Margaret laughed, a genuine sound that carried on the breeze. "You make it sound like an adventure."
"Should life not be an adventure, even for a duchess?"
Alexander stepped out onto the path then, his presence a deliberate intrusion. "Wrexham, you are recovering well, I see."
The two men assessed each other with the microexpressions of rivals. Wrexham's smile did not waver. "Ashford, I was just complimenting your duchess on her horsemanship. You are a lucky man."
"I am aware," Alexander said, and his tone made it a blade.
That night he invited Margaret to the stables after dark. Lanterns had been lit and the horses stirred softly in their stalls. He led her to a gray mare with a dished face and a coat like spun silver.
"Her name is Opal. She is 5 years old and she has never been ridden. I purchased her two years ago for her beauty, but she will not accept a saddle. No one can touch her."
Margaret stepped into the stall without fear. The mare laid back her ears, but Margaret did not retreat. She breathed the slow, rhythmic breath she had used with Gimlet and extended her hand not toward the head, but toward the withers, a place of safety. The mare shuddered, then relaxed muscle by muscle.
"She has been mishandled," Margaret said softly. "Someone broke her trust."
Alexander stood at the stall door watching his wife's hands move in the lantern glow. "Can you repair it?"
"Trust cannot be repaired. It must be rebuilt piece by piece with patience and truth."
She looked at him over the gray's back and the question in her eyes was not about the mare.
He swallowed. "Margaret, I want—"
What he wanted was cut off by the appearance of his mother's butler, a man whose face was a mask of apology.
"Your Grace, a matter has arisen. A scandal sheet, The Town Tatler, has published a most unfortunate item. The dowager insists you attend her at once."
The paper was already open on the library table when they arrived. The paragraph, circled in red ink by a furious hand, read: "How fortunate for the Duke of A that his new Duchess came with such a well-stocked stable. One hears the marriage contract was signed in horse dung and the bride was merely a grooming fee. Let us hope she breeds as well as her father's mares."
Margaret went pale, but said nothing. Alexander crumpled the paper. "This is vile. I will find the author and have him called out."
"You will do no such thing," the dowager hissed. "You will ignore it as we ignore all gossip. The damage is done, however. The question now is whether the Duchess can carry herself through the Remington ball tomorrow without confirming every suspicion that she is a farmer's daughter with no grace."
Margaret spoke at last, her voice remote. "You need not worry, ma'am. I am capable of dancing."
"Dancing is the least of it." The dowager swept out, leaving the paper on the floor.
Alone with her husband, Margaret picked up the crumpled sheet. "Is it true, Alexander? Was I nothing but a fee?"
"No," he said, but the hesitation between the question and the answer was a crack through which a whole marriage might fall. She saw it. He knew she saw it. And the knowledge lay between them, cold and immovable, like a stone set in a riverbed.
Part Five
The Remington ballroom was a confection of candlelight and hothouse flowers, designed to make every woman feel beautiful and every man feel gallant. Margaret entered on her husband's arm in a gown of deep green silk that turned her hair to fire and her eyes to moss.
The room did not fall silent. That would have been too theatrical. But a perceptible shift passed through the crowd, a collective intake of breath laced with expectation.
She had spent the afternoon not in frantic preparation, but in quiet study. She had asked the housekeeper for a list of the families attending, memorized their connections and interests, and practiced small talk before her mirror as she had once practiced sitting a bucking colt. It was the same principle. Anticipate the movement, stay centered, never let them see you struggle.
Lord Rexham was among the first to greet her. "You outshine the chandeliers, Duchess, but then you already knew that."
"You are a flatterer, my lord."
"I am a connoisseur of fine things." His hand lingered a moment on hers.