Margaret woke to find Edward already awake, staring at the ceiling with a peculiar expression.
"If you're contemplating murder, I should remind you that Thomas is your brother. Half-brother. Whatever. The constable probably frowns on fratricide regardless of blood percentage."
Edward turned his head, surprised into a laugh. "How did you know what I was thinking?"
"You have your murder face on. Very distinctive. All brooding intensity and clenched jaw." She propped herself up on one elbow. "Though I suppose after last night's dinner, homicide is understandable. What was it he said about bourgeois values? I stopped listening after the third insult."
"He called you a shopkeeper's daughter."
"I am a shopkeeper's daughter. Well, railway magnate's daughter. Close enough." Margaret traced idle patterns on Edward's chest. "He's not very good at this, is he? The insults only work if we're ashamed. We're not ashamed."
"No, we're not." Edward caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Though I suspect that will only make him more creative. Thomas doesn't handle failure well."
"Then he must be perpetually miserable. From what you've told me, he fails at most things."
"Margaret Blackwood, are you being catty?"
"Absolutely. I've decided if we're stuck with him for ten more days, I might as well enjoy myself." She kissed him lazily. "Besides, watching him sputter with indignation is surprisingly entertaining."
"You're terrible."
"You like it."
"I really do." Edward rolled her beneath him, his expression shifting from amused to intent. "In fact, I'm discovering I like quite a lot about you. Even the parts I found infuriating three weeks ago."
"Such as?"
"Your sharp tongue. The way you reorganize things without asking. How you manage to make even wearing a dressing gown look regal." His hand slid beneath said dressing gown. "This ability you have to distract me from thoughts of murdering my brother."
"I'm a humanitarian, truly." Margaret gasped as his fingers found sensitive skin. "Edward, we need to dress for breakfast. Thomas will—"
"Thomas can wait. I'm busy."
"Busy doing what, exactly?"
"Ensuring my wife starts the day in a good mood. Very important husbandly duty." He kissed his way down her throat. "I take my responsibilities very seriously."
"How noble of you."
"I'm a paragon of nobility."
Margaret laughed, then stopped laughing as Edward's mouth moved lower. "That's not—oh God—that's very much not noble."
"No? Should I stop?"
"Don't you dare."
By the time they made it downstairs, breakfast was cold and Thomas was looking insufferably smug.
"Good morning, brother. Sister. Sleep well?" His tone suggested he knew exactly what had delayed them. "You both look rather... flushed. The exertion of descending stairs, I assume."
"Something like that," Edward said mildly, helping himself to lukewarm eggs.
Margaret busied herself with toast, refusing to be embarrassed. She was married. What she and Edward did in their chambers was entirely their business.
"I've been thinking," Thomas said, which never boded well. "We should host a dinner party. Invite the local families. Let me meet the illustrious country society Edward's so proud of."
Edward's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I don't think that's necessary."
"Of course it is. I'm family. People will expect to meet me. Unless you're ashamed of your half-brother?" Thomas's smile was sharp. "Or perhaps you're worried I'll reveal inconvenient truths about your past?"
"What truths would those be?" Margaret asked sweetly. "That Edward married for money? We established that at dinner last night. That he spent time in London? Everyone knows that. That he had relationships before our marriage? I'd be more concerned if he hadn't."
Thomas's expression soured. "You're very confident for a woman whose husband kept a mistress for the first two years of your marriage."
The words landed like a slap. Margaret felt Edward tense beside her.
"Caroline Ashford was never my mistress," Edward said coldly. "We were friends. Nothing more."
"Is that what you're calling it? Because the servants at the London townhouse tell a different story. All those late nights. Her personal items left in your chambers. The way she'd answer the door in your dressing gown."
Margaret's stomach turned. She'd known about Caroline. But this level of detail, these intimate specifics, hit differently than vague awareness.
"Thomas," Edward's voice was dangerous. "Stop."
"Why? It's the truth. Or are we only embracing honesty when it's convenient?" Thomas turned to Margaret. "Did he tell you about the weekend they spent in Bath? Just the two of them, very cozy, very romantic. This was last year, mind you. While you were here at Blackwood Manor, faithfully managing his estate."
"I was never in Bath with Caroline," Edward said flatly. "You're lying."
"Am I? Strange, because I saw you there myself. September, last year. The Royal Crescent Hotel. You two looked very much together."
Margaret set down her teacup carefully. She was not going to fall apart. Not going to give Thomas the satisfaction.
"Well," she said, pleased that her voice remained steady. "That's quite the accusation. Do you have proof beyond your convenient memory?"
"I don't need proof. I know what I saw."
