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I—”
    â€œI do not care,” Margaret cut her off as she began measuring the green shoots in the row of pots against a stick, and then writing down her observations. “This is the third time I’m asking you to leave. On the fourth I’m calling for a footman.”
    Oh, that’s how it was to be, was it? There was no room for apology, no graciousness. And nothing even resembling ladylike manners. Well, Leticia had just had cold water thrown on her—it seemed that there was nothing to be done but throw some back.
    â€œI’ll leave you,” she said, as she moved toward the door. Margaret did not give so much as a grunt as she passed. “But you should care—because my name is Lady Churzy, and I’m to be your stepmother.”
    She did not pause to see if there was any reaction. She simply opened the door and swept out, knowing full well that she had been heard. “I’ll see you at supper.”

4
    S upper that evening went about as well as could be expected.
    Which was to say, not well at all.
    In fact, as she went to bed that evening (her room still somewhat musty, having only had a few hours to air out), Leticia was kept fitfully awake by the realization that as difficult as it had been to find Sir Barty and get him to propose marriage, the hard work had really just begun.
    After she marched away from the greenhouse, she went immediately to the drawing room, surprising Mrs. Dillon, who was shaking the cover off of a pianoforte in the corner.
    â€œOh, my lady! You gave me a start!” she said when the terrace doors shut. “Had we known to expect you, we should have had the piano tuned! Although I do not know if you play . . .”
    Had we known. Those three little words caused a tiny stab of guilt to blossom in Leticia’s stomach. That dreaded female guilt, taking on the weight of a man’s transgressions. No matter how often Leticia tried to kill it dead, it rose from the grave, making her want to say, “I’m sorry,” at every turn.
    It made her feel small.
    It made her feel like an interloper.
    Leticia squashed those feelings down and pulled herself up by an invisible string attached to the top of her head. There. She was no longer small. She pushed her shoulders down and elongated her neck in one fluid movement, settling a calm smile across her features. She was grace and beauty incarnate once again.
    â€œI play, but only adequately,” Leticia replied. “Pray, do not make a fuss if I’m the only female who can read music.” Then, deciding against making bland conversation, she said, “I’ve just come from the west gardens.”
    Mrs. Dillon froze. “The west gardens, my lady?”
    â€œIndeed. And the greenhouse.”
    â€œYou went in the greenhouse, then?” She closed her eyes against the light.
    â€œI did. And I met Margaret.”
    Mrs. Dillon sighed. “I imagine that she was quite surprised by you, my lady.”
    â€œI imagine she was,” Leticia said, lowering herself to a rose-colored settee. “However, I did not stay very long to find out. To be honest, I was quite surprised by her. I was expecting a little girl.”
    â€œI am so sorry, my lady—”
    â€œIt is not your fault, Mrs. Dillon,” Leticia said. It was Sir Barty’s fault. “Tell me, how old is Miss Margaret?”
    â€œShe’s nineteen,” Mrs. Dillon said. Then with a sigh, she seated herself in a straight-backed chair. “And she is sweet once you get to know her, I promise, my lady.”
    The dirt-covered termagant who twice called her an idiot could be sweet? Leticia did her damnedest to cover her snort of disbelief.
    But . . . she was here now. And Margaret was someone with whom she was going to have a relationship for the rest of her life, presumably. Best to give the girl the benefit of the doubt.
    â€œI’m sure you are right,” she said, smiling