Another lord in waiting expertly folded her train and hung it over her left arm and the ordeal was over. Buoyed with success, Margaret beamed at her mother as soon as she had left the Presence Chamber. “I did it.”

“Well done,” Mama said, unconsciously echoing Louise’s words. “Congratulations, you are now officially out in society.”

The words made her spirits plummet. Out in society. On the market. And firmly set on a well-worn path that had only one destination. Marriage.

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Montagu House, London, June 1865

THE DRAWING-ROOM WAS ONE OF Margaret’s favourites in the London town house. The cornicing, the walls, and the woodwork were all painted white which, combined with the views of the garden, gave it a relaxed feel. As she hovered outside the door today, however, she didn’t feel at all calm. She had been summoned and had no idea why. Bracing herself, she opened the door, only to discover to her dismay that both her parents were present.

“Sit down,” Mama said, indicating one of the chairs between them.

Margaret did so, trying to smile. “This all looks rather ominous.”

“No, no, I have some good news to impart. Your mother and I have identified a suitable husband for you.”

Papa smiled at her encouragingly, but Margaret, for once, was lost for words. A husband had been found for her? She wondered where, exactly. Hiding in the attics? Wandering the streets desperately searching for a red-haired bride?

“Well?” Papa was looking at her expectantly. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t think it would happen quite so quickly.”

“To be perfectly honest,” Mama said, “neither did we, but the ‘Titian-haired breath of fresh Scotch air,’ as the press have it, has defied the odds.”

Margaret dearly wished she had not. Shocked, she stared dumbly at her parents.

“Don’t you want to know who the lucky gentleman is?” Mama asked.

No, she did not, for that would make it real. But Mama and Papa were looking delighted with themselves, and it wasn’t as if their purpose in bringing her to London was a secret. She pinned a smile to her face. “Who is it?”

“Come,” Mama said, smiling encouragingly, “surely you must be able to guess?”

Guess! Was this some sort of bizarre parlour game? Margaret felt sick. Of the many eligible men she had been introduced to, she couldn’t think of any she’d want as a husband, or even a single one who had indicated that he’d like her to be his wife. “No, I give in,” she said.

“Oh, for goodness sake! It is Lord Rufus Ponsonby.”

Margaret’s jaw dropped. Surely she had misheard. Lord Rufus Ponsonby was that pompous man with the irritating little cough whose smile would freeze boiling water.