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Well, then. That was that.
Margot collapsed heavily back on the bench of her carriage and rapped on the ceiling before the coach could come to a stop at Ara’s address. A small window near the front opened and the coachman’s curious face filled it. “Home, Farrows,” she told him. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
As the coach drove past that familiar red door, Margot blinked, her eyelids stinging with a sharp, unfamiliar burn. Dear Lord, were those tears? She hadn’t wept in decades and would hardly start doing so now. She was made of much stronger stuff than that! And yet her lungs felt tight, as though she couldn’t get enough air and her vision blurred as more of the insufferable wetness gathered.
Clenching her jaw, Margot squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to go to that place in her head where she felt nothing. Where no one could touch or hurt her. She hadn’t gone there in so long, but it was a needed solace from whatever this absurdity was. She needed fortitude.
The sight of Ara’s soft smile being bestowed on someone else had cut deeply.
So deeply, she’d felt the slash right in her soul.
But Margot supposed she deserved it. She’d been the one to leave after all, as well as the one to dictate the much-too-cruel terms of their last session, the icy indifference she was known for front and center. Watching Ara at work, trying and failing to hide her desire and confusion, had been torture. Worse, knowing it would be the last time Margot would be there, had felt like peeling stripes off her own heart. And much like she was doing now, she’d resorted to a tried-and-tested version of self-defense to protect herself from pain.
Ara would never hurt you and you know it.
Well, it was clearly much too late to do anything about that now.
The ride back to Mayfair was blessedly quick. Margot didn’t want to be left too long with her fractured thoughts. She handed her gloves and coat to the butler, and followed the voices coming from the kitchen. Her mood brightened the moment she recognized the dark mop of hair and the broad-shouldered body of her son. That frame was the only thing he’d inherited besides the marquessate from his father, thank God.
“Percy, love, what are you doing home?” she asked, though her heart was gladdened to see him.
Blue-gray eyes twinkled back at her as he enfolded her in his long arms and kissed the top of her head. It was something she hoped he’d never stop doing, despite warnings from other mothers that their sons barely acknowledged them. At only sixteen, he towered over her by several inches. “I should ask you the same question. Every time I’ve come to visit, Mrs. Hardy tells me the same thing. My lady is out. The marchioness is not at home. Come back tomorrow.” He narrowed a mock stare at her. “Do I need to assign you a chaperone? Make sure you aren’t causing trouble and demolishing debutants all over town?”
She belted out a laugh. “Hardly.” When he stared at her, his mouth dropping comically open, she frowned. Her gaze flew to the housekeeper, who also had a slightly stunned look on her face as well. “Whatever is the matter?”
“You laughed,” Percy said. “I haven’t heard that sound in an age.”
Margot touched her parted lips self-consciously. “I laugh.”
“No, Mother dearest. You smile just so, exactly one eighth of an inch on either side of your lips every single time. Your cheeks do not move and your eye color does not change. In fact, it is the most precise expression of all expressions, exercised to perfection.” She let out a scoffing sound, but Percy wasn’t finished, eyes narrowing. “This behavior is new.”
“You are being absurd.”
“Am I?” He peered down at her with an intense scrutiny that made her want to run and hide. What would he see written all over her? Did lust and seduction sink into one’s skin for all and sundry to read? “Where exactly do you go in Covent Garden every Thursday?” he asked.
Margot actually spluttered, her hand rising to her mouth. One look from her, and Mrs. Hardy and the two maids working near the scullery took instant leave of the kitchen as if they were only too happy to escape. “Who says I go there?”
“Farrows told me when I asked, and before you have him immediately sacked, I forced him to tell me so I will simply just rehire him.” Percy drew a soft palm down her cheek. “In case you have forgotten, I am the master of this household, and your safety is my greatest concern.”
Margot couldn’t help it—she burst into tears. And if there was anything worse than a six-foot boy staring down at her for laughing, seeing the same boy in a panic at the sight of her tears was categorically worse. She made to flee, and Percy’s hands fluttered like wild birds before banding themselves about her as she proceeded to drench his waistcoat.
“Mama?”
Mortified at her display, she sniffed and stepped back, covering her blotchy, swollen face with her palms. “You haven’t called me that since you were a child.”
“You haven’t cried since I was a child. Here, take this before you get snot all over the floors and we slip everywhere.”
A huff of horrified mirth left her, but she nodded with gratitude as Percy handed her a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’m so sorry. That was quite uncalled for. I don’t know what came over me.”
Percy drew her over to two chairs and made her sit while he fussed over the nearby teapot to prepare her a cup of tea. Margot wanted to bury her face in her hands. “Of course it was called for,” he said. “I’ve never seen you like this, but I do know that this sort of thing is better out than in. I know you’ve had a lifetime of skill holding things inside, but trust me, it serves no good purpose.”
Her jaw slackened. Dear God, how preposterous was it that she was taking advice from a sixteen-year-old, though it was obvious that he had more emotional competence in his little finger than she had in her whole body. “Who are you and what have you done with my son?”
“Your son grew up, Mother. But he was very lucky he had you for a role model.” Percy grinned when he brought the cup and saucer over, made just as she liked it with two lumps of sugar. “Though at times, you are rather terrifying to live up to, I must say. The most perfect lady in London.”
“I’m not perfect,” she said.