"Funny how what you saw contradicts what actually happened." Edward stood abruptly. "Margaret and I spent that September weekend together. Here. She fell ill with a fever, and I tended to her personally. Mrs. Dawson can verify it. As can the doctor who visited three times."
Margaret blinked. She did remember being ill last September. Remembered burning with fever, delirious. And she remembered Edward being there, though at the time she'd assumed he was simply fulfilling dutiful obligations.
"He stayed with you?" Thomas's certainty wavered.
"Every night," Margaret said, the memory solidifying as she spoke. "I woke once to find him asleep in the chair beside my bed. I thought I'd dreamed it."
"You didn't dream it. You were terribly ill. I was worried." Edward's expression softened as he looked at her. "You kept calling for your mother. I sent for her, but she was in Scotland with your father. So I stayed instead."
Something warm unfurled in Margaret's chest. She'd been so sick that week, fever dreams and chills alternating. She'd assumed the memories of Edward's gentle care were hallucinations. Products of delirium.
"So you see, Thomas," she said, turning back to him. "Your convenient sighting was impossible. Edward was here. With me. Tending to his sick wife like a devoted husband."
"I must have been mistaken about the timing," Thomas backtracked poorly.
"Must have been," Edward agreed. "Easy to do when you're inventing stories from whole cloth."
Thomas's face flushed with anger. "I'm not inventing—"
"Yes, you are. Because the truth isn't salacious enough. Because you need us to be miserable to justify your own resentment." Edward's voice was hard. "But here's the problem, Thomas. We're not miserable. Despite your best efforts, despite your lies and insinuations, Margaret and I are actually building something real. And your pathetic attempts to destroy it are only making us stronger."
"How touching. The merchant's daughter and the bankrupt earl, united in delusion."
"Better deluded and happy than bitter and alone," Margaret said. "Which, from where I'm sitting, seems to be your natural state. When was the last time you had a genuine connection with anyone, Thomas? Or are you too busy resenting everyone who has what you don't?"
Thomas stood so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor. "I don't have to listen to this."
"No, you don't. Feel free to leave. Today, if possible. We certainly won't stop you." Edward's tone was dismissive. "Though I suspect you'll stay, because leaving would mean admitting defeat. And you're too proud for that."
"I'm staying because I have every right to be here. This estate should have been mine."
"But it's not. It's mine. And Margaret's. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can move on with your life." Edward moved to stand beside Margaret, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. "Now if you'll excuse us, my wife and I have estate business to attend to."
They left Thomas sputtering in the breakfast room.
In the corridor, Margaret let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd holding. "That was intense."
"He's getting desperate. Making up increasingly implausible lies."
"The Bath story was almost clever, though. If we hadn't actually been together that weekend—"
"But we were." Edward turned her to face him. "Margaret, I need you to understand something. I was never unfaithful to you. Not with Caroline, not with anyone. Were there women before our marriage? Yes. Did I maintain friendships with some of them after? Yes. But I never crossed that line."
"Even when you hated me?"
"Even then. Because I'm many things—arrogant, resentful, occasionally insufferable—but I'm not an adulterer." His hands framed her face. "And that week you were ill? I was genuinely terrified. You were so sick, and I realized that if something happened to you, I would... I don't know what I would have done. That's when I first understood that you'd become important to me, even though I was still pretending to hate you."
Margaret's throat tightened. "I thought I dreamed you being there."
"You didn't. I was there every night. Reading to you when you were delirious. Changing cold compresses. Arguing with the doctor about treatment." He smiled slightly. "You told me once, in your fever, that I had nice hands. Very solemn, very serious. 'You have nice hands, Edward. Has anyone told you that?'"
"I did not."
"You absolutely did. And then you asked if we could be friends. I said yes. You don't remember any of this?"
"No. It's all a blur of misery and strange dreams." Margaret pressed her hands over his, still cupping her face. "But I'm glad you were there."
"So am I. Even though you spent one entire night convinced I was a talking horse who'd come to steal your jewelry."
Despite everything, Margaret laughed. "I did not."
"You did. Very indignant about it. Kept telling the horse to leave immediately." Edward's expression was fond. "You were adorable, even delirious."
"I must have looked horrible."
"You looked ill. But I didn't care." He kissed her forehead. "That was the week I started to realize that maybe our marriage didn't have to be a disaster. That maybe you were someone I could actually care about, if I stopped being stubborn long enough to try."
"Why didn't you tell me? After I recovered?"
"Because you went right back to avoiding me, and I went right back to pretending I didn't care. We wasted six more months being idiots." He sighed. "But we're not being idiots now. That's progress."
"Significant progress. We've graduated from mutual loathing to only occasionally wanting to murder each other."
"I never want to murder you."
"Not even when I reorganized your study without asking?"
