The next two days passed in a strange sort of limbo.
Edward recovered enough to join them for meals, though his hands remained bandaged and using utensils clearly pained him. Margaret found herself watching when she thought no one would notice, tracking the small grimaces he tried to hide, the way he favored his left hand over his right.
He caught her looking once during dinner. Their eyes met across the table, and something passed between them that made her flush and look away. Her mother noticed, naturally, and smiled into her wine glass.
But despite his pretty words in his chambers, Edward kept his distance. He was polite, even warm, but he didn't seek her out. Didn't contrive moments alone. Didn't push.
Margaret told herself she was grateful. She'd asked for time, and he was giving it to her.
She told herself she wasn't disappointed each morning when he took his breakfast early, before she came down. Wasn't hurt when he spent his afternoons in the study with her father, going over estate business she wasn't invited to join.
She told herself many things. None of them were true.
By Friday evening, her parents' last night at Blackwood Manor, Margaret was wound tight as a watch spring. She dressed for dinner with particular care, choosing a gown of deep burgundy silk that had always made her feel powerful. She needed armor tonight.
Edward appeared in the drawing room before dinner wearing formal evening clothes, his cravat tied perfectly despite his bandaged hands. He must have let his valet help him after all. The thought shouldn't have stung.
"Margaret." He bowed slightly. "You look lovely."
"Thank you." The words came out stiff, formal. Three days ago they'd stood in his chambers speaking of wanting and discovering and starting over. Now they might as well have been strangers at a society function.
Her father was in high spirits over dinner, pleased with the week's observations, clearly satisfied that his investment had been well-placed. Her mother watched Margaret and Edward with the focused attention of a bird of prey, seeing everything Margaret tried to hide.
"We'll be sorry to leave tomorrow," Eleanor said. "It's been wonderful seeing you both. Seeing you together."
"You're welcome anytime," Edward replied smoothly. "Blackwood Manor is always open to you."
Such pretty, empty words. Margaret wanted to scream.
After dinner, her father suggested cards again, but Eleanor claimed fatigue and suggested retiring early. William, reading his wife's signal with the ease of long marriage, agreed readily enough.
"You two young people should enjoy the evening," Eleanor said, kissing Margaret's cheek. "It's your last night of company for a while. Make the most of it."
And then, quite deliberately, her parents left them alone in the drawing room.
The silence stretched. Margaret moved to the window, staring out at the darkened grounds. Behind her, she heard Edward pour himself a drink.
"Your parents are about as subtle as a cavalry charge," he said.
"They mean well."
"Do they? Or are they meddling?"
Margaret turned to face him. "Is there a difference?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Probably not." He took a drink, then set the glass down with deliberate care. "Margaret, I need to tell you something."
Her stomach dropped. Here it was. The retreat. The admission that he'd been caught up in the moment, that upon reflection he'd realized their marriage was beyond repair.
"I'm going to London next week," he said.
Of course he was. Back to his clubs, his friends, his life away from here. Away from her.
"I see."
"Do you?" He crossed toward her, stopping a careful distance away. "Because I don't think you do. I'm going to London to close up the townhouse. To inform my solicitor that I won't be keeping rooms there anymore. To settle accounts and bring back the belongings I left scattered around town."
Margaret's breath caught. "Why would you do that?"
"Because my life is here now. Fully, completely here. Not divided between here and there, not one foot in and one foot out." His eyes held hers. "Because I meant what I said about choosing differently. And that starts with committing to this place. To this marriage."
"Edward—"
"Let me finish. Please." He took a breath. "I've been keeping my distance these past few days. Not because I wanted to. Because I thought that's what you needed. You said you needed time, and I was trying to respect that. But watching you across rooms, sitting at opposite ends of tables, making polite conversation like we're barely more than acquaintances—" He stopped, shook his head. "It's torture, Margaret. Pure torture."
"Then why do it?"
"Because you asked me to."
"I asked you not to rush. I didn't ask you to disappear."
"Didn't you?" His voice was quiet, intense. "You said you were afraid I'd change my mind. That I'd wake up and regret this. I was trying to prove I meant what I said by not pushing, by letting you come to me in your own time. But all I've done is make you think I've lost interest."
"Have you?"
