Page 2 of His Mad Duchess
The first voice gave a quiet, careless laugh.
“What good is being pretty when everyone knows she’s mad? No one sees beauty when they’re counting ghosts.”
The whisper drifted past Margaret’s ear like cold mist. She felt it settle at the base of her throat. It felt like a tight knot filled with fury and something lonelier.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. She’d learned that much at least. If you turned, they saw they’d wounded you. If you smiled instead, well, then they found sharper knives.
“Ignore them,” Cecily muttered fiercely beside her. Her cousin’s fingers brushed Margaret’s sleeve. It was a gentle tug that almost said, ‘let me bite them for you.’
Margaret forced a small smile, eyes fixed on her dance card as if the neat blank columns might spell freedom. “I do. I always do.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” Cecily’s voice rose just enough to draw a glance from a passing chaperone. A lady with too many feathers in her hair gave Cecily a startled look, then flicked her gaze to Margaret, curiosity sparking like dry straw.
Cecily’s mouth twisted, sharp and loyal. “You’ve brought nothing but luck to this family, you know you have. Father still says the accounts balanced sweeter once you came, and Mother claims the house runs faster when you’re about. If they’d bother to remember it. If they had any sense at all?—”
Margaret’s spine stiffened. She angled her fan higher, a paper shield against the sudden heat in her cheeks.Don’t draw them in,she wanted to snap.Don’t make me visible.
“It’s only gossip, Cecily,” she said instead, her voice light as spun sugar. She wished her hands weren’t trembling under her gloves. “Let them tire themselves out. My ruin is the only entertainment some people have left.”
“They’ll choke on it one day,” Cecily hissed.
“Hush.” Margaret managed a small laugh. “You’ll ruin your own debut if you look too fierce. You’re meant to smile and flutter your lashes. Leave the cursing to the scandalous cousin.”
The faint laugh didn’t settle the thrum behind her ribs. The music rose again, sharp strings and brass that seemed to scrape against her thoughts. She wished, just for a moment, that she could melt into the shadows behind the palms, vanish like a ghost, truly mad and truly gone.
The whispers behind her shoulder hadn’t died yet. Margaret could feel the stares slipping down her spine like icy fingers.
She angled herself closer to Cecily’s fan, pretending the world beyond it didn’t exist.
A lady drifted too close with too many feathers nodding over a narrow face, eyes flicking everywhere but at Margaret. Her heavy silk skirts brushed Margaret’s side, a careless bump that knocked her half a step back.
For a heartbeat, their sleeves caught. The lady yanked her arm free like she’d touched something diseased. No apology, not even a glance of polite surprise, just a flash of her eyes, wide and flinching, as if contact might leave a stain.
Margaret caught the look, that same small recoil people thought she wouldn’t notice. Like they believed madness could leap from skin to skin if they stood too near.
She steadied her balance, and her cheeks warmed, though her hands stayed cold. Cecily said something sharp beside her, ‘Did you see that?’but Margaret only shook her head, her mouth set in a shape that might have been a smile if you didn’t look too closely.
Moments later, Margaret felt the faintest tug at her waist. A prickle of cold air where there shouldn’t be any.
She glanced down, carefully, fingers brushing the side seam of her gown. There, just above the ribbon, the stitches gaped. It was small but certain. One wrong turn, one sharp breath, and half the ballroom would see all of her spine and borrowed silk.
Of course, it would tear tonight. This dress, once Beatrice’s, was worn and reworked until threadbare. ‘An adopted daughter should be grateful for what she’s given,’Aunt Agnes liked to remind her. No sense wasting good money on new silk when the old still fit.
She tried to fix the loose ribbon at her waist, but her fingers trembled. The heavy silk had started to pull away from the bodice, and if the whole thing gave way now—here, under a hundred hungry eyes—they’d watch her unravel, literally.Look, there she goes at last. Margaret Greystone, the unlucky girl, is coming apart at the seams.
Margaret forced her hand to her side, pressing the loose seam flat. The silk bunched under her glove. She tipped her head back toward Cecily’s hush of outrage and found her voice.
“Stay here,” she murmured, soft enough for only Cecily to hear. “Smile at Aunt Agnes when she scowls. Tell her I’ve gone to powder my nose or rescue a puppy. You’re clever, you’ll think of something.”
Cecily’s frown deepened. “Where are you?—”
But Margaret was already turning away, careful not to tug the seam further. She clutched her small reticule tighter against her side, feeling the reassuring rattle of the tiny sewing kit tucked inside, filled with needles and thread. Aunt Agnes said it was unseemly, carrying such things like a maid, but Margaret knew better than to trust borrowed silk to hold its shape without help.
She slipped past the swirl of silk and candlelight, knowing Aunt Agnes would still be busy fussing over Beatrice to notice she was gone.
Halfway to the side corridor, she quickened her step and made sure she was quick. Her foot caught on something soft, a drag of fabric that shouldn’t be there. The lining, she felt it in a cold rush, had come loose from the hem and now trailed beneath the outer layer like a traitor under her skirts.
For one terrible heartbeat, she imagined the whole gown sliding from her shoulders, puddling at her feet in the middle of the corridor for any gossip-hungry lord to see.
