Margaret woke to Edward already dressed, standing at the window with his morning coffee.
"You're up early," she observed.
"Couldn't sleep anymore. Too busy planning." He turned to face her. "We need to take control of Thomas's visit. Stop reacting and start directing."
"What do you have in mind?"
"We keep him occupied. Busy. Give him less opportunity to cause mischief." Edward crossed to the bed, sitting on the edge. "I'm taking him to inspect the tenant cottages today. Let him see what actual work looks like. Tonight, we're hosting dinner for the Hendersons and several other tenant families."
"That's unusual."
"Exactly. Thomas thrives on aristocratic pretension. Watching us dine with common folk will either bore him senseless or force him to be civil. Either way, he's less likely to cause trouble."
Margaret considered the strategy. "What about me? What's my role in this master plan?"
"Whatever you want. You could join us, though I suspect a day watching cottage inspections would be tedious. Or you could prepare for tonight. Make sure Cook understands we're treating our guests as equals, not charity cases."
"You've thought this through."
"I had hours to think while you were sleeping." Edward leaned down, kissed her forehead. "I meant what I said last night. United front. We control the narrative, not Thomas."
After Edward left with a reluctant Thomas in tow, Margaret found herself with unexpected free time. She spent the morning with Mrs. Dawson, planning the evening's dinner. The housekeeper was surprised by the guest list but adapted quickly.
"Very progressive, my lady. Lord Blackwood has always been kind to the tenants, but dining with them is quite modern."
"Modern times require modern approaches," Margaret said. "Besides, the Hendersons saved my marriage by revealing Lady Ashford's lies. I owe them more than a dinner, but it's a start."
Mrs. Dawson's expression softened. "If I may say so, my lady, you and Lord Blackwood seem much happier lately. The whole staff has noticed."
"Have they?"
"Oh yes. There's been something of a betting pool, actually. About how long it would last before you went back to separate chambers." The housekeeper flushed. "Not that we're gossiping about the family, of course."
"Of course not." Margaret suppressed a smile. "And what's the current wager?"
"Cook thinks you'll make it through Christmas. Young Thomas the footman is more optimistic. He's betting on a full year."
"Tell Thomas the footman I appreciate his faith."
After Mrs. Dawson left, Margaret wandered to the library. The book Edward had bought her still sat on the side table where she'd left it. She picked it up, settling into the chair by the window.
The chapter on maintaining connection during conflict seemed particularly relevant. She read:
The danger in any relationship comes not from conflict itself, but from the retreat that follows. Two people who argue and remain present are infinitely stronger than two people who agree on everything but withdraw at the first sign of discomfort. Intimacy requires the courage to stay engaged even when engagement is painful.
Margaret thought about the past two days. How quickly she'd retreated when Thomas arrived. How Edward had walked away rather than say things he'd regret. How they'd both failed the test of their first real conflict.
But they'd also come back together. Talked through it. Made promises to do better.
Perhaps that was the point. Not to avoid failing, but to keep choosing to try again after failure.
She was still reading when the men returned late in the afternoon. Through the window, she saw Edward and Thomas dismounting, both muddy and windblown. Thomas looked exhausted and irritated. Edward looked satisfied.
In their chambers while changing for dinner, Edward elaborated.
"I made him actually work. Helped carry lumber for the cottage repairs. Mucked out a stable when one of the hands took ill. He hated every moment."
"You're torturing your brother?"
"I'm showing him what running an estate actually entails. He's always thought I had it easy, living off your father's money. Let him see what that money funds. The work. The responsibility." Edward struggled with his cufflinks, his hands still clumsy from the day's labor. "Here, help me with these."
Margaret crossed to him, taking over with the cufflinks. This close, she could smell horse and sweat and honest work on him.
"You enjoyed making him uncomfortable," she observed.
"Immensely. Is that terrible?"
"Probably. I approve anyway." She finished with the cufflinks, then adjusted his cravat. "There. Presentable."
Edward caught her hand before she could step away. "Thank you. For last night. For choosing to stay."
"Thank you for coming back."
They stood close, hands joined, something unspoken passing between them. The moment felt significant, weighted with more than the words implied.
"We should go down," Edward said finally. "Our guests will be arriving soon."
