In Which the Morning Brings Tea, Scandal, and a Well-Aimed Dagger of a Rumor

I returned to the house before breakfast, my decision made somewhere between the first pale streak of dawn and the sound of Mrs. Hathaway moving about in the servants' hall below.

I would stay.

Not because I'd conquered my fears—they remained as formidable as ever—but because running had begun to feel like a betrayal of something precious I wasn't quite ready to name.

No one said anything when I appeared in the breakfast room. Not Mrs. Hathaway, who served my tea with the same unflappable efficiency she applied to all domestic crises. Not the footmen, who went about their duties with studied normalcy. Not even the cook, who handed me fresh scones through the kitchen door without comment but with a suspiciously knowing glance that suggested the entire household had been holding its collective breath.

But they all knew.

Something had changed. Some invisible line had been crossed in the space between my midnight packing and my dawn unpacking.

Not the kiss—though that remained a dangerous warmth in my memory. Not even his unexpected defense against Ella's calculated cruelty, though that had cracked something open in my chest that I wasn't sure I could close again.

No. What had changed was simpler and more terrifying than either of those things.

I hadn't left.

And that meant, however reluctantly, however fearfully, I'd chosen something.

Which, apparently, was all the invitation gossip needed to pick up a sword and go to war.

By noon, three letters had arrived from neighboring households, delivered by riders whose haste suggested news of earth-shaking importance rather than idle speculation about my personal affairs. I found them neatly arranged on a silver tray in the morning room, their wax seals like bull's-eyes against the cream parchment.

The first was from Lady Tillingham, written in her characteristically breathless style, offering enthusiastic congratulations on what she termed the "forthcoming announcement." She mentioned, with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge, that her eldest niece was available for bridesmaid duties should they be required "in the coming months," and that she knew a wonderful dressmaker who specialized in "trousseau of the finest quality."

The second, from a minor baroness whose name I barely recognized but whose reputation for meddling was legendary, inquired with delicate precision whether Raventhorn would soon require renovation of the nursery wing. She included, helpfully, the name of a master carpenter who specialized in "the most fashionable cradles" and a recommendation for a wet nurse of "impeccable character and discretion."

The third letter bore the royal seal.

I stared at it for a long moment, noting the quality of the parchment, the precision of the hand that had addressed it, the way my name was written with just enough flourish to suggest condescension wrapped in courtesy.

The handwriting was elegant. The royal seal pristine. The message devastatingly brief.

My dearest Lady Ashbourne,

It seems your little restoration project has become quite the sensation. How delightful that your talents have proven so... comprehensive. Do be careful, though—devoted men are so rarely good at distinguishing genuine affection from mere gratitude for services rendered.

I do hope you won't find society's expectations too confining after such freedom to direct your own narrative.

Fondly yours, E.

I read it twice, each word a perfectly placed needle designed to find the softest spots in my confidence. The suggestion that Percival's feelings were merely gratitude. The implication that I'd manipulated the situation for my own advancement. The reminder that I was, fundamentally, an outsider playing a game whose rules I'd never quite learned.

Then, with the deliberate calm of a woman who'd finally had quite enough of royal manipulation, I lit it on fire using the nearby candle.

I watched as the expensive parchment curled and blackened, the elegant script dissolving into ash and smoke. The royal seal melted into an unrecognizable blob of blue wax that I flicked into the fireplace with the tip of my letter opener.

"I hope that wasn't important correspondence."

I turned to find Mrs. Hathaway in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral despite having just witnessed me commit casual arson with what was unmistakably royal stationery.

"Nothing of consequence," I replied, brushing ash from my fingers with the satisfaction of someone who'd finally learned the therapeutic value of decisive action. "Just a reminder of why I prefer buildings to people."

"Indeed." She approached with a fresh pot of tea, navigating around the lingering wisps of smoke with practiced ease. "Buildings rarely gossip."

"Or make assumptions based on insufficient evidence."

"Or write passive-aggressive letters designed to undermine one's confidence." She poured with practiced precision, the picture of a woman who'd seen all manner of domestic dramas and remained unflappable through each one. "Though they do sometimes collapse without warning, which people generally try to avoid."

I accepted the cup, eyeing her suspiciously. "You have opinions, Mrs. Hathaway."

"Never, my lady." The tiniest quirk of her lips betrayed her. "Merely observations based on years of managing households and the people in them."

"And what have you observed?"

She straightened a vase of fresh-cut flowers with unnecessary attention, the kind of displaced activity that suggested she was choosing her words carefully. "That his lordship spent most of yesterday morning watching the drive. That you returned from your walk before breakfast looking like someone who'd made an important decision. That neither of you has mentioned the Princess's unexpected appearance nor her equally unexpected departure."

