Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

“ S o, how was your little promenade?” Anna’s voice floated across the room, light in tone but not without its edge of curiosity.

Peggy looked up from her embroidery hoop, the delicate rose she had been working on now seeming unbearably tedious. She let out a long, slow sigh, setting her needle aside with deliberate care.

“Well, that doesn’t augur good news,” Anna observed, her blue eyes narrowing as she crossed the room to sit beside her cousin. “Do not tell me he was as impossible as they say. Or worse?”

Peggy hesitated, smoothing the folds of her muslin dress as though the action might somehow soothe her nerves. She could feel Anna’s gaze probing, ever watchful, and knew she must tread carefully. “The Duke is a tough nut to crack, but I am certain we will get along in time,” she said with a strained smile.

Anna raised one skeptical brow, her expression plainly unconvinced. “If you say so,” she replied lightly, though the concern in her voice was unmistakable.

Peggy busied herself by picking up her needle again, pretending a sudden fascination with the half-stitched petals on the fabric. She could tell Anna wanted to press further, but mercifully, her cousin held back. It seemed a rare reprieve, but one Peggy intended to seize.

Not long after Anna left, however, Peggy heard the soft rustle of skirts approaching. Her heart sank. She set aside her embroidery just as Aunt Petunia appeared in the doorway, her presence as commanding as ever despite her diminutive stature.

“How are you doing, dear?” Petunia asked, her tone gentle as she perched gracefully on the sofa beside Peggy.

Peggy felt a faint smile tug at her lips despite herself. “Did Anna send you to interrogate me, Auntie?” she teased, her voice light but held an edge of wariness.

“Oh, she doesn’t have to,” Petunia replied with a wave of her hand, her silver bangles catching the light. “Being here for you, talking to you before your imminent marriage is something I must do. As your guardian. Like a mother would, and should.”

The warmth in her aunt’s voice was unyielding, wrapping around Peggy like a comforting shawl. Petunia had always been more than a guardian; she was their anchor, their unwavering pillar of love and guidance.

“Thank you, Aunt Petunia,” Peggy murmured, her smile softening.

“Nonsense, child,” Petunia said briskly. “Now, we must begin preparations for your trousseau.”

Peggy stiffened, her heart lurching at the thought. “Oh, but we cannot afford such?—”

“Balderdash!” Petunia cut her off with a decisive gesture. “Our finances were in a worse state when Elizabeth got married, and yet we managed to provide her with a perfectly respectable trousseau. You shall have one too. I will sell Anna’s dogs if I must, but no niece of mine is marrying without a proper trousseau.”

Peggy blinked at her aunt, momentarily startled into silence before a soft laugh escaped her lips. “Oh, and Titan would fetch quite a handsome amount, don’t you think?” she said, her tone warming despite her earlier gloom.

“Quite the little imp, that one,” Petunia agreed with a conspiratorial smile. “Just don’t let Anna hear our contingency plan to sell her beloved dogs.”

Peggy chuckled, the sound easing the tension in her chest. “My lips are sealed.”

Her thoughts drifted momentarily to Anna’s dogs: the boisterous Titan and the dignified Newfoundland, Plato. While Titan could charm anyone with his antics, Plato was the epitome of decorum—a sharp contrast that never failed to amuse Peggy. She shook her head, a genuine smile curving her lips for the first time that day.

It was a small reprieve, but it was enough. For now.

“Oh, my throat feels quite dry,” Petunia announced, rising with a flourish from her seat. She adjusted her shawl as she made her way to the liquor cabinet, her movements purposeful yet unhurried.

Margaret arched a brow, setting her embroidery aside. “It is not yet dinner, Auntie,” she said.

“And what of it?” Petunia retorted with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Would you care for a glass, my dear? Brandy or whiskey?” She had already reached for the decanter and began pouring before Margaret could respond. “Whiskey for me,” she declared, as though her choice were a matter of great consequence.

Margaret hesitated, her first instinct to refuse. “I—” she began, only to have her aunt’s encouraging smile cut through her reluctance.

“Go on,” Petunia urged, swirling the amber liquid in her glass with practiced ease. “Your uncle and Elizabeth are not here to scold us about ‘indulging too freely in our cups.’” Her voice took on a pompous tone as she imitated Sebastian’s usual admonishments, finishing with a mockingly prim expression.

Margaret chuckled despite herself, her fingers tracing the folds of her dress. “In that case,” she said, allowing a small smile to escape, “perhaps I shall have something mellower than whiskey.”

“That’s my sensible girl,” Petunia said approvingly, pouring a measure of brandy into a delicate snifter and handing it to Margaret.

Margaret accepted the glass, feeling its warmth even before the brandy touched her lips. The gentle heat that spread through her chest brought a measure of comfort she had not anticipated.

“Speaking of Elizabeth,” Petunia began as she reclaimed her seat with a satisfied sigh, “I’ve written to her about your wedding.”

Margaret’s fingers froze around the stem of her glass. The thought of writing to Elizabeth had lingered at the back of her mind, but the ordeal of recounting recent events—particularly the more mortifying aspects—had kept her from putting pen to paper. “Thank you, Aunt,” she murmured, relief softening her voice. “That saves me the trouble.”

