Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

“ Y ou look like you didn’t get a wink of sleep,” Aunt Petunia remarked, lowering her tea cup to study Margaret more closely as she stepped into the breakfast room with the weight of an entirely sleepless night on her shoulders.

The sunlight streaming through the large windows felt almost mocking, its brightness doing nothing to lift the cloud of apprehension hanging over her. She avoided meeting her cousin Anna’s keen gaze as she drifted toward the sideboard, her movements mechanical.

Margaret forced a small smile, reaching for a slice of bread. “Good morning to you too, Aunt,” she murmured, her tone as light as she could manage.

Petunia pursed her lips but said no more, her attention returning to her newspaper.

Margaret eased into her chair, feeling Anna’s scrutiny like a tangible thing. Her cousin’s unwavering stare threatened to unravel the fragile composure she clung to. She deliberately buttered her toast, focusing on the repetitive motion.

“Are you alright, Peggy?” Anna’s voice broke the silence, her concern unmistakable.

Margaret’s hand faltered for a moment before she resumed. She could feel her cousin’s question pressing for an answer, one she wasn’t prepared to give. “Quite alright,” she lied, her tone too even to be convincing.

Anna’s brows knit together, and Margaret felt the weight of that silent doubt. But thankfully, her cousin let it lie—for now.

Petunia, however, had noticed as well. Her sharp gaze darted between the two girls before she returned to her newspaper. “Hmm,” was her only audible response.

Margaret bit into her toast, though the taste seemed to turn to ash on her tongue. She longed for Elizabeth’s presence. Her older sister had weathered a storm of scandal before, emerging unscathed and resplendent. Surely, Elizabeth would have known how to navigate this current mess—or at least how to soothe Margaret’s frazzled nerves. But Elizabeth was miles away, leaving Margaret to flounder alone.

Titan’s bark shattered her reverie. Anna’s little pug had leapt onto the table, his stubby legs a blur of excitement as he made a beeline for Margaret’s plate. She watched, dismayed but unmoving, as the dog snatched a sausage and began devouring it with glee.

Petunia’s head shot up, her mouth agape. “You’re letting Titan eat your sausages?”

Margaret glanced at the dog, his snorting and chomping almost comically loud. “I suppose I am,” she replied mildly, too drained to care.

Anna’s chair scraped against the floor as she leaned closer, her expression narrowing with concern. “You are definitely not well .”

Margaret let out a soft snort. “Because I let Titan eat my sausages?”

“Yes,” Anna declared, unamused. “You hate it when he does that. Usually, you’d be halfway through a lecture on table manners by now, chastising both him and me for my poor training.”

“I am too exhausted for that,” Margaret admitted, lifting her coffee cup. The warmth of the porcelain offered a brief comfort, but the sip she took did little to settle her unease.

Anna didn’t look convinced. She exchanged a glance with Petunia, who only shrugged and returned to her reading.

Petunia’s sudden exclamation nearly made Margaret spill her coffee. “It says here that Giltford is back in society!” Her aunt’s voice carried an unmistakable note of intrigue.

Margaret blinked, startled out of her gloom. “Who?”

Anna arched a skeptical brow. “The Duke of Giltford,” Petunia clarified, as though the name alone should elicit some grand reaction.

Margaret and Anna exchanged puzzled looks.

Petunia folded her newspaper with a theatrical flair, settling it on the table as though preparing to regale them with an extraordinary tale. “He’s been a recluse for years, you see. Rarely seen, barely spoken of. Some say he prefers the company of statues and portraits to humans.”

“Really, Mother ” Anna’s tone carried amusement. “How can one be both reclusive and notorious?”

Petunia shrugged, her smile indulgent. “The Duke of Giltford, apparently, has mastered the art.”

Anna scoffed lightly, shaking her head. Margaret, however, couldn’t summon even the faintest smile. Something about the name stirred an unsettling sense of familiarity, though she couldn’t quite place it.

The clatter of Petunia’s teacup on its saucer broke the stillness that had fallen over the breakfast room. Margaret’s gaze darted from her aunt’s startled expression to Anna’s wide-eyed stare. But neither matched the tight knot of unease twisting in Margaret’s stomach when the butler spoke again.

“The Duke of Giltford,” he repeated, his calm tone doing little to soften the bombshell he had just dropped.

Petunia gasped, her hand clutching the arm of her chair. “ The Giltford?”

Anna’s brow arched. “Surely not,” she murmured, though her curiosity flared in her tone.

Margaret, however, felt her breath catch. It couldn’t be. Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, she heard the tread of firm footsteps in the hall. The Duke was announced again as the butler opened the door wider, and there he was—towering, commanding, and utterly undeniable.

Her legs carried her to her feet before she could stop them. “You,” she managed, her voice breathless with disbelief.

His dark eyes locked onto hers, his expression inscrutable. “Indeed, Lady Margaret.” His tone carried a hint of dry amusement, as though her surprise amused him.

Her cheeks burned, and not just from recognition. In the clear light of day, he was even more striking. His finely tailored coat accentuated his broad shoulders, and his polished boots gleamed with a perfect shine . She could still picture the way the damp linen of his shirt had clung to him the night before—a thought she shoved away as quickly as it came.

“You’re Giltford?” she demanded, her voice louder than intended.

The Duke inclined his head, utterly unruffled. “I believe that was already established.”

