Without giving him a chance to change his mind, Margaret hurried away. The atmosphere in the crowded ballroom was stifling. She was so hot and flustered she couldn’t think straight. The blend of expensive perfume, pomade, and perspiration made her nose twitch. She wanted to sneeze. Oh, for a lungful of pure, fresh air, or better still, for the familiar, comforting smells of the stable block back home in Dalkeith. Spider, her beloved pony, obeyed her every command unquestioningly. If only she were as well schooled. If only, as Mama opined all too often, she could be more like Victoria. Killin would probably have preferred her paragon of an older sister, too, but Victoria had been destined from the cradle to marry Lord Schomberg Kerr, the son of Mama’s best friend. Victoria, the beau ideal Margaret couldn’t bring herself to emulate, had been married in February, forcing Killin to settle for the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch’s second and second-best daughter.

Biddable Victoria had seemed happy to accept her fate. Margaret had endeavoured to believe Mama when she told her that she knew best, to persuade herself that her visceral dislike of the man intended for her would lessen as she came to know him. Might familiarity make him more amenable? At this moment, she simply could not believe it. Why couldn’t she see Killin as others did? She had tried; no-one could fault her for lack of effort. But she had failed dismally. If only she wasn’t so utterly certain that his feelings reflected hers. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in her, only her family connections. Behind the suave, gentlemanly carapace Killin presented to the world lurked a decidedly cold fish. Yet no-one else seemed to realise this. Could she be wrong? In her heart, she knew she was not, but it was far too late to do anything about it.

Margaret slipped out through the French doors, her senses assaulted by the acrid stench of the Thames, for the gardens of Montagu House faced directly onto the river. Putting her hand over her nose, she edged backwards to the darkest recess of the terrace. She wouldn’t linger long. She’d face the music momentarily.

Uncovering her nose, she tried inhaling through her mouth, blowing the taste of the Thames away with each exhale, like a pipe smoker using cheap tobacco, but the stench caught the back of her throat. Her skin itched under the dusting of pearl powder meant to mask her freckles. Her eyes smarted from the revolting mixture prescribed by Mama to tint her naturally auburn lashes and brows fashionably black. Though her maid Molly swore otherwise, she was convinced it consisted almost entirely of coal dust.

How much longer dare she procrastinate?

Five minutes wasn’t nearly enough.

She needed five hours.

Five weeks.

Or better still, five more years.

And even then?