Margaret didn't go down to dinner.
She sent word through Beatrice that her headache had worsened, knowing full well that everyone would understand the real reason for her absence. Let them think what they would. She couldn't sit through another meal of performance and pretense, not with Edward's words still echoing in her mind, not with her mother's knowing looks and her father's disappointed sighs.
Not when everything she thought she understood about her marriage had just shifted beneath her feet like sand.
Beatrice brought a tray, which Margaret picked at without tasting. The food might as well have been sawdust. Through the floor, she could hear the muffled sounds of conversation from the dining room below. Her father's booming laugh. Her mother's lighter tones. And underneath it all, Edward's voice, steady and controlled, playing his part even without his leading lady.
She wondered what they were saying about her. About Lady Ashford's visit. About the crack that had finally appeared in their carefully constructed facade.
Near nine o'clock, another knock came at her door.
"I'm not receiving visitors," Margaret called out.
"It's your mother, darling. Not a visitor."
Margaret sighed and rose to unlock the door. Eleanor entered with the determined expression of a woman on a mission.
"Before you say anything," Margaret began, but her mother held up a hand.
"I'm not here to lecture. I'm here because I owe you an apology." Eleanor settled herself in the chair Edward had occupied earlier. The cushion was probably still warm from his presence. "Your father and I pushed you into this marriage. Oh, we told ourselves it was what you wanted, that you understood the arrangement, that you were mature enough to handle it. But the truth is, we wanted it. We wanted to see our daughter as Lady Blackwood more than we wanted to see you happy."
"Mama—"
"Let me finish." Eleanor's voice was firm but gentle. "We were so proud when Edward proposed. Your father especially. He saw it as proof that he'd finally achieved something that money alone couldn't buy. Acceptance into old society. A title in the family. He didn't stop to think about whether you and Edward were suited for each other in any way beyond the transactional."
Margaret sank onto the edge of her bed. "You had a love match. You and Papa. You wanted the same for me."
"We wanted the appearance of what we have without understanding that it took years to build." Her mother's eyes were sad. "We were farmers' children who married for practical reasons and grew to love each other. But we had something from the start that you and Edward didn't have."
"What?"
"Kindness toward each other. Respect. We were allies before we were lovers." Eleanor reached out and took Margaret's hand. "What you and Edward have is different. You started as adversaries. That's a much harder foundation to build on."
Margaret thought about the sarcasm, the cutting remarks, the years of carefully maintained distance. "We've said terrible things to each other."
"I imagine you have. But I also imagine there's more beneath those terrible things than either of you wants to admit." Her mother squeezed her hand. "I watched him at dinner tonight, darling. Your father was asking him questions about crop rotations, and he was answering, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept glancing at the door. At the empty chair where you should have been sitting."
"He feels guilty about Lady Ashford. That's all."
"Is it?" Eleanor's gaze was penetrating. "Because guilt looks like shame and discomfort. What I saw looked more like worry. Like a man who realized he'd hurt someone and didn't know how to fix it."
Margaret pulled her hand away, standing and moving to the window. Outside, darkness had fallen completely. The grounds of Blackwood Manor stretched into shadow, beautiful and isolated.
"I don't know what to do," she admitted quietly. "For three years, I've known exactly where we stood. I hated him. He hated me. It was simple. Painful, but simple. And now he's saying these things, and I don't know if it's real or if it's just the performance bleeding into reality. What if we try, Mama? What if we actually try, and it fails? At least now I have my anger to protect me. If I let that go and it doesn't work—"
"Then you'll be hurt. Deeply hurt. But Margaret, my darling girl, you're already hurting."
The truth of it hit Margaret in the chest. She was hurting. Had been hurting for three years, pretending that contempt was easier than vulnerability, that walls were safer than bridges.
"What if he changes his mind?" The question came out barely above a whisper. "What if this is just a moment of weakness, and next week he goes back to London and back to his life there? What if I let myself hope, and he destroys that hope?"
"Then you survive it. The same way you've survived everything else." Eleanor came to stand beside her daughter at the window. "But what if you don't try, and you spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been? Which risk is worth taking, do you think?"
Before Margaret could answer, there was a commotion from somewhere below. Raised voices, sharp and urgent. Both women turned toward the door.
A moment later, rapid footsteps in the corridor, and then Beatrice burst in without knocking.
"My lady, I'm sorry, but it's Lord Blackwood. There's been an accident."
