But she kept right on wailing, and Marguerite watched her mother’s complexion turn as red as Rose’s. In a moment she’d be crying too.
“Mama, perhaps you should take Rose upstairs to compose herself in private while I order more tea for Her Grace,” Marguerite said, taking control of the situation.
She led her sister to the door, and her mother followed, trying to curtsy and walk and apologize at the same time. “Please excuse us for just a moment, Your Grace, we’ll be back within—” Flora glanced at the absent clock and her eyes filled with tears.
“Papa’s watch is still upstairs, Mama,” Marguerite reminded her, and Flora nodded and left the room.
Marguerite shut the door and took her mother’s place on the settee, ignoring the naked speculation in the duchess’s eyes. “More tea, Your Grace?” she asked calmly as something crashed in the hallway. Hopefully it wasn’t anything valuable.
“Perhaps I should take my leave if the young lady isn’t interested,” the duchess said.
Marguerite forced a placid smile, as if tantrums and tea with duchesses happened every day at Wycliffe Park. “They will only be a moment. Do try the tarts,” she said, offering the plate. Their housekeeper, Amy, had baked them that morning from the last of the winter apples.
The duchess ignored them. “And which one are you, assuming you are one of the girls Lady Rose mentioned?”
Hector snapped to attention. “May I present Lady Marguerite Lynton, Your Grace?”
“The second sister then,” the duchess said flatly, as if she was of no further interest. Marguerite felt hot blood creeping up her face. It was true that she looked nothing like Rose or her lovely mother and pretty younger sisters. They were four perfect blond beauties, while Marguerite resembled her late father, russet-haired and plain, the only weed in Wycliffe’s garden of flowers. At least she had been given brains to make up for her lack of looks. She kept her chin high.
“And what of the third sister?” the duchess asked Hector, obviously dismissing Marguerite as anyone’s bride.
“Lily is only ten, Your Grace, and still in the nursery,” he replied.
“Then perhaps I have indeed wasted my time coming today.” She rose to her feet.
Panic propelled Marguerite up as well. “Wait! Rose simply needs a moment to compose herself. She is so delighted by your—er, your grandson’s—proposal, she is overcome.”
The oak panels of the door did little to muffle Rose’s distant screams of protest. “Is your sister always this demonstrative?” the duchess asked, taking her seat and examining Marguerite again.
“Quite the opposite, Your Grace. Rose is known for her sweet and gentle nature.”
The duchess snorted a laugh. “God help her then. My grandson will eat her alive!”
“An offer of marriage from the Duke of Temberlay would surprise any girl,” Marguerite bristled. “It was even more unexpected here, being as we are only recently out of mourning for my father.”
“Not to mention penniless,” the duchess added. She raised her hand for silence as Marguerite opened her mouth to protest. “I do not expect a dowry. I chose Lady Rose because of your father’s reputation. Nicholas must marry a woman of sterling character—chaste, demure, and titled. I understand the earl strictly educated his daughters to be clever, yet not too clever, and impeccably moral. He believed young ladies should be carefully bred to be perfect wives for peers of the realm, and to improve the moral and intellectual fiber of future generations, did he not?”
“That was Papa’s philosophy,” Marguerite murmured.