Saturday brought an unexpected thaw in the frost between them, though it would be generous to call it warmth.
Margaret found Edward in the library, reviewing the estate ledgers. She'd had them prepared specifically for her father's inspection, every entry carefully noted, every expense justified. Edward's handwriting filled the margins with additional notes, and she was surprised to find them thorough and intelligent.
"You've been working," she observed from the doorway.
He didn't look up. "Your father will want to see where his money has gone. I may be many things, Margaret, but I'm not a complete fool. I can at least demonstrate competent stewardship."
She moved into the room, examining the papers over his shoulder. "You've reorganized the crop rotation schedule."
"The old system was inefficient. We were losing money on the north fields." Now he did look up, his expression challenging. "Or would you prefer I left things as they were, slowly bleeding your father's investment into the ground?"
"I prefer you show some initiative. It's... unexpected."
"How little you think of me."
"You've given me little reason to think otherwise."
Edward set down his pen with exaggerated patience. "I went to Eton and Cambridge, Margaret. I may have inherited debts instead of fortune, but I'm not the idle aristocrat you seem to believe I am. This estate has been in my family for two hundred years. I have no desire to be the one who loses it."
Margaret pulled out a chair and sat, studying him with new attention. "Then why do you spend your time in London, carousing with widows and gambling at your club?"
"Because being here means facing what I've become." His voice was flat, factual. "A kept man, living on his wife's money, performing husbandly duties for the benefit of her merchant father. At least in London, I can pretend I'm still my own master."
The honesty of it startled her. They so rarely spoke to each other without the armor of sarcasm.
"I don't enjoy this either," she said quietly. "Contrary to what you believe."
"Don't you?" He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You got what you wanted. A title. A manor house. Entry into society. Your name is in all the right registers now. Lady Blackwood, née Thornton. Your father's dream realized."
"My father's dream. Not mine." The words came out before she could stop them.
Edward's eyes narrowed. "What did you want, then?"
Margaret stood abruptly, moving to the window. Rain still streaked the glass, turning the grounds into an impressionist painting of gray and green. "It doesn't matter what I wanted. We are what we are."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." She turned back to face him. "We need to practice."
"Practice what?"
"Being married. Or at least, appearing to be." She squared her shoulders. "Stand up."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Stand up, Edward. We're going to rehearse."
He rose slowly, suspicion written across his features. Margaret crossed to him, stopping just close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. This close, she could smell his cologne, something expensive and woody that she'd never noticed before. Or perhaps she'd simply trained herself not to notice.
"Put your hand on my waist," she instructed.
"Margaret—"
"My parents will expect to see casual intimacy. This is casual intimacy. Put your hand on my waist."
His hand settled on her waist with the delicacy of someone handling a poisonous snake. Even through the layers of her dress and corset, she could feel the heat of it.
"Now what?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Now we stand here and have a conversation like two people who don't despise each other." She placed her own hand on his arm, feeling the muscle tense beneath her touch. "Pretend I've just said something mildly amusing."
"Everything you say is mildly amusing, darling. Usually unintentionally."
"Edward—"
"What? You said to pretend we don't despise each other. I'm doing my best, but three years of mutual loathing is rather difficult to simply switch off."
Margaret took a breath, steadying herself. "Try. Please."
Something in her tone must have reached him, because his expression softened fractionally. "Very well. You've just said something mildly amusing, and I'm responding with this sophisticated smile that suggests both appreciation and subtle condescension. Is this correct?"
Despite herself, Margaret felt her lips twitch. "That's... actually quite good."
"I've had practice. One doesn't survive in society without mastering the art of polite insincerity." His hand relaxed slightly on her waist. "Your turn. Look at me as though you find me tolerable."
"That's asking rather a lot."
"Ah, there's my lovely wife. All sweetness and light."
They stood there, hands on each other, close enough that Margaret could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, close enough that she could feel his breath stir her hair. It was the closest they'd been in months, possibly years. Their wedding night had been a disaster of awkwardness and regret, never repeated.
"This is absurd," she murmured.
"Completely. And yet here we are."
"Your hand is shaking."
"Is it?" He looked down at where his hand rested on her waist. "Perhaps I'm nervous."
"Of me?"
"Of this. Of pretending something that isn't real." His eyes met hers again. "Of what happens if we're too convincing."
The comment hung between them, weighted with implications neither wanted to examine. Margaret stepped back, and his hand fell away.
"That's enough for today," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "We'll try again tomorrow."
"Margaret." Something in his tone made her pause. "Did you ever think about what might have happened if we'd met differently? Without the money and the debts and the arrangement?"
She considered lying, considered brushing off the question with her usual sarcasm. Instead, she said, "Sometimes. Late at night, when I can't sleep. I wonder if we might have liked each other, in another life."
"I wonder the same thing."
They looked at each other across the library, two people trapped in a cage of their own making, and for a moment, something almost like understanding passed between them.
Then Margaret turned and left, and Edward returned to his ledgers, and Blackwood Manor settled back into its familiar rhythm of carefully maintained distance.
But something had changed, barely perceptible, like the first crack in winter ice.