A week passed in a haze of domestic bliss that would have nauseated Margaret's previous self.
They took breakfast together every morning, Edward reading his correspondence while Margaret reviewed household accounts. They walked the estate in the afternoons, Edward pointing out improvements and future plans, Margaret offering suggestions he actually listened to. They spent evenings in the library, reading aloud to each other or simply existing in comfortable silence.
And the nights. The nights were an education in pleasure and intimacy that left Margaret breathless and wondering how she'd survived three years without this.
But perfection, as they both knew, couldn't last forever.
The trouble started with a letter.
Margaret was arranging flowers in the morning room when Edward appeared, his expression carefully neutral. She'd learned to read that neutrality as a warning sign.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, precisely. My brother has written. He's coming to visit."
Margaret's hands stilled among the roses. "I didn't know you had a brother."
"Half-brother. Thomas. My father's son from his first marriage." Edward's jaw was tight. "We're not close."
"But he's coming here?"
"Apparently. He's between commissions, whatever that means, and has decided to inflict himself upon us for a fortnight." Edward crumpled the letter. "I apologize in advance for whatever unpleasantness he brings."
"Edward, he's your brother. Surely it can't be that bad."
The look he gave her was complicated. "You don't know Thomas."
Three days later, Thomas Blackwood arrived in a flurry of charm and chaos.
He was younger than Edward by several years, fair where Edward was dark, with an easy smile and careless elegance that Margaret immediately distrusted. He swept into Blackwood Manor like he owned it, embracing Edward with exaggerated warmth.
"Brother! God, it's been an age. And this must be the famous Margaret." He took her hand, pressed an overly familiar kiss to it. "Edward, you undersold her beauty entirely. I'm devastated you got to her first."
"Thomas." Edward's voice held warning.
"What? I'm simply appreciating your exquisite taste." Thomas winked at Margaret. "Which is surprising, given your usual tendency toward the severe and humorless."
"Thomas served in the army until recently," Edward said tightly. "He's been abroad for several years."
"Abroad and desperately bored, I assure you. The colonies are tedious beyond measure. I'm delighted to be home in civilization." Thomas sprawled into a chair without invitation. "So tell me everything. How is married life treating you both? You seem remarkably... cozy."
Something in his tone set Margaret's teeth on edge. Too knowing. Too amused.
"We're well," she said carefully.
"Are you? How delightful. I confess, I was shocked when I heard Edward had married. And for money, no less. Our proud, principled Edward, selling himself to a merchant's daughter." Thomas's smile never wavered. "No offense intended, of course."
"None taken." Margaret's voice was ice. "I'm quite aware of the terms of our marriage."
"Oh, I like her. She's got spine." Thomas turned to Edward. "Does she know about Caroline? About your sordid London life? Or have you presented yourself as the reformed rake?"
Edward's expression could have frozen fire. "That's enough."
"Is it? I'm simply making conversation. Getting to know my new sister." Thomas poured himself wine without asking. "Though I suppose if you've already told her everything, there's no harm in my mentioning it."
"There's nothing to mention," Edward said flatly. "My past is my past. Margaret and I have an understanding."
"An understanding. How modern." Thomas raised his glass in a mocking toast. "To understanding, then. And to marriages built on such solid foundations as money and convenience."
Margaret felt the careful peace of the past week cracking like ice over a thawing pond. This was deliberate. Thomas wanted to cause damage. But why?
"If you'll excuse me," she said, rising. "I have household matters to attend to."
She left before either man could respond, but she heard Thomas's laugh follow her down the corridor.
In their chambers, she paced, fury and something darker churning in her chest. Thomas's words had found their mark. Selling himself. Sordid London life. Money and convenience.
She knew these things. Had always known them. But hearing them spoken aloud, with such casual cruelty, made them real again. Made her question whether the past week had been genuine or simply another performance.
Edward found her an hour later, his expression stormy.
"I apologize for Thomas. He's always been poison."
"Is he wrong, though?" Margaret turned to face him. "About the money? About Caroline? About the foundations of our marriage?"
"He's not wrong about how things started. But he's wrong about what we've become." Edward crossed to her. "Margaret, don't let him do this. Don't let him poison what we're building."
"He's not poisoning anything. He's simply stating facts." She moved away when Edward tried to touch her. "We did marry for money and convenience. You did have a life in London with Caroline and whoever else. Those are truths."
"Truths about our past. Not our present."
"Are you certain? Because a week ago I was in London discovering that past. Seeing the townhouse where you lived your actual life. Meeting the version of you that existed before you decided to play devoted husband."
"I'm not playing." Edward's voice rose. "God damn it, Margaret, I thought we were past this. I thought you believed me."
"I did. I do." But her voice shook with uncertainty. "But Thomas is right about one thing. I don't really know you, Edward. I know one week of you. One perfect week where we pretended the past didn't exist. But your brother walking in here is a reminder that there's a whole history I'm not part of."
"You want to know my history? Fine. Thomas and I have hated each other since childhood. My father favored him because he was easier, more charming, less burdened by responsibility. When Father died and left everything to me, Thomas was furious. He's been waiting for me to fail ever since, so he can claim I never deserved the inheritance."
Margaret absorbed this. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I wanted to leave the past in the past. Start fresh with you." Edward ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. "But I see now that was naive. The past doesn't disappear just because we want it to."
"No. It doesn't."
They stood across the room from each other, the distance feeling vast again. One week of closeness, and they were already reverting to old patterns.
Suspicion. Distance. Protection.
"What do you want from me, Margaret? What proof do you need that this is real?"
"I don't know." The admission hurt. "I thought I knew. I thought the past week was enough. But then Thomas walks in and reminds me how fragile this all is. How easily it could shatter."
"So we let him win? Let him drive us apart with a few careless words?"
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You promised me you'd stay. That you'd fight through conflict instead of running. But the first test we face, and you're already building walls again."
The accusation stung because it was true. Margaret felt the old defenses rising, the familiar urge to retreat into cold formality.
"Perhaps I need walls," she said quietly. "Perhaps letting them down was a mistake."
Edward flinched as though she'd struck him. "Is that what you think? That this past week was a mistake?"
"I don't know what I think. I just know that right now, standing here with you angry and your brother downstairs smirking, I feel exactly as lost as I did three weeks ago."
"Then what do we do?"
"I don't know."
The silence stretched between them, heavy and painful.
"I need to go deal with Thomas," Edward said finally. "Make sure he's settled. Try to minimize whatever damage he intends to cause."
"Of course."
He moved toward the door, then paused. "Margaret, I meant what I said. All of it. The past week wasn't performance. But if you need space to process Thomas's arrival, to rebuild your certainty, I'll give it to you. Just..." He stopped, seemed to struggle. "Just don't shut me out completely."
After he left, Margaret sank onto the bed, pressing her heels of her hands against her eyes.
She was being unfair. She knew it. Thomas had deliberately provoked her, and she'd let him. Let old fears override new trust.
But knowing she was being irrational didn't make the fear any less real.
Through the window, she could see Edward crossing the grounds toward the stables, his posture rigid with tension. Even from this distance, she could read his frustration in the set of his shoulders.
She'd hurt him. After promising to stay, to fight through conflict, she'd immediately retreated at the first challenge.
Margaret stood and moved to the window, watching Edward disappear into the stables. She thought about the essays on connection, about choosing relationship over righteousness. About the promise they'd made to remain present through difficulty.
She'd broken that promise within minutes of facing their first real test.
The question was whether she was brave enough to admit it and try again.
Or whether three years of practiced self-protection were too ingrained to overcome, even for a man she was beginning to realize she might actually love.