Page 11 of His Mad Duchess
She could still feel the heat of his coat under her fingers, her pulse thudding into his palms. And the looks on their faces…
“God,” she breathed, curling in on herself.
And Sebastian, wearing that devil’s half-smile like it could shield them both from ruin.
There was no fire now, but she might as well still be burning. The crackle was gossip this time, crawling under every door.
She pressed her hands to her face.Don’t cry. Not for this.
But the sting rose anyway. She was already the girl with whispers in her wake—unlucky, mad, strange. And now, they had better stories to tell.
A knock at the door jolted her upright. She bit the inside of her cheek, dragging her blanket higher, as if it might hide her shame.
Another soft rap, then Cecily’s voice, half-whisper, half-sigh. “Margaret? It’s only me. Are you awake?”
She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Margaret just stared at the faint glow where the lamp flickered low, its thin hiss the only sound left in the quiet room.
At some point in the dark, she’d heard soft footsteps pause at her door, a swish of fabric, then silence when she didn’t answer. The steps drifted away again, leaving her alone with the creak of the walls and her own too-loud heartbeat.
She didn’t sleep again. She never did. Some nights she drifted, half-dreaming, half-waiting for the crackle and the hand that had haunted her since the night her family’s house burned. But never really resting. Rest was for people who didn’t wake burning.
The knock came again at first light. Cecily slipped in without waiting for permission, a pale shape in her morning robe, hair half-pinned, worry written clear across her face.
She hovered by the door at first, as if bracing for more ghosts.
“You screamed,” she said softly, voice breaking the hush. “I heard you. I almost came in then, but you went quiet again, and Mother was still awake, and…”
She trailed off, twisting the corner of her sleeve.
“Are you… all right?”
Margaret pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, half-turning her face to the window where dawn did its best to look merciful.
“I’m fine.” The lie tasted stale on her tongue, but it came out smooth with practice.
“Margaret…” Cecily stepped closer, perched carefully on the edge of the bed like she was afraid she’d spook her cousin back into the dark. She hesitated, glancing at the tiny door that led back to the rest of the house. “Was it last night? Mother’s calling for you, you know. She wants… well, you know what she wants.”
Margaret closed her eyes, pressing her knees tighter.
“I said I’m fine. And I know what she wants.”
She opened them again just enough to catch Cecily’s frown, warm and helpless.
“Go on. I’ll come down in a moment.”
“Margaret…” Cecily leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry. About last night. About everything. If I could?—”
But Margaret cut her off with the ghost of a smile too sharp to be real comfort.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Cecily. I’ve lived through worse nights. I’ll live through this one, too.”
She reached out and squeezed Cecily’s hand once. “Go on. Before Aunt Agnes decides to storm up here herself and drag me out by my hair.”
Cecily’s mouth twisted like she wanted to fight it, but she only nodded, brushing her thumb across Margaret’s knuckles.
“Five minutes, then I’m back up here with a shoehorn and a tray to pry you out of this bed.”
“Five minutes,” Margaret echoed.
