Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“ G et your person off of me,” the gentleman barked, his voice reverberating within the fountain as they both struggled to disentangle themselves.

Great. Just what she needed. Drenched, flustered, and utterly mortified.

Margaret barely managed a huffed retort before, with alarming ease, he lifted her as though she were nothing more than a feather and deposited her unceremoniously to one side. The water sloshed noisily as he straightened himself, muttering a steady stream of curses under his breath.

The indignity of it all burned at her cheeks.

Dripping from head to toe, he climbed out of the fountain and turned to her, his hand extended in a reluctant offer of aid.

Margaret hesitated, but her sodden skirts and bruised pride left her little choice. She reached for his hand, and he pulled her up with far more strength than gentleness. Her damp slipper slipped against the wet stone, sending her forward into his chest with an audible splat.

“Steady,” he grunted, holding her briefly before setting her upright and stepping back.

At least her hair was no longer tangled in his buttons, she thought, though the rest of her was a wretched sight. She could feel the chill of the night air on her soaked dress, clinging unpleasantly to her skin.

The gentleman wrung water from his sleeves, his jaw set tightly as he surveyed the state of his ruined attire. He was soaked through, and his irritation seemed to deepen with every passing second.

“You need to start paying attention to what directions you walk in, madam,” he said brusquely, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“It’s Lady Margaret, ” she corrected, the words clipped. Her pride was fraying by the second.

“You were walking backwards like a child,” he shot back, his dark eyes flashing. “And now you’ve got us both soaked to the bones, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret bristled at his emphasis, her hands tightening on the folds of her wet dress. She opened her mouth to respond, but he had already moved on, examining his drenched jacket and trousers with a scowl. He yanked the jacket off, muttering under his breath, and held it assessingly to the light .

Her gaze faltered as she caught sight of the contours of his chest beneath the damp linen of his shirt. The fabric clung scandalously, outlining a physique that seemed carved from marble. Her cheeks flamed, but she couldn’t quite force herself to look away. He, meanwhile, appeared entirely oblivious to her discomfort.

“I beg your pardon,” Margaret snapped, wrenching her gaze upward to meet his face, “but you found me out here first, sir. I was minding my own business by the fountain when you appeared uninvited.”

His brow arched as he fixed her with a steady gaze. “You cannot possibly know that.”

“I do know,” she retorted, drawing herself up despite her sodden state.

“Do you?” he asked, his tone deceptively mild. Then, with a pointed lift of his chin, he said, “What flowers lined the pathway to the fountain, then?”

Margaret blinked, the unexpectedness of the question stealing her retort. “What has that got to do with?—”

“Just answer the question, Lady Margaret,” he cut in, his tone carrying a note of challenge.

She frowned, searching her memory for any detail that might bolster her claim. But she came up empty. Her mind had been elsewhere entirely when she’d wandered into the garden.

Her silence stretched, and she could see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

For once, Margaret Sutton had no immediate response.

In fact, she hadn’t realized she’d been walking backward while tracing the fountain until he mentioned it just now. The weight of her mortification burned hot across her cheeks.

“I—I don’t remember...” she stammered, hating how utterly pathetic and childish she sounded.

He arched a brow, his expression infuriatingly smug. “My point exactly. This proves beyond doubt that you weren’t paying attention to your surroundings. For all you know, I could have been out here first.”

Margaret opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand as though already anticipating her arguments. “Don’t bother. I’ve logic and reason on my side. You’ve nothing but your obvious lack of awareness.”

His tone, cool and condescending, left her floundering for a suitable retort. To her dismay, he seemed right—he was armed with infallible reasoning, and even she could admit, albeit silently, that her distraction had caused the incident.

“And despite all this,” he added, his voice filled with self-satisfaction, “I still helped you out of the fountain. You should be grateful.”

“I beg your pardon?” Margaret cried .

“Yes, grateful,” he repeated, utterly unaffected by her tone.

Her hands fisted the damp folds of her dress. “Perhaps you should push me back into the fountain and abandon me there, sir! Then we would be even, and I would owe you nothing!”

“Oh, do not tempt me, Lady Margaret,” he said dryly, his gaze narrowing.

Margaret felt her mouth drop open, stunned by his audacity. The worst part was he looked as though he might actually do it. His manners were positively atrocious! Courtesy, she was certain, was a foreign concept to him.

Her temper flared. “You?—”

A gasp interrupted her, sharp and unmistakable, cutting through the night like a blade. Both Margaret and the gentleman turned toward the sound, their eyes landing on an elderly man she recognized all too well.

The old lord who had leered at her earlier now stood frozen on the garden path, his face a portrait of outrage. But he wasn’t alone. Beside him stood a severe-looking matron, her hand clasped over her mouth in horror, and a wide-eyed girl in a white evening dress—a debutante, Margaret guessed.