Petunia patted her hand gently. “I thought it best to keep her apprised. Besides, I suspected you might have too much on your mind to manage such correspondence.”

Before Margaret could reply, the library door opened, and Anna swept into the room, her gaze landing immediately on the decanter perched prominently on the table. Her expression turned mockingly aghast. “You traitors,” she declared, marching toward them. “Holding a secret revel without me, are you?”

“Oh, you sniff out a party from miles away, don’t you, Anna?” Peggy teased, a wry smile tugging at her lips as her cousin poured herself a second glass of whiskey.

“Nothing quite like a companionable drink with two of my favorite women in the world,” Anna replied with a wink, raising her glass in a mock toast.

Petunia laughed softly, swirling her whiskey with the practiced ease of a woman entirely at home in her indulgences.

“You two could set up house together and grow old sharing drinks,” Peggy said, shaking her head at how utterly content they looked over their glasses. She imagined the pair with streaks of silver in their hair, still ensconced in their eccentric habits.

“Oh, that’s the plan, Peggy. That’s the plan,” Anna agreed, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Her cousin had long declared herself content with spinsterhood, reveling in the freedom it afforded her.

The three of them shared another round of laughter, the sound filling the library and momentarily softening the edges of Peggy’s worries.

“Just don’t tell your uncle we’ve been drinking,” Petunia warned, though her tone was more conspiratorial than serious. “Or Elizabeth when she visits,” she added with a knowing smirk.

Peggy smiled faintly, though her chest tightened at the mention of her older sister. Elizabeth had always been the voice of reason, the model of poise and discipline—qualities Peggy wished she could summon more easily. How Elizabeth would likely frown if she saw them now, their cups filled before dinner, their mirth unbridled.

Before she could dwell further, the butler entered with quiet efficiency, a folded letter resting on a silver tray. “A missive for you, Lady Margaret,” he said, bowing as he offered it.

Peggy accepted it with a murmur of thanks, the laughter fading as she recognized the seal. The Duke. Of course. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the envelope as she excused herself from the lively chatter and stepped toward the window for better light.

Anna raised a brow, her curiosity barely concealed. “Oh, do tell us if it’s a romantic ode,” she teased, but her tone was lighthearted.

Peggy didn’t reply, instead breaking the seal with deliberate care. The paper felt heavier in her hands than it should have, the weight of its sender pressing down on her shoulders. She unfolded it and read:

Lady Margaret,

I trust this note finds you well. In light of the limited time before our wedding, I must inform you that I shall not be available for further outings or engagements until after the ceremony. My schedule demands my full attention, and I trust you will find it agreeable to reserve your energy for our future roles.

Sincerely,

Duke of Giltford

Peggy stared at the words, her pulse quickening with each passing second. Her grip on the letter tightened as indignation surged through her. Not available for further outings? The audacity of the man! As if she had any intention of inviting him to another promenade. The last one had been a mistake, one she had no desire to repeat.

“Peggy?” Anna’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. “What is it? You look as though you’ve swallowed a lemon.”

Peggy forced herself to glance up, hastily folding the letter to hide its contents. “Nothing of consequence,” she replied, her voice steady but a fraction too quick. “Just a note from the Duke.”

Petunia set her glass down with a soft clink, her brow furrowing. “From Giltford? What does he have to say?”

“Surely something romantic and sweeping,” Anna teased, her lips curving into a sly grin. “Did he compose a sonnet for you? Or perhaps he has sent a declaration of undying love?”

Peggy let out a short laugh, though it sounded strained even to her ears. “Hardly. It is merely a matter of logistics. He has many pressing engagements, and it seems there will be no further outings before the wedding.”

Anna tilted her head, studying Peggy closely. “That’s a rather curt message for your intended, isn’t it? Did he even bother to inquire after your health?”

“I’m quite sure he didn’t,” Peggy replied lightly, tucking the letter into her lap. “But then, he is a very busy man.”

Petunia’s gaze sharpened, and she leaned forward slightly. “Peggy, are you quite certain everything is well? You seem... distracted.”

Peggy’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the folded parchment. “Everything is perfectly fine, Auntie,” she said, keeping her tone airy. “He is simply preoccupied with his affairs, as any Duke would be.”

Anna exchanged a glance with Petunia, her skepticism plain, but she said nothing more. Peggy seized the moment to stand, brushing imaginary wrinkles from her dress. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need some air.”

Petunia’s expression softened, though her concern lingered. “Of course, my dear. Take your time.”

Peggy stepped out of the room, the folded letter clutched tightly in her hand. Once in the hallway, she paused, her shoulders sagging as she exhaled. Her earlier anger had not abated, but now it was filled with something heavier—a gnawing sense of helplessness.

More than anything, she wanted out of this farce of a betrothal. But that, of course, was impossible. To walk away now would be to jeopardize her family’s honor, to ruin the delicate balance her uncle had worked so hard to restore.

If only she could?—

No. She couldn’t think like that. She had responsibilities, a duty she could not shirk. She would not shirk them, no matter that her thoughts lingered wistfully on the gallant knight who would never come.