The /ton/ could not be seriously interested, surely, in the fact that a dull, aging spinster had lied to a man who had once spurned her love by telling him she was betrothed to a villainous, wife-stealing rake?

But, oh, dear, when put that way, the facts really did sound intriguing, even to her.

Creeping off back to bed would solve nothing, she decided. She would go out instead. She would call on Vanessa, and perhaps together they would go to Katherine's, and the three of them would share a good laugh over last evening and the silly story in the paper this morning.

It was a good thing they all had a good sense of humor.

But was any of this /funny/?

She would dearly like to have a word with Crispin Dew, Margaret thought.

More than a word. She would like to give him a good tongue-lashing about now. It was true that it was she who had told the lie, but why had he spread the story about when she had /told/ him no one else knew yet, even her family? Had it been done out of sheer spite? But /why/?

It was as if her wish conjured him. A footman came into the breakfast parlor at that moment to inform the butler, who informed Margaret, that a Major Dew had asked to see Miss Huxtable and had been shown into the visitors' parlor.

Margaret followed the butler there and swept past him after he had opened the door for her.

Crispin, in uniform, was standing before the empty fireplace, looking smart and imposing and decidedly uncomfortable – as well he might. He bowed to her. "Meg – " he began. "I want an explanation," she demanded, glaring at him. "Do you hate me so much, Crispin? But /why/ do you hate me? What have I ever done to deserve it?" "My God, Meg," he said, taking a step toward her and looking at her, aghast, "I do not hate you. I have always adored you. You must know that." Her head snapped back as if he had struck her. "/Adored/ me?" she said with scorn. "/Have/ you?" "You are thinking of Teresa," he said. "I can explain that, Meg." "So can I," she said. "An imbecile could explain it. But I am not interested in hearing your explanation. Why did you betray me last evening?" "Betray?" he said. "That is a harsh judgment, Meg. You /are/ betrothed to Sheringford, are you not? You told me so yourself – both in Hyde Park and at the ball." "And on /both/ occasions," she said, "I told you that no announcement had yet been made, that even my family had not been told. It did not occur to me to swear you to secrecy. I trusted to your discretion and your honor." He winced visibly. "I was concerned about you, Meg," he said. "I was talking with Vanessa and Moreland when you left the dance floor to sit in that alcove with Sheringford. Moreland explained who he was and wondered who had dared introduce him to you. You could not possibly know that he was not a suitable acquaintance, he said. That worried your sister, and she would have gone to you herself if Moreland had not advised against it. I went instead. I hoped to draw you away from him without creating any sort of scene – I thought perhaps you would welcome a chance to escape if you already knew about him or would be grateful once you learned the truth.

But instead you told me you were betrothed to him. What was I to do then?" "Obviously," she said, "there was only one thing /to/ do, and you did it. You told everyone in the ballroom." "I confided in two of my fellow officers," he admitted. "They are my friends and I trust them. I asked their opinion on whether a man who had known you all his life as a neighbor and friend had the right to interfere in your life to the extent of trying to persuade you to break your engagement." "You have /not/ known me all my life," she said. "You have not known me /at all/ for the last twelve years, Crispin." … /as a neighbor and friend/ … Those words had stung. Had there been nothing else between them as far as he was concerned? "Meg," he said, "Sheringford is a scoundrel of the first order. He ought not even to have been there last night. I doubt he had been sent an invitation. You cannot possibly be serious about marrying him. Break off the engagement and marry me instead." /"What/?" Her eyes widened. "No one will blame you," he said. "Indeed, everyone will applaud your good sense." "In choosing to marry /you/?" she said.

He flushed. "You would have married me once upon a time," he said. "If your father had lived, we probably /would/ have married long ago. Nothing much has changed since then except that we are both a little older. And except that you are lovelier now than you were then." He smiled. "And that you have been married in the meanwhile," she said. "And that you have a daughter." "Who needs a mother," he said softly. "Meg – " But she held up a hand and he stopped.

He was asking her to marry him. After all this time, after all that had happened, he expected her to /marry/ him? After the terrible embarrassment he had caused her last evening?