"And?"

"And nothing, my lady." She stepped back, hands folded at her waist in the picture of domestic propriety. "Except that his lordship is in the library, and the morning papers have arrived from London. He appeared... displeased by their contents."

My stomach dropped with the particular dread of someone who'd forgotten that her private life might become public entertainment. "Society pages?"

"The very same." A beat of hesitation, then: "They're saying you've quite captured him, my lady. That the ball was merely a formality before an official announcement. Several accounts suggest the restoration was simply an elaborate courtship ritual."

"They're mistaken." The words came out more sharply than I'd intended, betraying exactly how much the speculation disturbed me.

"Are they?" Her eyes, shrewd and kind, held mine for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "The house has an opinion too, you know."

"Houses don't have opinions, Mrs. Hathaway."

"This one does." She moved toward the door, pausing in the threshold with the air of someone delivering a final verdict. "And it much prefers your touch to its previous neglect. We all do."

She left me with that peculiar pronouncement, the other letters' congratulations, and the unmistakable sense that I was losing control of a narrative I had never intended to write.

I found the papers in the library, spread across Percival's desk like casualties of war. Headlines screamed in bold ink: "EARL'S ENCHANTMENT: RAVENTHORN RESTORED BY WIDOW'S TOUCH" and "ROYAL BLESSING FOR UNEXPECTED MATCH?" The illustrations were even worse—romantic sketches of a mysterious lady in flowing gowns directing construction work while a besotted nobleman looked on in apparent rapture.

The articles themselves were a masterclass in creative journalism. Florid descriptions of the ball portrayed it as a carefully orchestrated announcement, with Ella cast as the magnanimous princess who'd graciously stepped aside for true love. Numerous "inside sources" claimed Percival and I had been inseparable throughout the evening, that we'd disappeared together for suspicious lengths of time, and that his defense of me against unnamed critics had been the behavior of a man desperately in love.

One particularly creative account suggested he had commissioned the writing pavilion as a wedding gift, that we had been secretly engaged for months, and that the entire restoration had been merely a clever ruse to keep me at Raventhorn while he convinced me to accept his suit.

Another claimed to have exclusive details about our "whirlwind romance," complete with quotes from anonymous servants describing passionate arguments over wallpaper samples and meaningful glances exchanged during architectural consultations.

I was halfway through this exercise in speculative fiction, my temper rising with each invented detail, when Percival found me. I'd moved to the rose garden, needing air and space to process the magnitude of what we were facing. The morning papers were clutched in one hand, and I'd armed myself with an extremely sharp pair of garden shears—whether for the roses or the gossip columnists remained to be determined.

He looked at me, taking in my obvious agitation, the scattered papers, and the weapon in my grip.

"Are we planning violence against the fourth estate?" he asked mildly, settling onto the bench beside the climbing roses with the careful movements of a man approaching a potentially explosive situation.

"Only metaphorically." I waved a paper at him with enough force to scatter its pages. "Have you seen these? They've turned us into characters in some ridiculous Gothic romance."

"I've seen them."

"And?"

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the distant line of trees beyond the formal gardens. "I don't care what they say."

"Well, I do," I said, more forcefully than I'd intended. The words carried months of careful reputation management, years of learning to navigate society's expectations as a widow with limited options.

Because it wasn't just idle gossip anymore. Not when it painted me as a scheming fortune-hunter who'd manipulated a lonely earl through architectural expertise and feminine wiles. Not when it suggested everything between us was calculated rather than the terrifying, genuine feeling that had crept up on me despite my best efforts at self-preservation.

It was pressure. A cage built of public expectation and malicious speculation. A story I didn't write but would be forced to live within.

He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face with the intensity he usually reserved for structural problems requiring immediate attention.

Then: "I can fix it."

My stomach dropped with the particular dread of someone about to hear a solution that solved nothing.

"Fix it how?"

He didn't answer immediately, just looked at me with something like apology in his eyes, as if he were about to suggest something he knew I wouldn't like but couldn't see any alternative to.

Oh no.

"You could marry me," he said.

The shears slipped from my fingers, narrowly missing my foot before embedding themselves in the gravel path with a decisive thunk that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Marry me." He said it simply, as if suggesting we try a different variety of rose for the south wall. "Make their speculation irrelevant."

I stared at him, certain I'd misheard, that the morning's revelations had somehow affected my ability to process normal conversation.

"That's your solution? Make the lie true?"

