It was surprisingly warm for September, but not even the higher-than-normal temperature could melt the smug grin off my lips. Noticing it, Tom rolled his eyes.

Somehow, it had gotten out into the press that I had attended the Royal family dinner-Tom's guess was that it was Cynthia who leaked the story, but I had my money on Eliza-and what I had thought to be a non-story had been spun into such a frenzy there were now crews of paparazzi stationed in the street outside our flat 24/7.

It had been decided that my attending family-sponsored events should commence immediately, starting with a high tea-and high society-fundraiser that had the coincidental good fortune of being both of good cause and thorough coverage by the major print media outlets.

This being my first appearance since the increased media attention, Tom had insisted Trisha find me a new dress for the occasion. But since this would be a charity event, I had insisted I wear a dress I already owned and Tom instead donate whatever preposterous amount of money he would have spent on the dress to the charity's fundraiser.

"Really, Emma," he droned with faux-condescension. "We're here for the children. It doesn't matter what you're wearing."

I smiled wider. It was ridiculous, I knew, possibly childish to feel so delighted for getting my way. But I also knew that there would be so few arguments when it came to future public appearances that I would win that I cherished every moment of this minuscule victory.

"We're here for your mother to show me off," I countered dryly.

Tom snorted and then placed his hand at the small of my back just as I registered movement in the peripherals of my vision.

"And now for round two..." Tom grumbled.

Margaret waved affably as she and her husband approached. I lifted my hand to return the gesture and immediately regretted it. One could think Margaret was born into royalty herself with the gracefulness she radiated with every minute movement. I, by comparison, looked like a spastic buffoon.

Robert, for his part, didn't even so much as smile.

"You're doing what's right," I whispered in a rush to Tom. "Whatever he or your uncle says, you're absolutely on the right side of this. Remember that."

Tom stroked his thumb along the column of my spine in silent response.

"Thomas," Margaret beamed as the couple stepped in front of us. "And Emma, lovely to see you again."

"You look lovely," I practically gushed.

And she did. She really did.

Margaret was naturally pretty with full-lips and a petite nose, a perfect complexion, and soft golden hair that would have made the Grace Kelly jealous. Her dress, too, likely would have caught the eye of the Princess of Monaco: tiffany-blue in color with cap sleeves and ruching that subtly accentuated every one of her perfectly toned curves and ended with a modest flair over her knees. On her head, she wore a large, white ruffled sunhat crafted to resemble a large-petaled flower.

She sent me a polite grin. "Thank you, your dress is quite fetching."

I fought the blush I could feel brewing beneath my skin and for a brief, vain moment wished I had let Trisha dress me.

I had picked out an old favorite of my closet, a sleeveless dress with a dark-navy pattern and what I considered to be a flattering A-line fit. Typically I paired it with comfortable leather sandals, but this morning had instead opted for sensible black pumps. The only item I had allowed Trisha to acquire was a matching navy fascinator.

Luckily, I was saved from having to muster a response by a waiter carrying a silver tray ladened with fizzing champagne. As I accepted the flute from him, I felt a pang of pity for the man who must have been sweltering in his black suit-jacket and thick white gloves.

"To good works and family," Robert announced as he raised his flute.

Tom grinned as he raised his own glass and countered: "To making a difference for those who need it."

The four of us clinked glasses. I took a grateful swig of the refreshingly crisp liquid, and over the rim of my glass noticed Tom and Robert do the same.

When we lowered our flutes again, I was momentarily mortified to realize I had drunk several millimeters more than Margaret.

How on earth can it possible to take such dainty sips, especially in this heat? I asked the universe in a panic... until the answer suddenly came to me.

It isn't.

Bubbles were still fizzing just below the rim of her flute. Margaret hadn't taken a sip. I remembered suddenly seeing tabloid articles declaring the royal couple's attempts to get pregnant and, subsequently, their suspected infertility issues.

Robert's voice pulled my attention back to the conversation at present. "Tom-"

"It's my bloody foundation, Robby, and we'll do what we damn well please."

My eyebrows shot up at the gruffness of Tom's tone.

"Your foundation started with our family money-" Robert retorted in a low growl.

"My trust fund," Tom retorted.

Robert's chest puffed out, but his wife cut in before he could issue his rebuttal.

"The press," she calmly reminded them with a demure smile plastered on her lips.

Robert's eyes flicked to the gathering crowd of photographers across the lawn. "Tommy, a word."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Your father already tried-"

"My father gave you a mere warning," Robert hissed as he stepped past Tom. "I am not."

Tom sent his cousin's back a withering look but softened his expression as his eyes shifted to mine.

"I'll be fine," I assured him.

Still, Tom hesitated.

"She'll be fine," Margaret assured him as she stepped toward me. She even smelt pretty. "I promise I won't let her be thrown to the wolves in your absence."

