Page 19 of His Mad Duchess
“Both,” Margaret deadpanned.
Behind Cecily, one of the housemaids hovered, her arms full of a hatbox and a pale linen bundle tied with green ribbon.
“Delivery for Lady Margaret,” the maid said, bobbing a quick curtsey. “From the Duke’s staff, my lady. Said it’s… your gown.”
A beat of stunned silence. Cecily’s eyes went wide. Beatrice’s mouth fell open.
Margaret just stared at the box like it might bite her. “It’s a mistake. He wouldn’t?—”
“He would,” Cecily said. A smile twitched at her mouth. “Seems your duke has taste. Let’s see it then.”
The maid laid the box on the bed and scurried out, the door clicking behind her. Beatrice hesitated, then untied the ribbon, carefully and slowly.
“Ivory,” Beatrice murmured. “Not lilac. Ivory.”
The ivory silk caught the light the moment Beatrice lifted it free of the box, a shimmer so soft it looked like poured milk. Margaret’s breath stuttered in her chest.
“Don’t just stare,” Cecily prodded. “Touch it.”
Margaret hesitated. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would he?—”
“Because he doesn’t want you standing there looking like secondhand sorrow,” Cecily said, blunt and warm. “Put it on. For once, let something new touch you first.”
Margaret reached out, half-expecting the fine fabric to slip through her fingers like smoke. But it was real. Heavy, cool, and smooth as river water. The sleeves were capped with delicate lace, tiny scallops brushing her shoulders. The bodice cinched more narrowly than any gown she’d worn. It was new, not let out and taken in for someone else’s shape. It was hers.
“Help me,” she said, her voice smaller than she meant.
Beatrice moved first, gathering the silk carefully, slipping it over Margaret’s shift like draping armor she didn’t deserve. The lining whispered cold against her spine. Beatrice worked quickly at tiny hooks and pearl buttons while Cecily’s hands fussed at her hair with pins and combs.
Margaret held her breath as they tugged the last seam shut. The silk fit so perfectly, it made her ribs ache, as if the gown itself were telling her to stand still, stand worthy.
“God, Margaret,” Cecily breathed when they stepped back. “Look at you. You don’t look like our Margaret.”
Margaret turned. The cracked wardrobe mirror showed a total stranger, a bride spun out of candlelight, and the finest lace. The silk hugged her shoulders, soft but unyielding, and the skirt fell wide around her bare feet like a secret pool.
“It’s too much,” she breathed. “It’s too fine. He shouldn’t… This is wrong.”
Beatrice’s hands paused on her shoulders. “It’s not wrong,” she said, voice steady. “It’s yours. He sent it because he doesn’t want the ton laughing at you in cast-offs. Let them choke instead.”
But Margaret only saw the white; it seemed foreign. The impossible sweetness for a girl who’d never been called sweet.
Her pulse tapped at her throat like a trapped bird.
“It doesn’t feel real,” she whispered, voice catching. “I feel that if I breathe too deeply, it’ll rip. Or vanish. Or I will.”
CHAPTER 7
Sebastian woke long before dawn. Sleep never lingered on mornings like this, mornings that left him with a knot at the back of his head.
The wash water was cold enough to sting. He braced his forearms on the basin’s edge, and drops slid down his clean cuffs, his spine locked tight. He’d handled Parliament’s backlashes, traitorous business partners, and his mother’s cold training, but none of it weighed on him like the simple slip of a door latch behind a library and a girl he had never spoken to in his life, aside from that day.
Behind him, Rook worked in silence, the soft click of brass buttons sliding through cloth the only sound.
“You’ll want the heavier coat,” Rook said after a moment, setting it across a chair. “Bit of a wind this morning.”
Sebastian didn’t answer at once. “It won’t blow the chapel away.”
“No, Your Grace,” Rook replied, tone dry. “But you’ll want your cravat straight for the occasion.” He stepped forward, fingers brisk on the starched linen. “One imagines it will be… a long morning.”
