Page 12 of His Mad Duchess
Cecily didn’t move. She glanced at the door, then back at Margaret, then pulled her robe tighter like it might hold her questions in.
“It’s not fair, you know.”
Margaret’s brows drew together, but she didn’t answer.
“It’s not fair that it’s always you,” Cecily pressed on, her voice low, fierce in the soft gray dawn. “You didn’t do anything wronglast night. You didn’t ask for… for any of it. And now, they’ll all…”
She broke off, her throat working.
Margaret gave a small huff that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so thin. “Life’s never been fair. I stopped expecting it to be.”
“Still. I wish…” Cecily’s eyes glistened. She sniffed once, annoyed at herself, and wiped at her cheek. “I wish I could do something. Take it back. Scream at them all. Barge into the ballroom and?—”
“Don’t waste your breath.” Margaret’s voice turned gentle, almost teasing. “You’d only make it worse. You’d knock over a vase, slip on the marble, and give them something new to whisper about.”
“Better me than you,” Cecily shot back, a tiny spark under the tremble in her voice.
“And scandalize Aunt Agnes into an early grave?” Margaret teased. “I’d have to wear mourning for the rest of my life. Too much effort.”
Cecily let out a watery snort and leaned in to press her forehead to Margaret’s for a heartbeat. It was quick, fierce, sister-like.
“Five minutes,” she said again, voice firmer now. “Then I’m back up with a shoehorn. And tea so strong you’ll hate me for it.”
“Perfect,” Margaret murmured, eyes fluttering closed for half a second as Cecily pulled away.
“Bring the shoehorn first.”
Downstairs, the drawing room smelled of cold tea and roses gone to wilt. Aunt Agnes perched stiff as a hatpin on the edge of her chair, a crumpled letter trembling in her fingers. Beatrice stood by the hearth, arms folded tight, jaw tight as if she’d rather swallow her tongue than say what needed to be said.
Cecily hovered by the window, her reflection ghosting over the glass as dawn pressed in.
Margaret paused in the doorway, half-hoping no one would notice her. But of course, they did.
“Finally,” Aunt Agnes snapped, voice sharper than the winter light. “I sent for you an age ago.”
“I was dressing,” Margaret murmured. Her palms fussed at her skirt’s wrinkled seam, pointless.
“Dressing,” Beatrice echoed, voice a brittle mirror of their aunt’s. “As if any gown will help now.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked to her cousin. “I know what they saw, Bea.”
“Do you?” Beatrice’s laugh cracked, small and sharp. “Do you truly? They saw you in his arms. In a locked room. The entire ballroom knows by now. They’ll talk about it for weeks!”
“I know,” Margaret murmured.
“Then you know what they’ll say,” Aunt Agnes cut in, voice sharp enough to slice the hush. She slapped the letter against her knee. “A duke’s name dragged through scandal, and yours too, again. We’ll be laughed out of every parlor from here to Somerset.”
Margaret stared at the floor, willing the carpet to swallow her feet. “It wasn’t… I didn’t ask for?—”
Beatrice flinched, fingers tightening around her sleeve. Her next words came out low, brittle. “You never do. And yet, it always finds you. The gossip, the looks. You think you’re the only one it touches? It sticks to me, too. To Cecily. To all of us.”
“But it isn’t my fault.” Margaret’s voice cracked, tears threatening to fall.
“You didn’t stop it either,” Beatrice snapped. “You couldn’t just stay quiet, keep your head down, not find trouble for once?—”
“Beatrice!” Cecily warned, voice low.
“Go on.” Margaret cut in, lifting her chin. Her eyes found Beatrice’s, searching for softness that wasn’t there. “You think I bring bad luck? Say it properly this time.”