“You two know each other?” Anna interjected, her tone sharp with intrigue.

Margaret opened her mouth, but words failed her. Before she could answer, Giltford stepped forward with the unflappable poise of a man accustomed to command. “Forgive my intrusion,” he began, his deep voice carrying a weight that silenced the room. “But I come with an urgent matter.”

Margaret’s brow furrowed. What could possibly?—?

His words sliced through the air like a blade. “I’ve come to offer for Lady Margaret’s hand in marriage. ”

Petunia let out a soft exclamation. “Oh goodness!”

Anna clutched the edge of the table. “You cannot be serious.”

Margaret, however, felt as though the room had tilted. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, stepping toward him. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her earlier disbelief giving way to shock.

Giltford’s gaze remained steady, impenetrable. “Come now, Lady Margaret. Surely you do not believe last night’s events will remain unspoken? The witnesses alone guarantee otherwise.”

Last night. Margaret’s mind scrambled, piecing together his meaning as dread coiled in her chest. “What happened last night?” Anna’s voice cut through Margaret’s growing panic, her words touched with suspicion.

Petunia’s sharp gaze darted between Margaret and the Duke. “Indeed, what happened?”

Before Margaret could stammer an answer, Giltford spoke, his tone cool and measured. “A misunderstanding by the fountain, witnessed by three others. Unfortunate circumstances, but circumstances nonetheless.”

“Oh dear,” Petunia murmured, her hand fluttering to her chest.

Anna’s eyes narrowed. “Margaret, why didn’t you tell us?”

Margaret’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She could feel her composure slipping, the weight of her family’s questions pressing heavily on her. “I—I didn’t want to worry you,” she admitted, her voice small. “And I was ashamed.”

Petunia softened instantly, reaching out to place a hand over Margaret’s. “My dear, there’s no need for shame.”

Anna’s expression thawed as well, her frown giving way to reluctant sympathy. “You could have come to us,” she said gently. “We’re your family.”

Margaret’s lips parted to respond, but before she could, Giltford interjected. “Charming as this moment of familial affection may be, it does not change the situation at hand.”

His tone was unyielding, slicing through the brief reprieve like a knife. Margaret’s spine straightened, indignation flaring in her chest.

“We must address the matter with the seriousness it warrants,” he continued, his gaze resting on Margaret as though daring her to argue. “And a swift marriage is the only course of action to prevent a scandal.”

Margaret’s breath hitched, her hands trembling despite her efforts to remain composed. How had her life unraveled so completely, so quickly?

Margaret’s fingers tightened on the edge of her chair as she glared at the Duke. His calm, unruffled demeanor only heightened her frustration.

“We must combat a scandal before it happens. And marriage is the only option at hand. I wish to speak to your guardian, Lady Margaret,” he said, his tone as measured as if he were discussing the weather.

“That would be her uncle, the Earl,” Aunt Petunia interjected, her voice taking on its usual air of propriety.

“May I have an audience with him then?” Giltford asked, his eyes flicking briefly toward the door, already anticipating action.

Margaret rose to her feet, her pulse pounding. “Do I have no say in this, Your Grace?” she demanded, her voice firm despite the turmoil roiling within her.

Giltford turned to her, his dark eyes steady and far too knowing. “Do you have a better solution than the one I’ve just proposed?”

Margaret’s breath caught. She knew she didn’t, but the way he phrased it, as if daring her to challenge him, made her anger simmer all the more.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “None at present,” she admitted, her voice taut with reluctance.

“I thought as much,” he replied with a slight nod. The butler’s timely arrival spared Margaret the indignity of continuing the argument. “Take me to the Earl, if you would,” Giltford instructed, his tone polite but clipped.

Margaret sank back into her chair as the Duke left the room, her frustration bubbling into exasperation. Petunia and Anna, ever eager for details, pounced almost immediately.

“What happened exactly?” Anna pressed, leaning forward. Her blue eyes sparkled with both curiosity and concern.

Petunia nodded in agreement, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. “Yes, Margaret. You’ve been holding out on us.”

Margaret took a deep breath, recounting the events of the night before with as much composure as she could muster. She chose her words carefully, though she could not entirely suppress her mortification.

When she finished, Petunia sighed and leaned back. “He does have a point, you know. Three witnesses cannot be taken lightly.”

Anna, however, crossed her arms. “You don’t have to marry him if you do not want to,” she argued. “The man is clearly an ill-tempered grouch. And didn’t you say he prefers ghouls to humans, Aunt?”

“Ghosts, not ghouls ,” Petunia corrected with a wave of her hand. “And those are just silly rumors. There’s no such thing, and certainly no sane Duke who would fancy them.”

Anna remained unimpressed, her gaze sliding back to Margaret. “The point stands. You shouldn’t let yourself be strong-armed into this.”

Margaret lowered her eyes, her voice quiet but resolute. “But I cannot refuse and jeopardize your own prospects, Anna.”

Anna laughed, the sound light but genuine. “My prospects? Peggy, dear, I’ve been a lost cause for years now.”

Petunia sniffed. “Anna has long since accepted her spinsterhood,” she said, though there was no malice in her tone. “And she’s perfectly content.”

Margaret managed a small smile, but it faltered as the minutes dragged on. She fidgeted with her napkin, glancing repeatedly at the door as if willing her uncle and the Duke to return.

Her nerves felt like a fraying thread, each moment of waiting stretching them thinner.