The gentleman, looking faintly amused by the interruption, cast Margaret a sidelong glance. “Friends of yours?” he drawled.

Margaret didn’t answer. Reality struck her like a cold slap, and her stomach churned with dread. There she was, drenched to the bone, alone with a half-dressed gentleman whose attire—or lack thereof—left no room for misinterpretation.

The matron’s eyes darted between them, wide and scandalized. The old lord quickly reached out to shield the girl’s view, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Margaret’s heart thundered in her chest, and her first instinct was to flee. Without a word, she gathered her soaking skirts and spun on her heel, running as fast as she could toward the house.

Her slippers squelched with every step, and the cold night air stung her cheeks as she darted through a discreet door leading into the manor. She found herself in a dimly lit music room, the warm glow of the hearth offering her a moment of sanctuary.

Collapsing into a chair near the fire, Margaret extended her trembling hands toward the flames. Her mind raced, replaying the mortifying events again and again. She could scarcely believe what had just transpired. The sheer impropriety of it all made her stomach churn.

By some stroke of fortune, she managed to dry herself before the ball concluded, her damp curls now pinned back into a semblance of order. Yet the damage felt irreparable.

The carriage ride home was a torment. Margaret sat stiffly beside her cousin Anna, her hands clutching her reticule as though it could anchor her spiraling thoughts. She stared out of the window, praying silently to the heavens that no word of her disastrous encounter reached polite society.

“Margaret,” Anna said softly, leaning closer. “Is something the matter?”

Margaret blinked, startled out of her thoughts. She shook her head quickly, offering a tight smile. “Nothing at all,” she lied.

She couldn’t tell her family. Not only would the happily-ever-after future Margaret dreamed of be utterly ruined, but her family’s precariously balanced reputation would take another devastating blow. The thought weighed on her like a lead cloak. It was bad enough that her older sister, Elizabeth, had been caught in a scandal just last season and married off with unseemly haste. To repeat such a calamity would be unforgivable.

Margaret shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. She forced her gaze out of the carriage window, hoping the cool night air brushing her cheek might calm her nerves.

Of course, Elizabeth now seemed positively blissful in her marriage. Her husband had not only accepted the circumstances of their union but appeared entirely besotted with her. It was a stroke of fortune Margaret could not possibly expect for herself. No, she doubted she would ever be so lucky if she were to find herself in a similar predicament.

“Where did you disappear to anyway?” Aunt Petunia’s sharp yet curious voice broke through Margaret’s thoughts.

Margaret’s head snapped around. Her stomach tensed as she grasped for an answer.

“Perhaps she’s finally found her charming knight and indulged in a little tryst in the shadows,” Anna interjected, her tone as light as the teasing smile that played on her lips.

“Anna!” their uncle, Sebastian Sutton, chided, his brows furrowing in disapproval.

Margaret stiffened, willing her cheeks not to flush. If Anna could read her face too closely, she might uncover the truth lurking beneath Margaret’s carefully composed exterior.

“I had a sudden headache and sought privacy in one of the salons, Auntie,” Margaret lied smoothly, though her voice felt unsteady to her own ears.

Anna’s skeptical gaze lingered, her piercing blue eyes studying her cousin as though she could unravel her secrets with sheer will. Margaret turned her attention to the patterned hem of her skirts, resisting the urge to fidget.

“We’ll have some chamomile tea brought to you once we’re home,” Petunia said, her tone turning motherly.

Margaret mustered a tight smile. “Thank you, Auntie.”

Petunia nodded, patting Margaret’s hand with a gesture meant to soothe. Margaret found little comfort in it, her thoughts still tangled with dread.

Petunia was her father and uncle’s distant cousin, a widow who had taken it upon herself to oversee their household affairs. Anna’s mother had died giving birth to her, leaving Sebastian widowed and his estate without a mistress. Petunia, ever kind and practical, had filled that role with ease. Yet not even her chamomile tea could undo the turmoil Margaret felt now.

Margaret stared out of the window again as the countryside rolled by in shadowed blurs. If only she could borrow Elizabeth’s seemingly endless confidence. Her sister had weathered scandal and come out the other side unscathed—no, triumphant. Margaret, however, felt certain she would not emerge with such grace.

Even after the promised chamomile tea was brought to her later that evening, Margaret found herself wide awake, her stomach twisting itself into knots. She lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, her thoughts a chaotic torrent.

Her life suddenly felt like a book, one of those volumes that would have one skimming each page with bated breath, awaiting the moment her world would inevitably crumble.

Margaret rolled onto her side, clutching the pillow tighter as if it could somehow silence her thoughts. It was going to be a very long night.