Page 97 of The Tartan Trap

William nodded as if he understood and escorted her to her bedroom door. It seemed the worst of her tears had passed already—a sudden and violent storm that had left her face oddly numb and her body tired and sagging. But at least Margaret could breathe more normally, even if all her breaths now sounded like sighs. At least she could speak.

“Thank you, William. I’m fine now, truly. I’m only sorry you saw me in such a state. I never meant to worry you.”

He studied her. Margaret could only imagine what she looked like with bleary, swollen eyes and splotchy pink cheeks. She reached up and checked her hair absentmindedly, out of habit, to find that her hairstyle was still perfectly in place, thanks to Callum’s pins.

The thought sent searing pain through her midsection again. Perhaps this was only a break in the storm, then.

“Very well,” William finally said. “I’ll send you something to cheer you up. But if you aren’t feeling well enough by dinnertime, I will call the physician, no matter your arguments.”

“That’s fair. Thank you, William.”

Margaret closed her bedroom door and leaned against it for a moment. Her room looked perfect—bed made with expensive linens and coverlet, the sofa and chairs just so before the fire—yet Margaret felt as if her entire world were askew. She slumped upon the sofa and began to undo all the work that Chloe had done only perhaps an hour ago, divesting herself of hair pins, boots, and pelisse in a slow, dogged manner.

Chloe slipped into the room some time later with a tea tray. She arranged it on the low table with many careful side glances toward Margaret, who was sniffling into her handkerchief.

“I’m going to send the basket back to his house, Miss,” Chloe finally said. “Did you want the biscuits, or should I send them back, too?”

“No,” Margaret said, irrationally angry at the thought. For if Chloe sent the stroopwafels away, she’d never have another again. “Keep them, please.”

Chloe nodded and set the paper-wrapped package on the tray wordlessly. She’d had them behind her back, as if she’d already known what Margaret’s answer would be. And perhaps she had—they spent a great deal of time together.

Margaret waited until Chloe left, shutting the door noiselessly behind her. Then she proceeded to eat all the stroopwafels, one after another, until she thought she’d be sick.

Chloe was an excellent maid, Margaret decided. She was flopped stomach-down on her bed, her face turned to the side so she wouldn’t be smothered by the luxurious feather bed. Without asking, her maid had brought up a luncheon tray with a pot of very strong tea. Margaret suspected the girl was standing some sort of guard outside her room as well, for none of her sisters had bothered her—not even Beatrice, who was exceptionally nosy.

It was now early afternoon, and except for the errant tear that trickled listlessly from the corner of her eye and dribbled off the end of her nose every few minutes, Margaret thought she was mostly finished crying.

That in itself was a relief. Margaret didn’t cry as others did. Lily looked luminous and lovely when she cried; Claire appeared cold and stalwart. But Margaret always appeared to have rolled down a damp hill by the time she was finished.

A knock at the door had her frowning. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Miss,” Chloe said. “I have a delivery from your brother.”

Margaret again mentally commended Chloe, for she’d kept Margaret’s hopes from rising with the careful and quick addition of the words “from your brother.”

“Come in.” Margaret wrestled herself into a sitting position and scrubbed at her face with both hands.

It was a dreadful habit, but sometimes a good face rub was in order. Besides, Margaret had hours before she saw anyone of note.

“And me,” Rachel said, following Chloe into the room on her heels. “I’m here, too.”

Chloe’s expression was so apologetic, it bordered on mortification. “I’m so sorry, Miss. She wouldn’t let me announce her, and she wouldn’t go away.”

Margaret waved off her apology. “It’s fine, truly.”

“You look…” Rachel paused at the side of the bed and narrowed her eyes as if searching for the right adjective.

“I know how I look,” Margaret grumbled. Her hair had achieved impressive volume from rolling about in bed. She’d have to soak it in the bath to tame it.

“Did you end things, then? With your duke?” Rachel proceeded to unceremoniously untie and shuck her boots with one hand propped on the bed for balance.

“He wasn’t my duke, not really.”

“Of course he was.”

Rachel tried to climb atop the bed, but both the height and the squish of the feathers made a dignified approach impossible. Rachel gave a brisk nod of defeat, backed up several paces, and took a running leap, landing facedown next to Margaret with an undignified grunt.

“Otherwise, this wouldn’t have hurt so much,” Rachel said primly, as if her entire bed-climbing escapade hadn’t occurred.