Lady Margaret Willingham tapped her quill on a drying pad. Blotting the tip, she stared at the ink stain that remained.

But, of course, if she’d had her druthers, she would be done with men entirely. Moneyed or not, she didn’t particularly enjoy being told what to do, when to do it, or how and why to do it. She saw enough “romance” between her father, mother and grandparents. Not a one of them had been particularly enamored of their partners, and men could be entirely despotic—her father being the worst offender.

Thinking about the course of action she’d set in motion, and wondering what the devil was taking her agent so long, she rapped the tip of the quill on the old desk, uncertain why she was writing this silly letter. That poor man rarely responded anyway. He didn’t know how to read. Dear George would often hold her letters until the parson came to visit, because the few times he’d replied, they’d been composed by his parson. It was simply that... even after all these years, she felt a stronger connection with that silly old gardener than she ever had to anyone else.

How sad was that? How utterly and despicably pitiful.

Frowning, she studied the room—her office now. It once was her father’s. All the somber colors—the deep-blue hues and dark golds—along with the heavy drapery had always given her a strange sense of ambivalence. On the one hand, they were familiar and comforting, on the other hand… they made her feel like marching across the room and ripping them down, if only to let in a bit of sunlight. At the moment, she had them open as far as they would go—not far at all—revealing the vivid green lawns and the sunlit rose beds, far less glorious now than they once were.

She sighed wistfully. Once upon a time she would have braved that thorny world, ripping her yellow taffeta gown on ravaging bushes, knowing good and well that once she was safely ensconced behind them, despite all the pricks and scrapes, she and Gabe would be safely hidden, and no one would ever come looking. They’d jabbered for hours and hours behind those prize roses, laughing behind their hands when his father came peeking through the garden searching for them—usually at the behest of her father. Of course, that never boded well.

She shook off her reverie, and set the pen down with a huff.

Devil take that man. Why should she now have to wed only to keep what was already hers? All of this was simply unbearable. How could her father have put her in such an untenable position? How could he have cared so little? Lord only knew, all Maggie had ever wished to do was please him—her mother, as well, though neither of them were ever particularly satisfied.

To put it mildly, her mother had been a delicate woman, striving so hard to win her father’s affection, and never quite succeeding in the endeavor. Her greatest sin had been to bear the man a daughter, and then cock up her toes before she could bear him his precious son. Her father never forgave her for it—Margaret either. Up until the day he’d breathed his last, he’d sorely lamented his lack of a male heir to carry on the family name. In fact, with his dying breath he’d wept for that nonexistent son, all the while Margaret had remained by his side, gently brushing the damp wisps of hair from his florid face. And regardless... not for one instant had she ever suspected he might turn against her so completely.

In truth, her father had never spoken an ill word to her, but he’d never been a doting father. He’d been a man who’d abhorred weakness of spirit and had determined that if he couldn’t have his male heir, he would, at least, force his only child to rise above such abhorrent female failings—and Margaret tried so hard to rise to his expectations. She’d studied her letters so diligently, exercised her numbers until her eyes crossed and her head ached. Under her father’s tutelage, she’d even managed the household accounts—and managed them quite well. Her reward had been a handful of pats upon the head, and an occasional, “Good show, Margaret.” And every precious ounce of her self-worth had depended upon those rare pats of approval.

On the day his will was read, she’d realized the utter folly of her pride. All his good shows had amounted to little more than flapdoodle, and in the end, he’d preferred to entrust his estates—all of them—to a brother he abhorred, or some unworthy stranger, rather than to a daughter who’d labored all her life to be all that he’d desired of her.

Very simply, if Margaret should fail to wed before midnight on her twenty-fifth birthday, every last farthing she owned would be surrendered to her uncle. Everything. Not only the inheritable estates—which had already been forfeit—but everything.

But that wasn’t the worst of it; it was the fact that one way or the other, she would lose her freedom as well. So, then, her choice, it seemed, was to lose some of it now to a husband she no more wanted than she wanted chin hairs, or later, to an uncle who would take nearly as much joy in caging her as her own father had. Given such a straight comer, there was no choice to be made... none at all. At the stroke of midnight precisely two weeks hence, for better or worse, Margaret would, indeed, be wed—but under her own conditions.

And yet... She worried her lip as she reconsidered, for she was far from finding a suitable candidate. She shouldn’t have put off the search so long. She had done so, knowing there were plenty of greedy souls out there, but time was growing short, and it simply didn’t seem fair that if a man chose to, he could live his life as he saw fit, answering to no one but himself, while a woman had few respectable options.

