Unveiled (Turner #1)(86)
Margaret turned to track the course of her tumbling mass of straw. It bounced once on the ground, rolling. Then the wind lifted it again, and it sailed another few yards, landing in a pond behind her; to get it, Ash would have to tramp through a selection of weeds and mud. Ducks charted courses around the dangerous profusion of silk flowers about the brim. She hadn’t turned towards her bonnet, so much as turned Ashwards. She had ended up standing rather closer to him than she intended.
If she asked him to get it, he’d have to shed coat and boots. He would get that linen shirt all wet. She let out a sigh of heartfelt appreciation at the thought, and then, just as he was reaching for the cuffs of his jacket, shook her head sadly. “No, Mr. Turner. Alas. I find I like the feel of the wind through my hair.”
The corners of Ash’s mouth turned up just the same.
“Invite her,” he repeated.
Rawlings glanced from one to the other. “I see,” he said, his tone puzzled. Ash touched the brim of his own hat and then the gentlemen walked on.
Beside her, Elaine stood stock-still. In her world, there were not so many possibilities. Gentlemen either ignored one, or…
“Margaret.” She let the syllables of the name out carefully, as if she were unsure of the damage they could do. “Is—is Mr. Turner enamored of you?”
No matter how Margaret answered, this story would be bruited about town. And so she settled on the simple truth. “Yes. I rather think he is.”
“Well. That’s a bit of a…complication. Isn’t it?”
Margaret sighed. “No doubt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
AS MARGARET HAD SUSPECTED, by the time she was announced at the Rawlings’ ball, the story of the encounter in Hyde Park had made the rounds twice over, embellished at every turn. Polite society had not only been informed that the Dalrymples would be arriving en masse, but that Ash Turner, the man who’d had them bastardized, had taken one look at Margaret in the park and had ordered Rawlings to invite them. The stories Elaine related had Ash kissing her hand—this was the most forward—or gazing bashfully at her in love-struck wonder. Those who believed the latter, Margaret thought, had clearly never met Ash.
As she entered the ballroom on Richard’s arm, everyone’s gaze followed her. The murmurs of speculation grew to a tumultuous buzz around her.
Once, Margaret would have been one of the ones speculating as to the whys and wherefores. She would have wondered whether Turner had extended the invitation out of some dark motive, in order to settle the dispute in some wicked way once and for all. She might have asserted that he’d taken one look at Parford’s daughter and tumbled headlong into love. Once, she’d have been the one sitting with her friends in the corner and guessing.
But today, she arrived with her brothers. And while everyone was interested in what would happen to her, and what delicious events might make fodder for the evening’s conversation—nobody was interested in her. Not as herself.
After all, the evening’s company had been made up of those members of society who took Ash’s side in things. She and her brothers stood alone, a determined clump on the edge of the ballroom.
It was a relief when Diana, Lady Cosgrove, came flitting through the crowds. She was the first of Margaret’s old friends to greet her here. Her door had been barred to Margaret for months, but maybe, with this invitation, all could be forgotten.
Lady Cosgrove wore blue silk with white roses in her hair, and as she approached, Margaret thought that she was one of the most beautiful women in the room. She wanted to embrace her.
“Margaret, you dear!” she exclaimed. “How have you been this past six-month?”
Lady Cosgrove could have discovered the state of Margaret’s well-being at any point during the past half year, by the simple expedient of taking one of her calls—or, if she’d not wanted to exert herself that much, by reading one of the letters Margaret sent. But then, if Margaret was to retake her place in society, she would have to nod complacently through a great many lies, told for politeness’s sake.
And so she simply smiled at Lady Cosgrove.
“And to think,” the lady was saying, “you spent the summer rusticating in the country. Such a shame, when there were so many house parties to be attended. But then, you couldn’t have come.”
And here Margaret had thought they would make do by simply not referring to that period. Her friend’s smile brightened incongruously, and for the first time, Margaret considered the possibility that perhaps Lady Cosgrove had not come to renew their acquaintance.
“No,” Margaret replied. “I could not. I was, after all, in mourning.”
“In mourning!” Lady Cosgrove stepped back in surprise. “But of course—no wonder you’ve worn gray tonight when the color simply doesn’t suit you. It’s still half-mourning for you, isn’t it?” And then she raised her fan to her mouth and tittered, just in case Margaret had missed her attempt at a set-down.
Margaret supposed she was intended to be hurt by that remark. Really. Did Lady Cosgrove think that after Margaret had been declared illegitimate, a little aspersion cast on the color of her gown would set her back?
It is all a sort of delusion, Margaret could remember Ash saying indulgently, this notion of class. Apparently, in the months since she had last seen her friend, Margaret had stopped being deluded.