Their desire for her—and hers for them, no matter how shallow—only added to the unease in her. Margot could see years stretching out before her with a lot of flirting and not much else, because she was married. She had opportunity to be touched, of course—men pursued her for that very reason. But Margot had taken a vow before God to remain faithful. She couldn’t dishonor her word so completely and irrevocably. She was clinging to the last shreds of her dignity and her moral compass as it was. She began to feel quite numbed by her predicament, as if she was merely going through each day, waiting for something.

Margot sighed and used both hands to push her hair from her face. Her heart was pounding with the memories of last night. Was it possible that she and her husband, both of them older and wiser now, could actually resume their broken marriage? Was it possible that the rumors about him were true? Could this man, this fiercely independent, hardworking man, honestly plot against the queen—her queen? No, Margot couldn’t believe it, no matter what her father said.

But then again, what did she know of Arran Mackenzie, really? Especially not now, especially after so much time. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know much of anything anymore.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t bear to think what might happen to him if he were truly committing treason. Part of her wanted to warn him. Another part of her wanted to catch him in the act. Part of her wanted to rewind the clock, to go back to that night of Lynetta’s birthday ball, so that she could refuse to meet him at all. Unfortunately, it was far too late for that. She was quite mired in this marriage.

Everything about this so-called reunion had happened so quickly, Margot still wasn’t certain how it had come to pass. It had begun when her oldest brother, Bryce, had accosted her one evening when she’d arrived home after dining with friends at the home of Sir Ian Andrews. It had been a lively evening—Lynetta was newly engaged to Mr. Fitzgerald, and Margot had passed the time by shamelessly teasing poor Mr. Partridge, who was smitten with her.

She’d come home feeling jocular and a bit tipsy. Bryce was waiting. He was dressed in riding clothes and was not wearing a wig. He looked as if he’d only just arrived home. His jaw was set implacably, his demeanor grim. “Where have you been?”

“Dining at the home of Sir Andrews. Why?”

“Father needs to speak with you,” he said, and clasped her elbow and escorted her into the library.