Hyde Park was alive with chatter—soft laughter from young ladies, the brisk clatter of hooves, and the murmured speculations that floated like perfume through the spring air.
Margaret stood among a neat semicircle of debutantes and mamas, her gloved fingers clenched tightly around her parasol. She lifted her chin, feigning serenity, though heat prickled beneath her carefully pinned curls.
Her mother, Baroness Seymour, did not bother with such pretenses.
"Margaret," she hissed behind her fan,
"I cannot believe the spectacle you made of yourself at Almack's."
Margaret forced a weak smile as several mamas turned their heads, pretending not to listen—but their ears strained with hunger.
"Mother," she whispered sharply, "I merely told Sophia that Lord Benedict deserved—"
"Not. Another. Word," Baroness Seymour snapped.
Her fan fluttered—an elegant little gesture concealing the fury behind her eyes.
"You humiliated yourself," her mother continued, "not because you insulted Lady Sophia, but because you did it poorly."
Margaret's stomach twisted.
The debutantes beside her giggled softly behind their lace fans, their eyes glittering with cruel amusement.
One of them leaned in to whisper to another:
"She's the one who called Sophia a magpie, is she not?"
"No," the other replied, "Sophia called her one."
More snickers. Margaret's cheeks burned.
Baroness Seymour exhaled sharply, the sound bordering on a hiss. "Had you been subtle—had you been clever—the Patronesses would have overlooked your quarrel. But you created a scene."
Margaret swallowed."But Lady Sophia—"
"—is now being praised," her mother finished bitterly, "because she defended herself with more elegance than you displayed in your entire debut."
She snapped her fan shut for emphasis. "Lady Jersey is displeased, Lady Sefton refuses to speak to me, and Lady Cowper looked ready to revoke our vouchers entirely. Do you understand the danger of that, Margaret?"
Margaret's throat tightened. Her first Season—her chance at a titled match—was slipping like sand through her fingers.
And the worst part?
Everywhere she turned, she heard it:
"Magpie."
"Poor girl."
"She shouldn't have challenged Lady Sophia—certainly not in public."
"She thought Benedict Montgomery would look her way—how embarrassing."
Magpie, magpie, magpie.
Margaret's jaw trembled as another pair of mamas murmured:
"That Fiennes girl—Sophia—she truly is striking."
"And tonight everyone speaks of her."
"Perhaps she will be the jewel of the Season."
Margaret's grip tightened around her parasol.
"I was supposed to be the jewel," she muttered through clenched teeth.
Baroness Seymour leaned in, voice low and razor-sharp.
"And you might have been," she said, "if you had not acted like a child fighting over biscuits."
Margaret gasped softly.
Her mother continued, relentless:
"You lack strategy. You lack subtlety. You allowed Sophia to make you the fool—not with insults, but with intellect. She did not raise her voice. She did not lash out. She made one witty remark and the entire ton now praises her wit."
Margaret swallowed hard.
"She humiliated me," she whispered.
"No, Margaret," her mother corrected coldly. "You humiliated yourself."
Margaret's gaze drifted helplessly across the park—
and froze.
There, walking along the path, were:
Duchess Eleanor,
Marchioness Josephine,
Lord Benedict Montgomery,
and—at their center—
Lady Sophia Fiennes.
Sophia walked with elegance.
Benedict walked beside her with unmistakable attentiveness.
And the entire promenade leaned in to watch them.
The future Lady Montgomery, perhaps.
The belle of the Season.
The young woman Margaret could not outshine.
Her heart twisted painfully.
The debutantes behind her whispered again:
"She does look radiant, does she not?"
"And riding with Lord Benedict—imagine!"
"No wonder the ton adores her."
Margaret's nails dug into her gloves.
Baroness Seymour saw it. Her eyes hardened.
"Listen to me, Margaret," she said quietly. "If you wish to succeed this Season, if you wish to make a match worthy of your station, then you must stop reacting like a jealous child and start behaving like a strategist."
Margaret blinked back frustrated tears.
"You must be subtle. You must be clever. And you must—" her voice dropped to an icy murmur—"stop handing Lady Sophia Fiennes the victory."
Margaret inhaled shakily.
She looked once more at Sophia—the tall, elegant Marquess's daughter, the privileged granddaughter of a duke, the girl she once played dolls with, the girl she once loved like a sister—and now the girl she could never outrun.
"Very well, Mama," Margaret whispered. "I shall be subtle."
Baroness Seymour tapped her daughter's arm approvingly.
"Good. Because the Season is long, my dear." Her smile sharpened."And we are not beaten yet."
The crowd murmured again as Sophia and Benedict walked past.
Margaret lifted her chin.
If the ton wanted a "magpie"—She would give them something far more dangerous.
Margaret lowered herself into one of the wrought-iron chairs arranged along the promenade, her posture composed though her insides churned. Baroness Seymour resumed polite conversation with nearby matrons, slipping seamlessly back into the rhythm of social pleasantries.
Margaret, however, heard nothing.