Margaret's heart stopped. "What kind of accident?"
"One of the tenant cottages caught fire. He went with some of the men to help put it out, and part of the roof collapsed. They've brought him back, but he's hurt. Cook is seeing to him in the kitchen, and we've sent for the doctor, but—"
Margaret was already moving, pushing past Beatrice and running down the corridor. Her mother called after her, but she didn't stop. Down the main stairs, through the servants' passage, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The kitchen was chaos. Servants rushing back and forth with water and bandages, the acrid smell of smoke heavy in the air. And there, seated on a chair near the fire, was Edward.
His shirt was torn and blackened with soot. Blood ran from a cut above his eyebrow, mixing with the dirt on his face. His hands were wrapped in makeshift bandages, already seeping red. But he was conscious, arguing with Cook about whether he needed the doctor.
"It's just a scratch, Mrs. Morrison. Other men were hurt far worse—"
He stopped when he saw Margaret.
She must have looked wild, her hair coming loose from its pins, still in her dressing gown with only a shawl thrown over it. She didn't care. She crossed to him in three steps and then stopped, her hands hovering uselessly, not knowing where to touch him that wouldn't cause pain.
"You're hurt," she said stupidly.
"I'm fine. The Hendersons' cottage, there were children inside. We had to—" He winced as Cook pressed a cloth to the cut on his forehead.
"Sit still, my lord," Cook said firmly. "I don't care if you're the king himself, you'll let me tend these wounds."
Margaret's father appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene. "Good God, man. What possessed you to run into a burning building?"
"The children were upstairs. Someone had to get them out." Edward spoke as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides, I know the layout of those cottages better than most. I designed the renovations."
He'd designed the renovations. Of course he had. Margaret thought about him studying those reports until midnight, learning the names of tenant families, caring about drainage systems and crop rotations. She'd thought it was all about impressing her father and securing continued funding.
But he'd run into a burning building to save tenant children.
Her throat tightened dangerously.
"The children?" she managed to ask.
"Safe. Frightened but safe. Young Michael Henderson has some burns on his hands, but the doctor will see to him. Their mother is with them now." Edward tried to stand, swayed slightly, and Cook pushed him firmly back down.
"You're not going anywhere until the doctor sees you, my lord. You've breathed in too much smoke, and those hands need proper tending."
Edward looked at Margaret, and something in his expression made her chest ache. He looked exhausted and pained and somehow vulnerable in a way she'd never seen him before.
"I'm sorry about dinner," he said. "I know this ruins the week for your parents."
"Hang dinner," Margaret said fiercely. "Hang the whole bloody week. You could have been killed."
His eyebrows rose at her language. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. It was a real smile, not the practiced one he wore for society, and it transformed his face.
"Would that have bothered you?" The question was gentle, almost teasing.
"Of course it would have bothered me. You're my husband." The words came out more vehement than she intended. "I don't want you dead."
"Well, that's progress, I suppose. Last week you looked as though you might poison my breakfast."
"That was last week."
The kitchen had gone quiet around them. Cook, the servants, even her father stood watching this exchange with varying expressions of surprise. Margaret realized they were providing an audience for a moment that should have been private.
"Everyone out," she said with sudden authority. "Cook, you too. I'll tend to Lord Blackwood until the doctor arrives."
"But my lady—"
"Out. Now."
They filed out, albeit reluctantly. Her father paused in the doorway, looking between them with an expression Margaret couldn't quite read. Then he nodded once and left, closing the door behind him.
Alone in the kitchen, Margaret pulled up a stool and sat facing Edward. She took the cloth from Cook's abandoned supplies and gently dabbed at the cut on his forehead. He flinched but didn't pull away.
"You're an idiot," she said quietly.
"So I've been told."
"Running into a burning building. What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that I couldn't stand by while children were in danger." His eyes met hers. "I was thinking that some things are more important than safety."
The words hung between them, layered with meaning.
Margaret's hand trembled as she cleaned the wound. "You scared me."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just don't do it again." She set down the cloth and carefully began unwrapping the bandages on his hands. The burns weren't as bad as she'd feared, but they were still angry and red, blistering in places. "These will hurt for days."
"I've had worse."
"When?"
"When I was twelve, I tried to rescue a dog from a frozen pond. Nearly drowned. Spent three weeks with pneumonia." He watched her tend his hands with surprising gentleness. "My father was furious. Said I'd risked the heir for a common animal. But I'd do it again. Some things are worth the risk."
