‘Jacob, I hear you’re engaged,’ one young man said, looking at Margaret, a supercilious grin on his face.
‘Yes, may I present Miss Margaret Whitmore, my fiancée. Miss Whitmore, the Earl of Penvale.’
‘So it’s true,’ another young man said, staring at Margaret as if she were an exhibit in a curio cabinet.
‘It is,’ the Duke said, and introduced Margaret to the other young men, who all bowed, with matching smirks on their faces.
She could hardly blame them. Their engagement had been sudden and for many people would be completely inexplicable. Margaret knew what they all must be thinking. If he had to marry, then why her? And she suspected they were coming up with explanations that did nothing for either her or the Duke’s reputation.
One of the men, whose name she had forgotten, leaned in to whisper in the Duke’s ear. ‘After the performance we’re going on to a party at Penvale’s townhouse. It should be a riot. You must join us if you’re not otherwise engaged.’ He looked at Margaret and laughed, as if he had made the funniest of puns.
The expression on the Duke’s face suggested he found the man’s attempt at humour as funny as she did. ‘Not interested,’ was his quick reply, before he took Margaret’s arm and led her away.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said once they were out of earshot of his friends. ‘They can be rather boorish at times.’
‘And yet they are your friends.’
‘Yes,’ he said, drawing out that one word as if admitting to something he’d rather not.
‘And if you wish to go to that party, don’t let me stop you. That was our agreement, was it not? We won’t stop each other from living our lives however we want.’
‘Yes, that was our agreement,’ he said, and that tight band gripped her chest with greater ferocity. No doubt there would be actresses and those pretty, high-kicking dancers at the party, and one would spend the night in his arms.
‘But I do not wish to attend a party tonight, particularly not a riotous one.’
The gripping band of jealousy loosened slightly and Margaret was more pleased than she should be.
‘Oh, no,’ the Duke muttered, just as she was about to take another sip of her champagne.
She followed the direction in which he was looking and saw a couple walking towards them, arm in arm. The man was slightly shorter than the woman, flushed of face, and bore the expanding girth common in middle-aged men, but the woman was nothing less than stunning.
Perhaps she was an actress; her elegant demeanour and confidence suggested that. And she was certainly attractive enough to grace the stage, with her dramatic flame-coloured hair, her striking good looks and a smile that could light up any theatre.
Margaret doubted she had ever felt more frumpy or insignificant in comparison and hoped the couple would do no more than say good evening and move on.
Instead, they stopped in front of them and both looked at Margaret, the woman bearing the same questioning expression as the Duke’s friends.
‘Baron and Baroness Winterborne, may I present Miss Margaret Whitmore,’ the Duke said. ‘My fiancée.’
That tight iron band clamped her chest again like a torture device, making breathing all but impossible. Hoping to cover her shock, she bowed her head and made a low curtsey, praying her unsteady legs would not give way beneath her.
With as much composure as she could summon, Margaret rose to standing and made herself smile at that vision of beauty as if her name meant nothing to her.
‘Yes, I read in the newspaper you were to marry. My congratulations,’ the Baron said to the Duke, then nodded to Margaret. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Winterborne, and I wish you every happiness for the future.’
Margaret’s jaw started to ache as she continued smiling. Was the man serious? He was talking to his wife’s ex-lover, the man he had threatened to drag through the divorce courts, as if they were old friends.
The Baron bowed his head once more, then the two sauntered off and joined another group of chatting patrons and the Duke released a long, slow, audible breath.
‘Again, I am so sorry about that,’ he said.
‘No need,’ she said crisply, as if she was not still reeling from that disturbing encounter. ‘It looks as if this visit to the theatre has achieved its purpose. We’ve been seen by the very people you want to convince this is a real engagement, and the Baron’s behaviour suggests you have had a lucky escape from the ignominy of the divorce courts.’
‘But I didn’t wish to subject you to that.’ He inclined his head towards where the Baron and Baroness were standing, chatting and laughing with their friends.
‘Really? I thought subjecting me tothatwas the whole point of our engagement and the point of coming here tonight.’ Margaret knew she was sounding ill-tempered, despite having no real reason to be, but it was better than sounding jealous, and that was undeniably what she was feeling.
‘Would you like to leave?’
