Page 25 of His Mad Duchess
“So, Your Grace, what about meals?”
He blinked, caught off guard for the first time since they’d stepped inside this rolling cage.
“Meals?”
“Yes, meals,” she said, crisply but almost amused now. “Will you want a daily breakfast companion? Or shall I eat alone, so you can scowl into your eggs in peace?”
He chuckled, “I don’t scowl into my eggs.”
She tilted her head, pretending deep thought. “Toast, then. Tea?”
His mouth twitched. “Tea has never offended me. Though I might glare now if you’re there watching.”
She pressed her lips together to hide the smirk. “So we eat apart. I’ll spare your tea the scandal of my presence.”
He shifted, leaning forward just enough to look at her properly. “Maybe I like company at dinner.”
Margaret cocked her head, pretending to weigh it. “Dinner’s different?”
His eyebrow lifted. “Dinner’s tolerable. There’s wine. Wine makes you bearable.”
Margaret turned her eyes to the window again, hiding her own grin at the edge of her teeth. “Very well. Breakfast apart, dinner… endurable. No illusions, no forced niceties. We’ll leave each other to our trays and polite gossip when the staff is near.”
“I’ll glare at my tea in private, Duchess.”
“And I’ll glare at my toast, Your Grace.”
He studied her as if she’d sprouted a second head, then commented softly, “You really do plan every corner of this, don’t you?”
“I prefer no surprises,” she murmured. “I find I handle disappointment better when I see it coming.”
Their eyes caught then—brief, tight, too raw for the rattle of wheels around them. She looked away first.
Margaret felt the first briny kiss of the Brighton wind before the carriage even rounded the last bend. The sea wasn’t visible yet,but she could smell the salt and distant storms tucked behind the trim green hedges that lined the long, winding drive.
The hedgerows lining the long drive were trimmed to neat, green walls, with bright beds of foxglove and summer roses peeking out in careful bursts of color. No weeds. No wild edges. Someone had ordered all this beauty into obedience.
Ahead, Duncaster Estate rose pale against the soft gray sky, three tall stories of clean white stone, window frames painted a fresh, dark green. Ivy curled tight along the west wing but clipped at the corners, so it looked deliberate, not like it was creeping in where it shouldn’t.
The carriage wheels crunched to a halt on the broad gravel sweep. Margaret’s stomach did a small, useless turn when Sebastian’s shadow moved beside her. Margaret felt the shift in her bones more than in her mind; her body reminded her that this was no inn, no borrowed house. This was hers now—for however long now lasted.
He stepped out first, boots landing firm on the stones. For a moment, he paused, glancing up at the high windows that caught the dull light, as if checking they were still there. Then he turned back to her, his hand extended.
“Shall we?”
Margaret hesitated only half a heartbeat before slipping her fingers into his. His palm felt warm, steady, but the momenthe’d helped her down, he stepped back like the contact might stain him.
She took in the front steps, wide, shallow, flanked by two huge stone planters overflowing with red geraniums. It struck her that this house, this whole picture, was a kind of armor for him. It was beautiful and tidy, never hinting at how raw the people inside it might feel.
The butler was waiting at the top of the shallow steps, an older man in an immaculate black coat, chin lifted just enough to look down the bridge of his nose at them both.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing to Sebastian, then he turned to Margaret. “Your Grace.”
Margaret flinched at the title. It sounded too big for her skin. She caught Sebastian’s glance, but if he noticed, he let it pass.
“Parsons,” Sebastian said. “This is the Duchess of Ravenscourt.” He turned to Margaret, gesturing faintly. “Parsons has served this house since I was fourteen. You can trust him to know what should be done when you’d rather not say it yourself.”
Parsons gave the smallest nod. “Your Grace. The household has prepared your rooms. Mrs. Fowler, the housekeeper, is inside, should you wish to speak to her directly.”
