Monday arrived with the inexorability of an execution.
Margaret had been awake since dawn, supervising the final preparations. The house gleamed. The gardens had been trimmed within an inch of their lives. Cook had prepared enough food to feed half the county. Everything was perfect, and everything was a lie.
She'd dressed in her finest day dress—deep blue silk that brought out her eyes, her hair arranged in the latest fashion. Armor, she thought. All of it armor.
Edward appeared at half past ten, impeccably dressed, his cravat tied with precision. He looked every inch the aristocratic lord of the manor. Only Margaret could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
"Ready?" she asked.
"As I'll ever be." He offered his arm with exaggerated gallantry. "Shall we greet your parents, my dear?"
They stood in the entrance hall as the carriage rolled up the drive, a united front that felt as fragile as spun sugar. When the footman opened the carriage door and William Thornton descended, Margaret felt her breath catch.
Her father had aged since the wedding. His hair was grayer, his face more lined. But his eyes were as sharp as ever, taking in the house, the grounds, his daughter, and his son-in-law with the assessing gaze of a man who knew the value of everything.
"Papa." Margaret moved forward, and Edward moved with her, his hand settling at the small of her back as they'd practiced. The touch sent an unexpected shiver up her spine.
"Margaret, my girl." Her father embraced her, then turned to Edward. "Lord Blackwood. The place is looking well. Very well indeed."
"Thank you, sir. We've been working hard to maintain the estate." Edward's voice was warm and confident. No hint of the resentment Margaret knew simmered beneath the surface.
Her mother emerged from the carriage in a flutter of traveling cloaks and exclamations. Eleanor Thornton had always been a woman of excessive emotion, and marriage to a merchant had done nothing to dim her social aspirations.
"Oh, my darling!" She swept Margaret into a perfumed embrace. "Let me look at you. Oh, you look wonderful. Doesn't she look wonderful, William? Marriage suits her. And Lord Blackwood, how handsome you are. Margaret, you must be so happy!"
"Incredibly happy, Mama." The lie slipped out with practiced ease.
They moved inside, and Margaret felt Edward's hand at her back, guiding her, a gesture so natural that for a moment she almost forgot it was performance. In the drawing room, tea was served with mathematical precision. Her father examined the improvements to the room with approval. Her mother exclaimed over every detail.
"You've done well here," William said to Edward, nodding toward the new plasterwork on the ceiling. "A man who tends to his property tends to his family. I'm pleased to see our Margaret in such capable hands."
"I assure you, sir, Margaret's welfare is my primary concern." Edward's hand found hers on the sofa, their fingers intertwining with shocking naturalness. Margaret's pulse jumped. "She's been instrumental in managing the household. I couldn't have done any of this without her."
The praise startled her. His thumb brushed across her knuckles—was that part of the act, or something else?
"That's my girl," William said proudly. "Always had a head for management, even as a child. Remember when she reorganized the entire household accounts at age twelve, Eleanor?"
"She nearly gave Cook an apoplexy," her mother laughed. "But everything ran so much more smoothly afterward."
The afternoon passed in a blur of polite conversation and careful choreography. Edward played his part flawlessly—the attentive husband, the capable lord, the man grateful for his good fortune. He kept close to Margaret, found reasons to touch her shoulder, her hand, the small of her back. Each touch was appropriate, brief, and somehow burned through her clothing like a brand.
At dinner, he pulled out her chair. During the meal, he referenced her opinions, deferred to her judgment on household matters, smiled at her with what might have been warmth. It was a masterful performance.
The problem was, Margaret couldn't tell anymore where the performance ended and something real began.
After dinner, when her parents had retired to their rooms, Margaret found herself alone with Edward in the corridor outside her chambers.
"That went well," she said quietly.
"Your father seemed pleased."
"You were very convincing."
"So were you." He hesitated, not quite meeting her eyes. "The touching... I hope I didn't overstep."
"No. It was... appropriate." She couldn't bring herself to admit how much she'd noticed each touch, how her skin still seemed to remember the warmth of his hand. "You played the part well."
"Played," he repeated, something odd in his voice. "Yes. Of course."
They stood in the dimly lit corridor, close enough that Margaret could see the shadow of evening stubble on his jaw, smell his cologne mixed with wine and pipe smoke from after dinner with her father.
"Edward—"
"Margaret—"
They both stopped. An awkward laugh escaped her, surprising them both.
"You first," he said.
"I was just going to say... thank you. For today. I know this isn't easy for you."
"It's not as difficult as I expected." He paused. "You have very soft hands. I'd never noticed before."
The observation was so unexpected, so unlike their usual barbed exchanges, that Margaret found herself at a loss for words.
"I should let you retire," Edward said, stepping back. "Big day tomorrow. Your father wants to tour the grounds."
"Yes. The grounds."
He turned to go, then looked back. "Margaret? Earlier, when I said you'd been instrumental in managing the household... I meant it. You have been. Whatever else is true between us, that's genuine."
He left before she could respond, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Margaret entered her room and closed the door, leaning back against it. Her hands were trembling. She looked down at them. Soft hands, he'd said. She'd never thought much about her hands before.
Beatrice appeared to help her undress, but Margaret barely registered the process. Her mind was replaying the day, each moment of carefully orchestrated intimacy, trying to determine which touches had been performance and which had felt like something more.
She was being ridiculous. One day of pretending to be married, and she was reading meaning into every gesture. It was the proximity, the necessity of playing a role. Nothing more.
But as she lay in bed that night, staring at the canopy above her, she couldn't stop thinking about the weight of his hand on her back, the way his thumb had brushed her knuckles, the softness in his voice when he'd thanked her in the corridor.
Three more days of this performance. Three more days of pretending to be something they weren't.
Or perhaps—and this was the truly dangerous thought—three more days of discovering what they might have been, if pride and circumstance hadn't built walls between them from the start.
In his own chambers down the hall, Edward lay awake as well, thinking about soft hands and the way Margaret's hair had caught the candlelight at dinner, and wondering when exactly pretending had started to feel less like performance and more like possibility.