There was no remorse in Fred’s face. No sign of regret over what he’d done to Nicholas so long ago. Quite the reverse. “He should have been hanged.”

“If he had been,” Maggie said, “you’d be no better than a murderer.”

Fred gave her an accusing look. “Is this why you continue to refuse my hand? Because of him? Because you’re still pining for him after all these years?”

“Did you think I’d forget? You stole my happiness away from me.”

“A stable boy.” He gave a derisive snort. “And for his memory you’d relinquish Beasley Park? I don’t believe it.”

Her spirits, already so low after the visit to the solicitor, sank even further. “No. I’m not stupid. I may yet marry you. You’ve given me little choice in the matter. But make no mistake. Whatever the future holds for us, I shall never, ever love you.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Parkhursts’ estate was located just outside of Chiswick. Maggie and Jane traveled there Saturday evening in the company of Jane’s brother and Aunt Harriet. It was a long drive from Green Street, but not a lonely one. The usually dark road was alight with elegant carriages bound for the ball, the glow of their lamps leading the way to the drive of a grand house emblazoned with torches.

At a quarter past ten, guests were still arriving steadily. Traffic was backed up in the drive, coachmen only able to move their horses a few feet at a time.

George rapped at the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to stop. “We’ll get out here,” he said. “If you all don’t mind winding our way to the front steps? It will be quicker.”

He handed each of them down onto the cobbled drive. It was a balmy evening, scarcely worthy of the light wrap Maggie had brought. She was glad to leave it behind in the carriage. Her new gown wasn’t meant to be covered up. It was made to be shown off—every shimmering, clinging inch of it.

Indeed, Madame Clothilde had outdone herself for the occasion, creating a stunning confection of Clarence-blue silk, cut low at the bosom with short, fluttering sleeves and an overskirt embroidered with delicate beadwork that flashed and glittered in the candlelight.

When she’d first come to London, so many years before, Maggie had never worn anything half so daring. But as Fred had taken pains to point out, she wasn’t a young girl anymore. She was a woman of six-and-twenty. A veritable artifact. Surely no one could object if her ball gown clung to her curves, antiquated as those curves must be.

As she stepped into the entry hall, she felt numerous sets of eyes upon her. Her pulse quickened. Was Lord St. Clare here? It was difficult to tell in such a crush.

Jane caught hold of Maggie’s hand. “Stay close.”