Page 98 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Margaret slumped into a chair. “Perhaps I ought to rent one, something small in a quiet, respectable neighborhood, like Chelsea.”

Rachel lifted her brows. “A pity you couldn’t cast off your morals and find a little place that you could turn into a lovers’ nest for you and Connor.”

Margaret flinched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Rachel only smiled, then sobered at Margaret’s expression.

Connor consumed her thoughts. His kisses had revealed his desire, but his words afterward had haunted her. At least he didn’t tell her he could never love a cold woman such as she. In fact, he’d behaved as if he believed her anything but cold.

Did he truly think she’d be so callous, not to mention immoral, as to suggest she only wanted to use him?

Margaret tapped the arm of her chair. She needed more time—to learn where her feelings really lay, and his, and whether there was any future for them.

London society would mock her. Did she care? She’d spent so much of her life trying to keep up the appearance of the quintessential English lady, despite her wounded heart, that the thought of bringing more scorn upon her head and her family’s seemed too heavy a weight to bear.

Society had already rejected her for something she didn’t do. Perhaps she ought to give them a good reason to reject her. And she could reject them and be done with it.

She could give all that up for Connor. A simple life in the country with him. How could she convince him to give them a chance? Convince him that she sought a true, long-term relationship?

For now, she owed it to Alicia to be gracious about attending the dinner party. It was the least she could do.

“What are you going to do?” Rachel asked.

Alicia hurried past and called in, “I’m on my way to change. Our guests will be arriving in less than two hours.”

“We’ll be ready,” Margaret assured her.

Rachel gave a look that promised their conversation was far from over and went to her own bedchamber to change.

After donning a black silk evening gown appropriate for a widow in mourning, Margaret glared at herself in the mirror. Another mourning gown. One of many she must wear in order to be proper. Proper. Why had she always been so concerned with propriety? She had dutifully accompanied her husband at every event during the social Season. But at what cost? All to save face and pretend she had no knowledge of her husband’s blatant indiscretions. If she had followed her heart, she would have either stayed in the country or traveled the continent. However, wearing a mourning gown was the biggest lie.

Margaret went to the drawing room to help Cole and Alicia greet their guests. The entire family was already there, laughing with one another in complete disregard for the looming social disaster.

Rachel caught her gaze, grinned, and gave a slight eye roll as they put on their best guest-greeting faces. Rachel had never cared much about society’s strictures, a lesson Margaret should have learned years ago. Margaret smiled back. Having her twin nearby always gave her an added measure of reassurance.

One by one, guests arrived, beginning with the illustrious paragons, the Duke and Duchess of Suttenberg, which might have been flattering if the duchess weren’t Alicia’s little sister. Still, they’d made the trip to London from whichever country estate they’d been living on in order to attend tonight’s party. Margaret could have hugged them.

The Duke of Suttenberg’s charming younger brother and his enchanting wife arrived next, followed by the darkly striking Earl and Countess of Averston, both greeting Margaret with the same warmth as members of her family. Lord Bradbury arrived, as did a few other single gentlemen with high connections.

Margaret greeted them all with restrained warmth, exactly as a grieving widow might greet dear friends. Really, the hypocrisy of pretending to grieve nearly made her shriek. Or laugh out loud. Still, for her family, she would behave as she ought this one final time. And she owed it to these people who either believed in her or valued their friendship with her brothers, to be gracious and proper.

Conversation rippled around her in a range of topics, all in which Margaret would normally participate, but she felt oddly detached, as if she no longer belonged in this world. As if the wrong men surrounded her. The clothing seemed too lavish, the opulence almost gaudy.

If only Connor were here. But he’d hate this. She was starting to hate it, too, even in the midst of some of the finest people Margaret had ever known. Lying about on blankets on a lawn, wearing comfortable day wear, and not using their best drawing room manners, would be a more pleasant way to enjoy a meal. She pictured herself sitting with Connor’s head resting on her lap while they relaxed in the sunshine. Yes, she’d give up all this lavish comfort for that with him.

Would he give up chasing criminals in alleys for it? Did he have to?

After an appropriate amount of socializing, dinner was announced, and Lord Bradbury bowed before Margaret and held out his arm. “It is my honor to escort you to dinner, if I may, my lady.” So very proper, and so very handsome, he waited for her acceptance.

She looked him boldly in the eye as she stood but swallowed her impulse to ask him why he wasn’t afraid of dining with a murderess.

Decorum. Courtesy. He’d come as a show of support; she would not tweak him to satisfy her own selfish desire to take out her frustrations on someone.

She drummed up a smile. “The honor is mine, my lord.”

She rested her hand in the crook of his elbow. Though handsome and lean, he lacked Connor’s raw masculinity. He smelled good—sandalwood and a hint of some other spice, but it seemed so artificial, unlike the earthy, sensual scents that accompanied Connor.

When had she begun comparing every male to Connor Jackson?