My Maggie,

XXIII

Shit, Colin thought as he threw the parchment against the wall of his room, before running over to his laundry basket and fishing out the pair of trousers he had worn the previous night. Feeling in the front pockets, he let out a exasperated groan when he didn't feel the poking of a square piece of parchment. He knew it wasn't going to be there, but the hope that was engraved in his heart begged him that it was in there. But obviously it wasn't, and instead it was printed, black and white, in the latest addition of lady Whistledown. For all of Londons socialised elite to read. 

Colin paced back and forth, his hands balled in to fists, so tight the his nails were leaving a present indentation in his palm. When Hyacinth had come skipping into the room with a smirk slapped against her face he knew something was up and when she had placed the latest thistledown on his bed and haunted out the room without a word it was enough for him to run from his desk to the bed. Now he was an unintentional  published author. 

Across Grovernors square Margret felt a sort of limbo in her heart. She sat on the chair beside the window looking out into the hustle and bustle of the street, her delicate fingers ghosting the ends of the letter. My M, M for Margret? That idea made her heart sore, made the tingling feeling in her stomach grow. But when she remembered his last letter, which lay on the wooden desk beside her. My Maggie. 

A sudden surge of broken glass fractured and pierced her heart. Maggie. Not M. 

The likelihood of the matter is was that letter wasn't in fact written for her, she was merely old news to Colin at this point. The frog he had to kiss before meeting his princess. Marina Thompson. 

Taking back a final breathe, she stood up and composed herself before walking out her room, down the stairs and into the awaiting carriage on the pavement of Governors square. 

The gallery was busy already, packs of prestige and elegant ladies and sensible suitors swarmed around oil paintings and sculptures. Margrets head was down as she looked at the hem of her dress brushing against the hardwood floor. 

"Maggie." she heard his voice and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Without a second thought she did the first thing that came to mind. Bolted. 

Straight into the abandoned a adjacent room. Almost immediately he rushed in after. Without looking at him she sat on the sage green bench and stared at the picture ahead. She felt the dip in the cushion. 

"Im sorry." was all he said. "Im sure you have plenty of questions, but I promise I never meant for Whistledown to find it."

"Did Marina get your message?" 

He halted, "Marina?" he asked questioning tones lingering in his voice. 

"Thompson."

"Yes I know who Marina is, but why would it be for her?" 

"Was it not."

"Im so sorry Maggie, but im confused."

"Yes well you do get that so easily." 

His eyebrows rose, "Please tell me you are aware that the note was for you." Colin stated, and suddenly she felt it. The top of his finger circled hers and locked around it, squeezing, their eyes once again connected. Getting transfixed on one another pupils and involuntarily both their heads began got lena in, until he could taste the strawberry in her breathe. The lips millimetres apart. Only for the sound of rushing heels to snap them out and for Margret to bolt upright and stand infront of a portrait. 

Just then Daphne Bridgerton rushed into the quiet room. 

"Daphne!" Colin said startled, worried for his distressed sibling. 

"Colin?" she said confused by his presence before her eyes scanned across to see the Nighthower girl, "Margret?" 

"Well I best be off, lovely to see you Mr Bridgerton." Margret said before sprinting out of the room. 

"And you." He said calling after her, before whispering too himself quietly, "Maggie."