"Lost interest?" He laughed, a sharp sound. "Margaret, I can't be in the same room as you without wanting to touch you. Without wanting to know what you're thinking, what's making you frown at your breakfast, why you sigh when you think no one's listening. I lie awake at night remembering how you looked in the kitchen, all fierce and worried, tending my wounds. I've memorized the exact shade of your eyes when you're angry versus when you're trying not to smile." He ran his good hand through his hair. "Lost interest. Christ."
Margaret's heart was hammering so hard she felt dizzy. "You never came to find me. Not once since that morning."
"Because every time I thought about it, I remembered your face when you said you needed time. The fear in your eyes. And I thought the cruelest thing I could do would be to crowd you, to push before you were ready." He took a step closer. "Was I wrong?"
"I don't know." The admission cost her. "I don't know what I want, Edward. Part of me wants you to push. To not give me time to think, to build walls, to talk myself out of this. And part of me is terrified that if we rush into something, it will burn out as quickly as it started."
"Then tell me what to do. Because I'm lost here, Margaret. I'm trying to court you and give you space simultaneously, and it's impossible. So tell me what you want."
What did she want? She wanted him to close the distance between them. She wanted to feel his hands on her skin. She wanted to stop being afraid and just let herself feel.
But she also wanted guarantees. Promises. Proof that this wasn't just the aftermath of fear and smoke inhalation.
"I want you to go to London," she said finally.
His face fell. "Margaret—"
"Let me finish. I want you to go to London and do what you said. Close up the townhouse. Settle your affairs. And while you're gone, I want you to be certain. Absolutely certain that this is what you want. Because if you come back here and change your mind after I've let myself hope—" Her voice cracked slightly. "I won't survive that, Edward. I'll break, and I won't be able to put myself back together."
He was close enough now that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough that she could smell smoke still clinging to his clothes despite multiple washings.
"And if I'm certain?" he asked quietly. "If I go to London and spend every moment wanting to be back here? If I close up that house and return and tell you with absolute conviction that you're what I want, that this is what I want? What then, Margaret?"
"Then we try. Really try. Not pretending, not performing. We try to build something real."
"And if we fail?"
"Then at least we'll know. At least we won't spend the rest of our lives wondering."
Edward lifted his bandaged hand, hesitated, then gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was achingly tender despite the awkwardness of his wrapped fingers.
"I'll go to London," he said. "I'll be gone a week. Maybe less if I can manage it. And when I come back, Margaret, I'm going to court you properly. I'm going to discover everything about you, and I'm going to make you believe that this is real."
"You sound very certain."
"I am certain. I've been certain since you walked into that kitchen looking like an avenging angel, ready to tear apart anyone who'd let me get hurt." His thumb brushed her cheek. "But you need to be certain too. So I'll give you this week. Use it wisely."
He stepped back, and Margaret felt the loss of his proximity like cold water.
"I should let you rest," she said, though what she wanted was to close the distance again, to feel the warmth of him.
"I'll walk you to your chambers."
They climbed the stairs in silence, hyperaware of every accidental brush of sleeves, every shared breath. At her door, Edward paused.
"Your parents leave tomorrow morning," he said. "I'll stay to see them off, then depart for London shortly after. We'll have to say goodbye in front of them."
"Then say it now."
He blinked. "What?"
"Say goodbye now. When it's just us." She met his eyes. "Let me have one honest goodbye before we have to perform again."
Edward's expression softened. He reached out with his good hand and touched her face, his palm warm against her cheek.
"Goodbye, Margaret. I'll miss you."
"Will you?"
"Every moment." He leaned in, and for a heartbeat she thought he might kiss her. Instead, his lips brushed her forehead, feather-light and devastating. "Use this week well. Figure out what you want. And know that whatever you decide, I'll respect it. But God, I hope you decide to take a chance on us."
He pulled back and walked to his own chambers without looking back.
Margaret stood outside her door long after he'd gone, her hand pressed to where his lips had touched her forehead, feeling the ghost of that almost-kiss like a brand.
A week. She had a week to decide whether to protect herself or risk everything.
A week to choose between safety and the terrifying possibility of something real.
She already knew which one she wanted.
The question was whether she was brave enough to reach for it.