"Is it a lie?" His gaze was steady, unwavering, carrying the weight of something more serious than casual problem-solving. "That I want you here? That you belong at Raventhorn?"

"You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

I bent to retrieve the shears, needing the moment to compose myself, to process what he'd just suggested with the same casual confidence he might use to propose renovating the stables. When I straightened, my voice was controlled once more, though my pulse thundered in my ears.

"No."

His face remained carefully neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "No?"

"No, I will not marry you because of a society column. No, I will not be pressured into a decision because some London gossips have decided we make good copy. And no, I absolutely will not discuss this standing in a garden where half the staff can probably hear every word."

As if summoned by my declaration, we heard a rustling sound from behind the nearby hedge, followed by what sounded suspiciously like someone trying to muffle a sneeze.

Percival sighed, running a hand through his hair with the resignation of a man discovering his private life had become public entertainment. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere more—"

"I'm going to the greenhouse," I announced, tucking the shears into my gardening apron with perhaps more force than necessary. "To violently prune something. Alone."

"Margot—"

"No." I held up a hand, stopping whatever reasonable argument he was about to make. "I need to think. And you need to not propose marriage as if it's a practical solution to unwanted publicity."

I turned on my heel and left him standing among the roses, the morning papers scattered around his feet like evidence of a crime I hadn't meant to commit.

The greenhouse was mercifully empty, its glass panes fogged with condensation and the humid warmth of growing things. I moved among the rows of seedlings and potted specimens, breathing in the earthy scent of soil and new growth, trying to impose order on the chaos in my mind.

He'd proposed.

In a garden.

Because of gossip.

I picked up a pair of pruning shears from the potting bench, testing their weight in my hand. A climbing rose had escaped its carefully planned boundaries, its thorny branches reaching in all directions with the enthusiastic disorder of something that had forgotten its proper place. I began to cut, each snip precise and controlled, working out my frustration on the rebellious plant.

Just like my thoughts needed to be.

Marriage. To Percival. To an earl whose every gesture was scrutinized by society, whose choice of wife would be dissected in drawing rooms across England.

The idea was absurd. Impractical. A fairy tale even more implausible than Ella's transformation from kitchen drudge to princess.

And yet.

And yet when he'd said it—"You could marry me"—something inside me had responded with dangerous immediacy. A treacherous yes that had nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with the way he looked at me across a room. The way his hand felt in mine during our few stolen dances. The way his unexpected defense had made me feel protected rather than patronized.

I cut another errant branch, perhaps more aggressively than the rose strictly required.

"I'm told you're disemboweling my prize specimens."

I didn't turn at the sound of his voice, though my pulse jumped at his proximity.

"They needed discipline," I replied, snipping another wayward stem with perhaps unnecessary precision. "And proper boundaries."

"Unlike certain earls who propose marriage as solutions to public relations problems?"

"Precisely."

Silence fell between us, broken only by the rhythmic snip of the shears and the distant patter of rain against the greenhouse glass. I could feel him watching me, could sense the careful way he held himself just far enough away to avoid crowding me while remaining close enough for conversation.

"It wasn't how I planned to ask," he said finally, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been vulnerability if I'd been brave enough to look at his face.

"You planned to ask?" The question escaped before I could stop it, revealing exactly how much his casual proposal had shaken me.

"For weeks now."

I set down the shears with deliberate care, finally turning to face him fully. He stood near the door, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression more serious than I'd ever seen it.

"Why?"

"Because I love you." He said it simply, without flourish or dramatic gesture. As if stating an obvious fact that any reasonable person would have already recognized. "Because you rebuilt more than my house, Margot. You rebuilt me."

The confession hung in the humid air between us, too raw and honest to dismiss as mere gallantry or temporary infatuation.

"I don't need rescuing," I said, falling back on the defensive response that had served me well for years.

"I know." His smile was gentle, touched with something that looked dangerously like genuine affection. "That's part of why I love you. You rescue yourself. You rescue everyone else. You even rescued Raventhorn from becoming a monument to aristocratic neglect."

I turned back to the roses, unable to bear the naked emotion in his eyes, the way he said the word 'love' like it was something he'd discovered rather than something he'd decided. "This is ridiculous. We've known each other less than a year."

"I've known you my entire life," he countered quietly. "I just hadn't met you yet."

"That's the most absurdly romantic thing I've ever heard." Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch with the threat of a smile.

"I'm learning the art of romance. It's more challenging than architectural restoration."

"From whom? Some poet dying picturesquely of consumption?"