Their voices—soft, droning talk of invitations, pastries, and this evening's supper parties—washed over her like dull noise.
Her eyes were elsewhere.
Lady Sophia Fiennes.
Walking gracefully between a duchess and a marchioness.
With Lord Benedict Montgomery at her side.
Laughing softly at something her mother whispered.
Sophia glowed, as though the entire park existed merely as her backdrop.
Margaret's jaw tightened.
She had not expected to be overshadowed.Not by her.
Not by the girl who once climbed trees with her and fed biscuits to the neighbor's pony.
Not by the girl whose mother once braided her hair.
Not by the girl who used to run around barefoot in the summers.
Sophia was supposed to be… naïve.
Scholarly.
Odd.
Too tall, too outspoken, too unfeminine.
Yet now…The ton adored her.
Every whisper, every admiring glance, every murmured praise—it stung Margaret's pride like nettles.
She lifted her teacup to hide the tightening of her lips. But anger simmered quietly behind her polite façade.
If Sophia was going to become the darling of the Season…
Then Margaret needed a strategy.
A subtle tactic.
A way to reclaim the spotlight without another humiliating scene.
Her gaze swept across the park—slow, calculating—until it landed on a familiar figure.
Viscount Kurt Darlington.
Tall.
Handsome in that understated, quietly captivating way.
Soft-spoken.
Highly eligible.
And—more importantly—Sophia's confidant.
He stood a few yards away near the Row, speaking amiably to a groom holding the reins of a dapple-grey stallion. The sunlight caught the faint gold in his dark hair; his blue eyes calm and intelligent.
Kurt Darlington.
One of the very few men Sophia trusted without reservation.
Margaret's eyes narrowed slightly.
If she could catch his attention?
If she could secure even a hint of interest— a dance, a compliment, a moment of visible camaraderie.
The ton would immediately draw the connection.
Lady Margaret with Viscount Darlington.
And Sophia—proud, independent, lofty Sophia—might finally feel something other than serene confidence. Might finally realize that not everything in her world moved according to her will.
Margaret's heart thudded with the beginnings of a plan.
Not because she wanted Kurt.
He was handsome, yes, but far too gentle for her taste.
But because she wanted power.
And Sophia, for all her intellect and aloofness, prized loyalty above all else.
Margaret knew this. She knew it well.
"Target her allies," she thought, lips curving ever so slightly. "Not her directly."
If she could disrupt Sophia's inner circle—just a little— shake the balance—pull a thread, Sophia's perfect composure might finally crack.
Margaret smoothed her skirts and folded her hands neatly on her lap, outwardly serene. Her mother continued chattering beside her about ribbons, pastries, and patronesses.
But Margaret's mind was sharp as a blade.
Yes. Kurt Darlington would do quite nicely.
He was polite, respected, entirely above scandal—and likely too good-hearted to notice her true intention until it was far too late.
As the chatter around her dissolved into meaningless hum, Margaret whispered inwardly to herself:
"So be it, Sophia. If the ton adores you—then I shall simply remind them why they adored me first."
Her eyes sparkled with quiet determination. "I will outshine you."
Margaret rose from her seat with practiced grace, smoothing the folds of her pale peach gown. She lifted her chin, gathered her parasol, and walked—unhurriedly, purposefully—toward Viscount Kurt Darlington.
Every step was measured.
Every breath steady.
If she wished to outshine Sophia, subtlety must be her weapon.
Kurt stood near the Row, the breeze ruffling the ends of his dark hair as he murmured instructions to a groom. The sunlight softened the stern set of his shoulders, casting him in a warmth Margaret found unexpectedly agreeable.
She stopped a polite distance away.
"Viscount Darlington," she said sweetly.
Kurt turned.
For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across his grey-blue eyes—surprise and an unmistakable hint of wariness. He recovered quickly, offering a courteous bow.
"Lady Margaret. Good morning."
Margaret smiled, allowing just a hint of warmth to soften her expression.
"I could not help but notice you from afar," she said. "You always carry such a dignified presence on horseback, my lord. It is most admirable."
Kurt blinked once.
His polite expression did not change, but something tightened subtly in his jaw.
"Your words are kind, Lady Margaret," he replied evenly. He cleared his throat. "A… pleasure to see you well."
Margaret nearly smirked.
Men rarely noticed when they were being flattered.
Kurt, however, seemed acutely aware—and slightly uncomfortable.
Perfect.
She stepped a fraction closer—no more than etiquette allowed, but enough to suggest familiarity.
"I heard," she continued lightly,
"that you are quite close to Lady Sophia. You share a fondness for horses, do you not?"
Kurt nodded slowly. "Yes. Lady Sophia is an excellent rider. Among the best I have known."
Margaret resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course she is.
"And she is fortunate," Margaret said, tilting her head, "to have a gentleman such as you for a companion."
At that, Kurt's posture stiffened.
"Lady Margaret," he said, tone gentle but firm,
"it is kind of you to say so. But if you are referring to the unpleasantness at Almack's last night—"
Margaret's smile froze.
