere near his eyes.

She smiled too, equally insincere. “Oh, I think not, your lordship. I think Marigold wants to stay with me, don’t you, dear?”

Marigold nodded earnestly.

“There you are, Lord Tumnus. Marigold needs to rest, and frankly I’m not sure that our mother would approve of…”

“Actually,” he interrupted – quite a rude thing to do, interrupting a lady, although Margaret was used to small slights like that by now – “It was your mother, Lady Keswick, who introduced us to start with.”

A cold sensation crept down Margaret’s spine, and she glanced down at her sister, eyebrows raised questioningly. Marigold gave the tiniest nod.

“I see,” Margaret managed, voice tight. “Well, thank you for taking care of Marigold for a while, Lord Tumnus. We shan’t keep you any longer.”

She didn’t wait for him to argue or to insist. Instead, Margaret simply tightened her arm through Marigold’s and towed her sister off into the crowd. Her heart pounded for a moment or two, until she assured herself that they were not being followed and allowed herself a breath of relief.

“Thank you, Maggie,” Marigold whispered, voice tight. “I don’t like him. He makes me feel… he scares me, Margaret. I didn’t like how he looked at me. It was like he was hungry.”

Margaret shivered. “Well, you’re safe with me, you know that. But what was Mama thinking of when she decided to introduce you to him?”

“I don’t know, but I want to go home. Will you ask Mama if we can go home, Maggie?”

“I shall tell Mama that we are going home,” Margaret corrected firmly. “Just stay with me, and we’ll find her.”

“Thank you, Maggie. What happened to Mr. Green, by the way? He seemed very nice. I thought he liked you.”

“So did I, until Lady Alice Bow appeared and charmed him away.”

Marigold pulled a face. “I hate that woman.”

“You, my dear, are too sweet to hate anyone. Lady Alice has a grudge against me, that’s for sure.”

Marigold frowned. “But what did you do to make her so angry at you?”

Margaret shook her head, sighing. “I haven’t the slightest idea, Goldie, not the slightest idea.”