Dinner was a revelation.
The Hendersons arrived nervous but clearly honored by the invitation. John Henderson had put on what was obviously his best suit, slightly too small. His wife Mary wore a dress that had been carefully mended. Young Michael's hands were still bandaged, but his eyes were bright with excitement.
The other tenant families were similarly awed. Margaret and Edward had deliberately kept the setting less formal than usual, using the smaller dining room, fewer courses. But to people who normally took their meals in simple cottages, it was still overwhelming.
Thomas looked appalled.
"We're dining with the help?" he muttered to Edward when he thought no one else could hear.
"We're dining with the people who make this estate run," Edward corrected. "Try to be civil."
But Thomas couldn't maintain civility for long. Halfway through the second course, after too much wine, he started needling.
"Tell me, Henderson, how does it feel knowing your betters are playing at charity? Must be quite the novelty, being invited to the manor house."
John Henderson set down his fork carefully. "Feels like an honor, sir. Lord and Lady Blackwood have always treated us fairly."
"Fairly. Yes, I suppose writing checks does feel fair when it's not your money." Thomas smiled unpleasantly. "Though I wonder if anyone's mentioned to our dear tenants that every improvement they enjoy comes from Lady Blackwood's dowry? That Edward couldn't have managed any of it without marrying a merchant's daughter?"
The table went silent.
Edward's expression turned glacial. "Thomas—"
"It's all right," Margaret interrupted. She met Thomas's eyes steadily. "He's not wrong. My father's money did fund the improvements. The new cottages, the equipment, the repairs. I'm not ashamed of that. My father built his fortune through hard work and intelligence. His money comes from creating something valuable, not simply inheriting it."
"Well said," Mary Henderson murmured.
"And yes, Edward married me for that money. Just as I married him for his title. Those are facts." Margaret reached for Edward's hand on the table, a public claiming. "But what we're building now has nothing to do with money or titles. We're learning to be partners. To respect each other. To choose each other every day, not because we have to, but because we want to."
She looked at Edward as she said it, saw surprise and something deeper in his eyes.
"These people—" she gestured to their guests "—understand that better than aristocrats ever will. They marry for practical reasons all the time. But they make it work through mutual respect and shared purpose. They don't need grand romance. They need partnership."
"How terribly bourgeois," Thomas sneered.
"Yes," Margaret agreed. "It is. And I've decided I prefer it to aristocratic pretension."
Edward's hand tightened around hers. "As do I."
Thomas looked between them, seeing the united front they presented. Whatever response he'd been hoping for, this wasn't it. He'd wanted to embarrass them, to expose the mercenary foundations of their marriage. Instead, they'd owned it. Transformed weakness into strength.
The rest of dinner passed in better spirits. The tenants, emboldened by Margaret's speech, began to relax. John Henderson told stories about growing up on the estate. Mary shared recipes with Cook, who'd joined them at Margaret's insistence. Young Michael asked Edward detailed questions about the fire, clearly viewing him as a hero.
Thomas drank steadily and said little, his schemes foiled by their refusal to be shamed.
After the guests left, full of thanks and goodwill, Margaret found Edward in the library.
"That was well done," he said. "What you said at dinner. About choosing each other."
"I meant it. Every word."
"Even the part about learning to be partners? Respecting each other?"
"Especially that part." Margaret moved closer. "I know I've been difficult the past few days. Letting Thomas get to me. Doubting when I should have trusted. But I am trying, Edward. To be better. To be brave enough for this."
"I know you are." He pulled her into his arms. "And for what it's worth, I think you're already braver than you give yourself credit for. Admitting our marriage started as a transaction in front of our tenants? Owning it without shame? That took courage."
"Or stupidity."
"Courage," he insisted. "Definitely courage."
They stood holding each other in the quiet library, the fire crackling softly.
"Eleven more days," Margaret said against his chest. "Can we survive eleven more days of Thomas?"
"We survived today. That's all that matters." Edward kissed the top of her head. "One day at a time, remember? We just have to keep choosing each other. The rest will follow."
Margaret hoped he was right.
Because Thomas's expression at dinner had been ugly. Frustrated. Vindictive.
And she suspected he wasn't done trying to destroy what they were building.
Not by a long shot.