Margaret understood what he was really saying. She looked up and found him watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"Edward—"
"I meant what I said earlier. In your room. About choosing differently." His voice was rough, whether from smoke or emotion she couldn't tell. "I know I've given you no reason to trust me. I know I've been cruel and distant and everything a husband shouldn't be. But tonight, when that roof came down and I thought perhaps I wouldn't walk out of there, all I could think about was you. About the fact that I'd wasted three years pushing you away when I could have been—" He stopped, seemed to struggle for words. "When I could have been learning who you really are."
"And who am I?" Margaret whispered.
"That's what I want to find out. If you'll let me."
The kitchen door burst open, and the doctor bustled in with his bag, followed by half the household staff. The moment shattered, but Margaret felt its echoes vibrating through her.
She stood and stepped back, letting the doctor take her place. But Edward's eyes followed her as she moved away, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
Her father drew her aside while the doctor worked. "That was quite a scene."
"He's hurt, Papa. I was tending his wounds."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it." William's expression was thoughtful. "I've been wrong about many things, Margaret. About this marriage most of all. I thought I was giving you security and position. I didn't realize I was asking you to build something from ashes."
"Maybe all the best things are built from ashes," Margaret said, surprising herself.
Her father smiled and kissed her forehead. "Maybe they are, my girl. Maybe they are."
Later, after the doctor had bandaged Edward's hands properly and prescribed rest, after the household had finally settled down for the night, Margaret stood outside Edward's chambers. She'd helped him up the stairs despite his protests, aware of every place their bodies touched, every careful breath he took.
At his door, they paused.
"Thank you," he said. "For before. In the kitchen."
"I didn't do anything."
"You stayed. That's something." He reached out with his bandaged hand, then seemed to think better of it. "Margaret, about what I said—"
"Don't take it back," she said quickly. "Whatever you were going to say, if it's taking it back, don't."
He looked at her for a long moment. "I wasn't going to take it back. I was going to say that I understand if you need time. To trust this. To trust me. I've spent three years earning your distrust. I can't expect to undo that in a few days."
"What if I don't want to wait?" The words escaped before she could stop them.
His breath caught. "What?"
"What if I'm tired of waiting? Tired of walls and distance and pretending I don't care whether you live or die?" She met his eyes. "When Beatrice said you were hurt, I couldn't breathe. And I realized that somewhere in the past few days, things have changed. Or maybe they were always changing, so slowly that I didn't notice until now."
"Margaret—"
"I'm not saying I forgive everything. I'm not saying I trust this completely. But I'm saying that I want to try." Her voice shook slightly. "I want to choose differently too.
Edward's good hand came up to cup her cheek, his touch feather-light despite the pain it must have cost him. "This is real? You're not saying this because I'm injured, because you feel sorry for me?"
"I'm saying this because when you walked into that burning building tonight, you weren't thinking about duty or obligation or what anyone expected of you. You did it because you cared. Because underneath all the bitterness and resentment, there's a man who runs into fires to save children. And I want to know that man." She leaned into his touch. "I want to know if that man can learn to care about me too."
"He already does," Edward breathed. "He's been trying not to, but he already does."
For a moment, Margaret thought he might kiss her. He leaned closer, his eyes dropping to her lips, and her heart hammered so hard she was certain he could hear it. But then he pulled back slightly, wincing.
"I smell like smoke," he said ruefully. "And I'm fairly certain I'm about to collapse from exhaustion. This is possibly the worst moment for what I'm thinking about doing."
Despite everything, Margaret laughed. "What are you thinking about doing?"
"Kissing my wife. Properly. For the first time since our wedding night disaster." His thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "But I want to do it right. When I'm not half-dead from smoke inhalation and you're not worried I'm about to fall over."
"Practical," Margaret said, though disappointment curled through her.
"Tomorrow," Edward promised. "Tomorrow when my hands don't feel like they're on fire and your parents aren't likely to interrupt. Tomorrow we'll start this properly."
"Tomorrow," Margaret agreed.
She helped him into his room, made sure he could manage to undress himself despite his bandaged hands, and then reluctantly went to her own chambers. But as she lay in bed that night, she couldn't stop replaying the evening.
Edward's smile in the kitchen. His careful words in the corridor. The weight of his hand on her cheek.