"From you, actually." He stepped closer, still giving me space but closing the distance between us with careful deliberation. "You've taught me more about courage than anyone I've ever known. About fighting for what matters. About staying when it would be easier to leave."

I set the shears down carefully, suddenly afraid of what my hands might do if left unoccupied. The reference to staying hit closer to home than I was comfortable acknowledging.

"Percival—"

"You don't have to answer now," he said quickly, reading the panic in my expression with uncomfortable accuracy. "Or ever, if you don't want to. But the offer stands. Not because of gossip or scandal or royal interference. Because I want to wake up every day and argue with you about wallpaper samples. Because I want to grow old watching you tell everyone they're wrong about everything from roses to roof tiles."

"That's a terrible basis for marriage."

"It's the most honest one I can think of."

He was close enough now that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the earthier smell of the gardens. Close enough to see the slight uncertainty beneath his composed exterior, the way he held himself like a man who'd offered everything and wasn't quite sure it would be accepted.

"The rumors will get worse if we marry," I said, grasping for practical objections. "They'll say I trapped you, that I used the restoration as an elaborate snare."

"Let them."

"Your reputation—"

"Is already decided, apparently." His smile turned rueful. "Besotted earl, completely under your spell, lost to all reason and propriety. They're not entirely wrong."

I looked away, focusing on the rain-streaked glass beyond his shoulder rather than the dangerous hope building in my chest. "I need time."

"Take it." He reached out slowly, deliberately, and took my hand with the careful reverence of someone handling something precious and fragile. "I'm not going anywhere. Neither is Raventhorn."

His palm was warm against mine, solid and reassuring in a way that made my carefully constructed defenses feel suddenly inadequate. I didn't pull away, though every instinct screamed that I should.

"I haven't said yes," I reminded him, though the words lacked conviction.

"You haven't said no either." The hope in his voice was almost unbearable, too honest and vulnerable for comfort.

"I'm saying 'not yet.'"

"That's not a rejection."

"It's not an acceptance either."

"It's a beginning." He lifted my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles with a reverence that made my heart stutter painfully in my chest. "And I'm remarkably patient for someone who just proposed marriage in a greenhouse."

I found myself smiling despite the chaos swirling around us—the gossip, the expectations, the uncertain future stretching before us like an unmapped country.

"Go away," I said, without heat. "I have roses to discipline and thoughts to organize."

He released my hand with obvious reluctance, though his smile was brighter than it had any right to be given my non-answer. "Dinner?"

"Perhaps."

"I'll take it." He backed toward the door, his expression somewhere between hopeful and triumphant. "And Margot?"

"Yes?"

"The next time I propose, I promise it won't be because of gossip columns. And there definitely won't be garden shears involved."

"See that there aren't," I replied, turning back to my roses to hide the treacherous warmth spreading across my cheeks.

He left, his footsteps fading among the potted plants and hanging vines, taking with him the certainty that nothing—absolutely nothing—would ever be the same again.

I stood alone among the roses and seedlings, staring at the neat rows of carefully tended plants, and realized I was trembling. Not from fear, though that was certainly present, but from something far more dangerous.

Possibility.

Because somewhere between his casual proposal and his patient retreat, I'd begun to imagine it. Not just marriage—that remained too large, too terrifying to contemplate directly—but the smaller things. Waking up in the same house. Arguing over breakfast about the day's priorities. Working side by side to bring Raventhorn fully back to life.

Having someone to defend me against royal condescension and society's speculation.

Having someone worth defending in return.

The thought should have sent me running for my traveling trunk again. Instead, as I resumed pruning with decidedly less violence than before, I found myself wondering what it might feel like to stop running altogether.

To choose something instead of merely enduring it.

To say yes to the most impractical thing of all: hope.

But first, I had a more immediate problem. Because as I worked among the roses, I became increasingly aware of movement beyond the greenhouse glass. Figures hurrying between buildings, the purposeful bustle that suggested news arriving by fast rider.

When Mrs. Hathaway appeared in the doorway, her expression grave, I knew whatever had just arrived would complicate our already tangled situation beyond anything mere marriage proposals could solve.

"My lady," she said, her voice carrying the particular tone she used for genuine crises. "There's been a development. Lord Raventhorn requests your immediate presence in his study."

"What sort of development?"

"The sort that arrives with royal messengers, my lady. And lawyers."

My stomach dropped as I set down the pruning shears with hands that had begun to shake again, but for entirely different reasons.

Whatever Ella had planned, it was apparently more sophisticated than poison-pen letters and strategic gossip.

And I had the sinking feeling that our problems had only just begun.

---

🩶 Some rumors are harmless. Others come with royal seals and legal consequences.

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