Page 23 of His Mad Duchess
The road blurred under iron wheels, hedgerows turning to a green smear that made Margaret’s head ache if she stared too long. She kept her eyes on it anyway. Safer than looking at him.
Sebastian sat opposite her, his boots braced wide against the floor, his fingers drumming once against his knee. He’d been quiet since they left London’s smoke behind, but the quiet didn’t fool her. A man like that never sat still for long.
When he spoke, his voice slipped through the rattle of iron and road like the click of a lock turning.
“We should speak plainly,” he said. “Set some rules. Now that we’re…” His mouth pulled at the corner, a flicker of something bitter, “… inconveniently bound.”
Margaret’s reflection flickered with a small smile that wasn’t sweet at all. She didn’t look at him.
“Rules. How romantic.”
He shifted his gloves, adjusting the fit like he’d rather be anywhere else than here, facing the future they’d both stepped into.
“It is practical. First rule: this is not, nor will it ever be, a love match.”
Margaret let out a small sound that could have been a laugh, though it was too sharp to be kind. “Clarity. How noble.”
He ignored the bite in her tone. “You’ll find it simpler this way.”
“Simple,” she echoed, glancing at him now. His face was unreadable, carved in that cold green stare. “I’ve always dreamed of a simple marriage.”
He shifted, the faintest edge of discomfort tightening his shoulders. “It saves us both the embarrassment of illusions.”
Margaret almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she pressed her teeth together, the words slipping out. She raised a brow. “Did you think I’d be scribbling poetry about your eyes by next week? Is that what you think I expected? That I’d swoon into your arms now that you’ve given me your name?”
His eyes flicked up, green and steady. “Stranger things have happened.”
She let her head tilt just enough to meet his stare, seeing the cut of his cheekbones and the faint pulse at his temple that gave away more than his voice did. “Not to me.”
The road jolted beneath them, knocking her knee lightly against his boot. She pressed her leg back against the seat edge, hoping he hadn’t felt her flinch. Neither of them apologized.
He cleared his throat, voice lower now, like he was reciting a list he hated.
“Second rule: in two months, we go our separate ways. You’ll keep to your house. I’ll keep to mine,” he said as though it were already settled. “Ravenscourt has a property in Surrey. It is quiet and well-kept. You may have it all to yourself. I’ll see it furnished. We’ll do our duty in public when necessary, but you’re free to live as you please. Just don’t drag my name into fresh scandal.”
Margaret’s lips twitched at that, not quite a smile, more the ghost of one.
“Free to live as I please,” she murmured. “Imagine that.”
He didn’t blink. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” She turned her face back to the window, though she felt his stare like a weight on her cheekbone. “No illusions, no entanglements. So neat.”
“Don’t mock it,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Most wives in your place would beg for the same.”
She tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she might never finish. “Did you imagine me begging for anything?”
He held her gaze. “No. I know better now.”
Silence folded in for a moment. She felt his stare still on her, steady as the drum of the wheels. Margaret pressed her thumb into the seam of her glove, grounding herself on something small when everything else felt too large to hold.
He shifted again, boot tapping once, voice careful but firm. “It’s only sense. Two months, clean break. No pretense once the scandal dies down.”
She flicked her eyes back to him, catching that careful mask he wore so easily. “And after two months, we pretend this never happened?”
His mouth twitched. “Exactly.”
Margaret nodded once. Let him think he’d written the last line. She slid her gaze back to the glass, watching her reflection pale against the muddy fields. The road thumped steadily beneath them. She counted the bumps with her teeth.