"Not even then. Irritated, yes. Homicidal, no." He released her face, taking her hand instead. "Come on. Let's actually do some estate business. Give Thomas time to stew in his failure."
They spent the morning in the estate office, reviewing accounts and planning spring planting. It was mundane work, but Margaret found herself enjoying it. Edward consulted her on decisions, valued her opinions, explained things she didn't understand without condescension.
This was partnership. Real partnership, not the transactional arrangement they'd started with.
"You're smiling," Edward observed.
"I'm happy. Is that allowed?"
"Absolutely. Though it's slightly terrifying. I keep waiting for something to ruin it."
"Thomas is trying his best."
"And failing spectacularly." Edward leaned back in his chair. "You know what I think? I think we've already survived the worst. Three years of genuine animosity. If we could survive that, we can survive anything."
"Even ten more days of your brother?"
"Even that. As long as we keep choosing each other. Keep being honest. Keep finding reasons to laugh instead of fight."
Margaret moved around the desk, settling herself on Edward's lap. "I'm choosing you right now."
"Are you? Because it looks like you're choosing my lap. Different thing entirely."
"Maybe I'm choosing both."
"Greedy." But he pulled her closer, his arms secure around her waist. "I approve of greed in this context."
They kissed, slow and thorough, the estate ledgers forgotten.
"We're terrible at work," Margaret murmured against his mouth.
"Abysmal. Completely unprofessional."
"Someone should really do something about it."
"Mm. Someone should." Edward's hand slid up her leg beneath her skirts. "But not right now. Right now I'm busy."
"Busy doing what?"
"Choosing my wife. Very important husbandly duty."
Margaret laughed, remembering his excuse from this morning. "You're obsessed with your husbandly duties."
"Can you blame me? They're remarkably enjoyable."
The door opened without warning.
Thomas stood in the doorway, his expression caught between disgust and vindication. "How appropriate. The merchant's daughter, behaving like a common tart."
Margaret slid off Edward's lap with as much dignity as she could muster. "It's called marriage, Thomas. Perhaps you've heard of it? Two people, legally joined, allowed to be intimate without societal censure?"
"Intimate. In the estate office. During work hours." Thomas's lip curled. "How very bourgeois."
"There's that word again. You're obsessed with it." Edward straightened his waistcoat, unruffled. "Perhaps because you've never experienced genuine connection with anyone? It must be confusing, watching other people be happy."
"I'm not confus—"
"You are. Deeply, profoundly confused about why your schemes aren't working. Why we're not tearing ourselves apart on command." Edward moved to stand beside Margaret, presenting that united front again. "Here's the thing you don't understand, Thomas. Margaret and I have already done our worst to each other. Already said the cruelest things, hurt each other in ways you can't begin to imagine. Your petty attempts at sabotage are nothing compared to what we've survived."
"How romantic. A relationship built on mutual destruction."
"No. A relationship rebuilt after mutual destruction. That's the difference." Edward took Margaret's hand. "We know how bad it can get. And we're choosing something better. You can't poison what we've already worked to heal."
Thomas stared at them, something like desperation flickering across his features. "You think this will last? This temporary truce? Give it time. You'll remember why you hated each other. You'll go back to separate lives and careful distance. This is just novelty."
"Maybe," Margaret conceded. "Or maybe we've actually learned something. Either way, it's not your concern."
"Everything about this estate is my concern. Everything about this family is my concern."
"Then start acting like family instead of an enemy," Edward said quietly. "Stop trying to destroy what could be good for both of us. Or leave. Those are your choices."
Thomas opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. For the first time since arriving, he looked uncertain.
Then the mask slid back into place. "I'll be in the library if you need me. Assuming you can tear yourselves away from groping each other long enough to remember you have responsibilities."
He left, the door slamming behind him.
Margaret exhaled slowly. "That was unpleasant."
"That was Thomas realizing he's losing. Dangerous, but also progress." Edward pulled her back into his arms. "Where were we?"
"I believe you were fulfilling your husbandly duties with exemplary dedication."
"Ah yes. Very important work." His mouth found her neck. "Can't be neglected."
"Absolutely not. The estate would fall apart."
"Complete disaster."
Margaret tilted her head to give him better access, smiling despite everything. "We're ridiculous."
"Completely. But I'd rather be ridiculous and happy than miserable and proper."
"Good. Because I'm done with miserable and proper."
They were still kissing when Mrs. Dawson knocked, announcing lunch. Margaret pulled away reluctantly, straightening her dress.
"Tonight," Edward promised. "I'm going to lock that door and finish what we started."
"Promises, promises."
"I always keep my promises to you."
Looking at his face, Margaret believed him. Which was perhaps the most remarkable thing of all.