Arran would never leave her like this, without a word, without a proper explanation. But that was precisely what she’d done to him. She despised the girl she’d been then. Shame nudged in beside her worry to make her feel even more ill—she would be devastated if she never had the opportunity to make amends. She pulled the letter he’d written her from her pocket and read it again. “The beginning of my world and the end of it...”

She asked herself for the thousandth time, why Fonteneau?

The next morning, Margot tried to eat a bit of toast. She could scarcely make herself chew it; her stomach was roiling with anxiety, but she needed to keep her strength. She would be of no use to Arran if she fainted with hunger.

Stephen found her in the dining room. He was smiling. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I was indeed able to deliver your letter.”

Margot gasped. “What did he say?” she asked eagerly.

Stephen blinked. “Was I to bring a reply?”

Margot sighed. “No, Stephen. Thank you,” she said, and patted his shoulder as if she were his grandmother.

By early afternoon, Margot was in such a state of despair she began to fear she was losing her mind. It was as if she was walking through a nightmare from which she could not wake. She’d managed to get a few bites down and had resumed her pacing. Then she saw through the window horsemen approaching Norwood Park.

Her father.

Margot raced to the foyer, arriving at the same moment her father entered, bellowing for Quint.

With a cry of relief, Margot ran to him, hugging him tightly. “You’ve had me sick with worry, Pappa. Why did you go to Fonteneau?” she asked, and looked around him, to the door. “Where is Mackenzie?”

“He has remained at Fonteneau,” her father said. “Move aside, Margot. I can’t give Quint my gloves with you standing there,” he said, and shunted her aside.

“Why did Arran stay at Fonteneau?” she asked, panic filling her. “There was no note, no explanation—”

“Margot, please. I’m quite exhausted,” her father said dismissively. “I need to sit and think before you begin to bombard me with questions. We’ll speak later.” He brushed past her, striding in the direction of his study with Quint on his heels.

Margot was so stunned she was rooted to the marble tiles of the foyer, capable only of gaping after her father. So stunned that she scarcely noticed Bryce until he walked past her with a passing glance, following her father.

This cannot be happening. They had left with her husband and had returned without him, and now treated her as if she were a piece of furniture to be stepped around. A rising tide of anger began to push aside Margot’s astonishment. Fury began to beat down her exhaustion and fear and anxiety.