me instead.”
“And live happily ever after?” she asked him.
He had the grace to flush again.
“Sometimes,” he said, “we need time in which to gain wisdom and make up for past mistakes.”
“I do hope,” she said, “you are not calling your late wife a mistake, Crispin. Or your daughter. And perhaps Lord Sheringford ought to be granted the same opportunity to demonstrate that he is wiser now than he was five years ago and is willing and able to recover from past mistakes.”
He sighed audibly and then made her another bow.
“Your family will all have something to say about this betrothal, I promise you,” he said. “Listen to them, Meg. Don't go against them just out of stubbornness. You always were the most stubborn person I knew, I remember. If you will not listen to me, then listen to them.
Promise me?”
She merely raised her eyebrows and stared at him, and he was obliged to bid her an abrupt good morning and stride past her to let himself out of the room.
Margaret stood where she was, listening to his boot heels ringing on the marble floor of the hall and to the sounds of the outer door opening for him and then closing behind him.
He had asked her to marry him.
The last time he asked she had wanted quite literally to die because she had loved him so very dearly but had been unable to accept his proposal, because he was going away to war and she had to stay home to bring up her brother and sisters.
And now?
Could a love of that magnitude die? If it was true love, could it ever die? Was there such a thing as true love? Life was very sad if there were not—and unbearably so if one's experience with romantic love turned one into an incurable cynic.
She did not love Crispin any longer. She did not want to love him again. Things could never be the same between them. Was love conditional, then? Was she determined not to love him because he had been faithless once and caused her years of heartache?
Whoever could possibly deserve love if it was conditional upon perfect behavior?
Did he love her ? He had said he adored her. But did he also love her?
Had he ever ? But if he had, how could he have married someone else?
Had he loved his wife—Teresa?
Oh, she was horribly upset again. She had thought Crispin could never again have this power over her.
Margaret sighed and shook her head and turned determinedly to the door. She would go and make that call on Vanessa. She would see the children and restore her spirits. Never mind that silly gossip last evening or the even sillier paragraph in this morning's paper. And never mind Crispin Dew. Or the Earl of Sheringford, who had to marry within the next two weeks or lose everything until after his grandfather died. Why should she care about that? And never mind the Marquess of Allingham and his pretty Miss Milfort.
Life could be unutterably depressing at times, but it went on. There was no point in giving in to depression.
There was a tap on the door and it opened before she could reach it.
“There is a Mrs. Pennethorne to see you, Miss Huxtable,” the butler informed her. “Will you receive her?”
Mrs. Pennethorne? Margaret frowned, trying to think who the lady could be. The name sounded familiar. But why would she be calling in the morning when most social calls were made in the afternoon?
Mrs. Pennethorne . Her eyes widened slightly. Had not the Earl of Sheringford introduced himself as Duncan Pennethorne? Who was this lady? His mother ?
Was this whole foolish business never to end?
“Show her in, by all means,” she said.
Mrs. Pennethorne was probably younger than she was, Margaret decided as soon as the lady stepped into the room. She was fashionably clad in a pale green carriage dress with a poke bonnet to match, and she was small and slender and blond and exquisitely lovely in a fragile sort of way.
Not his mother, then, Margaret thought. His sister? But she was Mrs
. Pennethorne.
“Miss Huxtable?”
“And live happily ever after?” she asked him.
He had the grace to flush again.
“Sometimes,” he said, “we need time in which to gain wisdom and make up for past mistakes.”
“I do hope,” she said, “you are not calling your late wife a mistake, Crispin. Or your daughter. And perhaps Lord Sheringford ought to be granted the same opportunity to demonstrate that he is wiser now than he was five years ago and is willing and able to recover from past mistakes.”
He sighed audibly and then made her another bow.
“Your family will all have something to say about this betrothal, I promise you,” he said. “Listen to them, Meg. Don't go against them just out of stubbornness. You always were the most stubborn person I knew, I remember. If you will not listen to me, then listen to them.
Promise me?”
She merely raised her eyebrows and stared at him, and he was obliged to bid her an abrupt good morning and stride past her to let himself out of the room.
Margaret stood where she was, listening to his boot heels ringing on the marble floor of the hall and to the sounds of the outer door opening for him and then closing behind him.
He had asked her to marry him.
The last time he asked she had wanted quite literally to die because she had loved him so very dearly but had been unable to accept his proposal, because he was going away to war and she had to stay home to bring up her brother and sisters.
And now?
Could a love of that magnitude die? If it was true love, could it ever die? Was there such a thing as true love? Life was very sad if there were not—and unbearably so if one's experience with romantic love turned one into an incurable cynic.
She did not love Crispin any longer. She did not want to love him again. Things could never be the same between them. Was love conditional, then? Was she determined not to love him because he had been faithless once and caused her years of heartache?
Whoever could possibly deserve love if it was conditional upon perfect behavior?
Did he love her ? He had said he adored her. But did he also love her?
Had he ever ? But if he had, how could he have married someone else?
Had he loved his wife—Teresa?
Oh, she was horribly upset again. She had thought Crispin could never again have this power over her.
Margaret sighed and shook her head and turned determinedly to the door. She would go and make that call on Vanessa. She would see the children and restore her spirits. Never mind that silly gossip last evening or the even sillier paragraph in this morning's paper. And never mind Crispin Dew. Or the Earl of Sheringford, who had to marry within the next two weeks or lose everything until after his grandfather died. Why should she care about that? And never mind the Marquess of Allingham and his pretty Miss Milfort.
Life could be unutterably depressing at times, but it went on. There was no point in giving in to depression.
There was a tap on the door and it opened before she could reach it.
“There is a Mrs. Pennethorne to see you, Miss Huxtable,” the butler informed her. “Will you receive her?”
Mrs. Pennethorne? Margaret frowned, trying to think who the lady could be. The name sounded familiar. But why would she be calling in the morning when most social calls were made in the afternoon?
Mrs. Pennethorne . Her eyes widened slightly. Had not the Earl of Sheringford introduced himself as Duncan Pennethorne? Who was this lady? His mother ?
Was this whole foolish business never to end?
“Show her in, by all means,” she said.
Mrs. Pennethorne was probably younger than she was, Margaret decided as soon as the lady stepped into the room. She was fashionably clad in a pale green carriage dress with a poke bonnet to match, and she was small and slender and blond and exquisitely lovely in a fragile sort of way.
Not his mother, then, Margaret thought. His sister? But she was Mrs
. Pennethorne.
“Miss Huxtable?”
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