Her brow furrowing, she lifted up the quill, once again setting it to paper, not daring to consider the true reason she was writing. And nevertheless determined, she finished drafting the letter to their old gardener, hoping that in detailing her abominable situation to her sweet old friend, some answers might be brought to light.

Delicately tapping out a period at the end of her sentence, Margaret reached up to dip the quill, and her gaze was caught by some movement out on the lawn.

Behind a distant oak she spied two figures embracing. Lovers. Modesty should have compelled her to turn away, but curiosity held her fast. It was difficult to say at such a great distance, but she thought it might be Robbie, the new stable boy, and perhaps Bethany, the cook’s daughter.

Bethany ducked beneath and away from Robbie’s embrace, hiding herself behind a tree. The two of them circled that tree as Margaret watched, two lovers at play and her heart squeezed a bit. She’d never been one to woolgather all that much, and she prided herself on her pragmatism, but at this very instant, she couldn’t help but feel a bit wistful over all that could have been and now would never be—a direct result of her circumstances, no doubt, for it had been a long, long time since she’d daydreamed of stolen kisses... or hiding behind rose bushes with mischievous little boys.

Glancing down at the pen in hand, she chastised herself for a fool. Such things were better not even considered at this late date. It was much too late for such girlish fancies, and she wouldn’t be marrying for love, anyhow. Silly chit, she chided herself—Did she know anyone who’d ever married for love? Certainly not her mother or father.

No, no, no… such musings were best left for giggling young girls—something she was no longer.

Alas, but once...

Her memories drifted to an age when she might have leapt from her bed every single morning, eager to be away and discover all the mysteries the day should hold... eager to share every jewel of discovery with a sweet boy with whom she’d fancied herself in love. Gabe. Gabe Smith. The gardener’s son—a black-haired child with an adorably wicked face and eyes that twinkled with life and mirth.

What a silly little twit she’d been. Waving the memory away, she peered down at her meticulous script. Dare she even ask after Gabe now? Even considering such a thing, something like butterfly wings fluttered in her breast. But it wouldn’t be the first time, and such inquiries had never served her. Every time she’d ever asked about Gabe, George’s response was always a simple, “He is well, thank you.” And Gabe himself never sent regards.

Margaret sighed, her gaze returning to the window, to the sprawling lawns beyond the leaded glass. The faint, but distant ring of laughter reached her ears... laughter that brought a sting to her eyes.

So much for promises.

Blinking away the threat of tears, Margaret forced her gaze away from the window, blaming the glare for her watery eyes, and, then, shaking herself free of such pointless reverie, she penned a brief closing to her letter, signed her name, and then sprinkled a bit of sand to set the ink, then set the letter aside. There was simply no time to waste with such frivolity, when she still needed to pen the letter to her agent.

She trusted Mr. Goodman well enough to manage the inquiries and initial interviews. He was already aware of what she expected of a suitor; she needed only to draw out a list of her requirements—first and foremost, he needed to be a commoner. If her father had ever imagined for one instant that Margaret would marry some distinguished bore, he’d been sorely mistaken. After all her years of dealing with pompous men of every age—popinjays who wanted nothing more from her than quick, sweet smiles and dutiful silence, Margaret intended to marry whomever she damned well pleased. Call it revenge, if you like, call it defiance, but there it was. Her father’s will hadn’t specified who she must wed, only that she must, and she fully intended to have the final say in this matter.

Never again would any man manipulate her life. Not if Margaret could help it. She only hoped her father would turn in his grave over what she was about to do, and the thought of that made her giggle beneath her breath.

Resolved, she opened a drawer and drew out another sheet of paper. Arranging it before her on the desk, precisely so, she dipped the quill into the inkwell, and began a very precise letter of instruction to her agent, after which began to list her requirements…

• He mustn’t be too attractive—only marginally so.

She didn’t wish to be tempted, or distracted.

• He mustn’t have gambling addictions.
• He mustn’t expect to share her private quarters.
• He mustn’t expect children.
• He mustn’t expect more than £4,000 per year.
• He could, indeed, have a mistress after a proper period, if he simply must, but only if he could be discreet.

In the end, her list was quite extensive, but fair, with more than one hundred and fifty “concerns.”

Yes, that was a much better word than “requirements.” The last thing she ever wished to do was to trap a man in misery. But, then again, the last thing Margaret ever meant to do was fall in love. Love was the invention of innocents—not a reality of the world.