So he had been informed.
Kurt continued, polite but pointed:
"…I believe Lady Sophia bore the insult with far more restraint than most would have. She is… a good friend."
Margaret folded her hands, feigning serenity while irritation flared beneath her ribs.
"Yes," she said softly, "Sophia has always been rather forceful in her opinions."
Kurt gave her a look she could not quite read. "I would call her principled."
That stung.
Margaret steadied her breath.
"I hope," she said, voice evenly pleasant, "that my little quarrel with her has not affected how you see me, my lord."
Kurt lifted a brow "In truth, Lady Margaret, I try not to judge anyone too harshly."
Another polite non-answer.
Another soft rebuff.
He was slipping from her grasp already—far more quickly than she expected.
Margaret's pulse flickered with frustration.
She tried again, lightly brushing her glove over the handle of her parasol in a gesture meant to draw attention to her poise.
"I only wish the ton would not blow such a small exchange out of proportion," she said sweetly. "Lady Sophia and I were once dear friends. I meant no lasting harm."
Kurt's expression softened a fraction—but only a fraction.
"I see," he said.
But Margaret could tell he did not see. If anything, he now saw through her.
Worse, he seemed to be searching—subtly, carefully—for a way to conclude the conversation with grace.
He bowed slightly.
"Forgive me, Lady Margaret. I promised to join the others soon, and it would be discourteous to keep them waiting."
Margaret froze.
The dismissal was polite. Elegant. Unassailable and absolute.
Kurt nodded once more, stepped back, and turned toward the path without offering his arm, without lingering, without even a backward glance.
Margaret remained still, her smile brittle.
So. He was more loyal than she expected.
This would require a longer game.
She inhaled slowly, regaining her composure as Baroness Seymour's voice drifted across the green, calling her back.
"Kurt Darlington is only the beginning," Margaret thought, lifting her chin.
"Lady Sophia Fiennes will not outshine me. Not for long."
She returned to the cluster of debutantes with a graceful step—but her eyes burned with resolve.
Margaret had barely settled back into her seat when a shadow fell across her. She looked up—and her stomach dropped.
Earl Jeremy Eden stood before her, hands clasped neatly behind his back, blue-green eyes alight with mischief and thinly veiled contempt. He bowed, perfectly polite, perfectly mocking.
"Lady Margaret," he drawled, "what an exquisite morning to see you… attempting things."
The other debutantes perked up. Several mamas leaned in ever so slightly. Baroness Seymour stiffened.
Margaret forced a smile. "Lord Eden. To what do I owe the honor?"
Jeremy tilted his head innocently. "Oh, I was merely passing by when I witnessed your… conversation with Viscount Darlington."
Margaret's spine snapped straight. "Is that so?"
Jeremy tsk-tsked lightly. "Indeed. Quite brave of you, Lady Margaret."
"Brave?" she repeated, wary.
"Oh yes," he continued, voice rising just enough for nearby ears to catch, "to approach a man who values loyalty above all else—especially loyalty to Sophia."
A ripple moved through the surrounding cluster. Sophia's name always caused interest.
Margaret glared. "I simply offered him a greeting."
"A greeting," Jeremy echoed thoughtfully. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
He tapped his chin. "I wonder, Lady Margaret… did you hope he would escort you? Or perhaps flatter you? Or—perish the thought—choose you over Sophia in some small, symbolic fashion?"
Several girls gasped. A matron coughed violently to hide a laugh.
Margaret's cheeks burned scarlet.
Baroness Seymour hissed, "Lord Eden—"
"Oh, Baroness," Jeremy interrupted with a charming bow, "I meant no insult. I was simply struck by Lady Margaret's… determination."
He turned back to the now-fuming debutante.
"Of course," he added sweetly, "it must have been a disappointment when Kurt walked away without offering his arm. He is terribly principled that way."
Margaret's breath stuttered.
Jeremy leaned in—politely, wickedly—his voice low enough to be conspiratorial but loud enough for everyone to hear:
"You see, Lady Margaret… loyal men are a dreadful choice if one intends mischief. They rarely assist in one's downfall of choice."
Her fan slipped from her fingers.
The nearby debutantes murmured, half-shocked, half-thrilled.
Jeremy straightened, smile razor-sharp. "But do not worry," he continued, stepping back and offering a final bow. "The Season has only just begun. Many men will adore you—for your rustling feathers, if nothing else."
Margaret's eyes widened. He said it.
He actually said it.
The word she feared.
Magpie.
Jeremy didn't need to speak it aloud. He merely let the implication hang—glittering, damning, undeniable.
Then—with perfect grace—he pivoted and walked away, humming under his breath as if he'd merely commented on the weather.
Baroness Seymour looked ready to faint.
The debutantes stared, biting back laughter.
Margaret sat trembling, fury rising like fire beneath her stays.
For the first time, she realized: She wasn't just fighting Sophia. She was fighting her entire circle. And the circle had teeth.