He shook his head before placing a whisper of a kiss on my cheek and turning on his heel to stalk after Robert.

I could feel beads of sweat beginning to pool beneath my arms as we stood there in the increasingly warm sun.

"Has Tommy secured you a stylist yet?" Margaret finally asked.

"Uh-" I cleared my throat in an attempt to cover the high pitch of my voice. "Uh yes, my friend actually-Trisha-she's been-it's just today I wanted to... dress myself?"

Margaret nodded in understanding. "Does feel odd to adorn oneself in order to attend a charity function."

I sighed in relief. "Yes, it certainly does."

"Though it is all part of the role we have been tasked to play."

I nodded but said nothing, not quite sure if I was included in her royal "we".

Unsure of what to say next, I took another sip of champagne. I was now a third of the way through it, while Matilda still had a nearly full glass only having gone down a bit as the bubbles calmed to a near flatten.

My eyes trailed to the photographers who had been queuing across the long and now appeared to be slowly migrating toward us.

"It may seem superficial, but our presence and our presentation bring attention to these deserving charities and their causes," she continued.

I glanced back at her pleasant smile and then again between our two flutes their comparison was making it increasingly evident that Margaret was abstaining from drinking.

My heart winced in sympathy for her having to face those obscene tabloid stories viciously analyzing and debating her body. I had been mortified to have my sheer bra talked about in the press, meanwhile, the most intimate aspects of her body and her marriage were frequently contested by reporters more closely resembling would-be football analysts.

"Um, sorry, would you mind?" I asked, holding out my flute. "I think I have a pebble in my shoe. It's driving me absolutely mad."

Margaret's smile widened to show her pearly whites as she accepted the glass. "Of course."

I bent over and fiddled with my shoe, silently counted to fifteen, and smoothed out the folds of my dress as I rightened.

"Thank you. These shoes are uncomfortable enough without adding pointed rocks into the mix," I attempted to jest as I reached out to take the full flute of champagne.

Margaret held onto the stem for half a second, her eyes flicking inquisitively to mine before sliding to note the approaching photographers fiddling with their cameras.

She released the flute into my grasp and I immediately brought it up to my lips. The champagne had warmed and gone slightly flat, but it was still tasted deliciously dry on my tongue.

Margaret watched me for a moment and then turned to face the rest of the party attendees.

The organizers had chosen a garden party theme for the event out on a sprawling lawn of someone's grand estate. Most of the attendees were smartly milling about under shaded canopy tents or ivy-covered arches.

After making the preliminary rounds as Tom had called it, we had ventured away from the crowd toward a nearby garden path that wound around several ostentatious looking marble fountains.

"Thank you," Margaret whispered after several minutes.

"Just remember your promise to Tom," I teased, but then added more seriously: "And don't let me get drunk."

She giggled at that. "Perhaps if I did I might finally get some answers to the family's questions about the two of you."

I arched my brow in query, but Margaret merely shrugged innocently.

"I never attended a family dinner until after Robert and I were married. André, Matilda's husband, didn't either."

Now, it was my turn to laugh.

"Well I can assure you, we are absolutely not married."

She nodded, not quite believing me. "So those engagement rumors-"

"Not true," I assured her probably too quickly. "O-or the pregnancy ones."

Margaret said nothing, and I-regretting my words-took another long drink.

"Can't blame the papers," she finally commented. "You two are moving at... a clipper pace than most couples."

I drew in a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, I supposed we are."

Margaret frowned suddenly and turned on her stiletto heel to face me. "Cynthia told me you resigned from your position at that magazine."

I blinked several times, caught off guard by her sudden directness.

"The Print," I finally managed.

She nodded, still frowning, and turned back to face the party. "I'm sorry you had to do that... but," she sighed somewhat dismissively, "it would have had to happen eventually."

I raised my eyebrows at her words. "Would it?"

"Perhaps not."

Her tone was the same casual demure it had been for the entirety of our conversation, but her voice now carried a new, artificial stiffness to it.

I considered her for a moment before asking: "Would it had to have happened? If we weren't... moving at a clipper pace?"

Margaret smiled but said nothing.

Noticing the pack of photographers was milling about closer to us now with their cameras aimed in our direction, I lowered my voice to a near whisper.

"Please," I practically begged her. "You're the only one who knows what it's like. Tom-he's being as supportive as he can, and Cynthia, of course, is a trooper-but they were born into it. You, on the other hand, know what it's like... what has to be given up?"

Margaret worked her lips as if debating the appropriate response.

"My family has a long history in the aristocracy."

She didn't say it harshly. In fact, she said it with no tone at all. It was merely a fact. "I was always aware of the... sacrifices needed to be made, and I chose to make those sacrifices with my eyes wide open."

She raised her eyes to mine and smiled kindly. "I don't believe anyone should go into it any other way."

I bobbed my head in thanks as the first shuddering clicks of the cameras sounded.