But she would not allow her attention to be diverted from the main issue. "It was one of the other officers who spread the news of my betrothal last evening, then?" she asked. "Is that what you are saying, Crispin?" "It was not intentional, and it was certainly not malicious," he said. "I was ready to rip him apart this morning after hearing all the gossip last evening and reading the papers this morning. But he was as concerned as I. He merely mentioned what I had told him to his cousin when he spoke with her after leaving me – in strictest confidence, of course. He had wanted her opinion." And so stories, rumors, gossip spread as surely as a wildfire did after a single spark had caught alight. The cousin had told someone else in confidence, and that someone else … Well. "I am so very, very sorry, Meg," he said. "I realize it must be distressing to you to have your betrothal made public before you had even had a chance to break the news to your family – and presumably before Sheringford could apply formally to Stephen for your hand. But there would have been gossip sooner or later, you know, if your brother and sisters had been unable to talk you out of such an ineligible connection. It was not to be avoided. Sheringford is a social pariah, and justifiably so. I really do not understand how you can have listened to an offer from him, let alone accepted one. Meg – " "Your apology has been made," she said, interrupting him. "I assume that was your reason for coming here this morning, Crispin. You will excuse me now. I was on my way to call upon Nessie when you arrived." "Meg," he said, taking another step toward her, "don't marry him. I beg you. You will be miserable. Marry 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?" The lady curtsied and regarded Margaret with slightly slanted eyes, which were as green as her dress.

Margaret inclined her head. "We have not met," the lady said, her voice sweet and breathless, "but I felt compelled to call upon you as soon as I heard. You /must/ not marry Lord Sheringford, Miss Huxtable. You /really/ must not. He is the very devil and will bring you nothing but misery and ostracism from society.

Do please forgive this impertinence from a complete stranger, but I had to take the risk of coming and warning you." Margaret rejected her first impulse, which was to offer the lady a seat.

She clasped her hands at her waist and raised her eyebrows. Yes, this /was/ an impertinence. "Mrs. Pennethorne?" she said. "You are a relative of the Earl of Sheringford?" "It pains me to have to admit it," the lady said, flushing, "though fortunately he is a relative only by marriage. He is my dear husband's second cousin." Margaret kept her eyebrows raised. She did not know what to say. "You may know /of/ me," Mrs. Pennethorne said. "My maiden name was Turner. I came within a few hours of making the most dreadful mistake of my life. I almost married the Earl of Sheringford myself five years ago.

Instead, I married my dear Mr. Pennethorne shortly after and have been blissfully happy with him ever since." Oh, goodness. This was the abandoned bride, the sister-in-law of the infamous Mrs. Turner, who had run off with the earl. "Yes," Margaret said, "I /have/ heard of you, of course. But – " But this was none of her business. She had no wish to listen to the whole sordid story – or any part of it, for that matter. "I do not have an acquaintance with you," Mrs. Pennethorne said. Clearly she had come to talk, not to listen. "But I /do/ know you by reputation.

You are very well respected as the eldest sister of the Earl of Merton and the Duchess of Moreland and Baroness Montford. I daresay it is irksome to you still to be unmarried when your younger sisters have made such brilliant matches, but believe me, Miss Huxtable, the answer does not lie in marrying Lord Sheringford. My brother was the happiest of men before Laura was seduced away by that /monster/. He would have taken her back and forgiven her at any time after she left. He would not divorce her, as everyone who knew him advised. He never lost hope that she would return home and beg his forgiveness – which he would freely have given. He was devastated by the news of her death. /That man/, Miss Huxtable, has ruined my brother's life for all time, and he would have ruined mine too if my dear Mr. Pennethorne had not been kind and honorable enough to marry me himself." Margaret gazed at her in pure astonishment. "I must thank you for your visit and your concern," she said. "Will you forgive me if I do not offer you refreshments? I am about to go out. My sister is expecting me." She had decided very recently, she remembered, that she would never tell a lie again. "Of course," the lady said. "I will not delay you. And I do beg you to forgive me, Miss Huxtable. It has been almost unbearably painful, you must understand, to know that /that man/ has had the effrontery to return to London. My brother suffers dreadfully from the knowledge, as do I. My dear Mr. Pennethorne is chagrined beyond words, since he must bear the shame of sharing a name with Lord Sheringford. It has been our fervent hope that we would neither see nor hear from him until we leave town at the end of the Season. We certainly had no wish to be embroiled in his business. But when I learned this morning that he had snared yet another innocent, respectable lady into his net, I found the knowledge /truly/ unbearable. I knew I had no choice but to come to warn you, to /beg/ you to break off the betrothal before it is too late. Promise me that you will, Miss Huxtable." "I appreciate your concern for my happiness," Margaret said, crossing the room with firm steps to open the door. "And I thank you for coming.