Page 26 of His Mad Duchess
Margaret forced a smile, polite but not warm. She had to say something. “Thank you, Parsons. I appreciate your care.”
Parsons only dipped his chin again, stepping aside as Sebastian gestured her toward the door.
Inside, cool air met her, the great entrance hall smelling faintly of beeswax and fresh flowers. The floors were gleaming black-and-white marble. On the far wall, a wide staircase swept up in a curve, its banister dark wood rubbed soft by years of hands. A footman hovered near the base of the wide staircase, and a slim, severe woman in a black dress stepped forward, hands folded. A cluster of maids stood behind her, trying not to look openly curious.
“The Duchess of Ravenscourt,” Sebastian said, his voice so perfectly formal it might have been a script. “This is Mrs. Fowler, our housekeeper. She runs this house more competently than I ever could. Fowler, you’ll see Her Grace settled.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Fowler said. She gave Margaret a smile that felt stiff around the edges but not unkind. “Welcome, Your Grace.”
Margaret nodded once. Her tongue felt thick. “Thank you.”
“The household stands ready for any instruction.”
Margaret started to thank her again, but caught Sebastian’s eyes first, sharp green under lowered lashes. He was watching her. The moment she met his gaze, he looked away, adjusting his cuff like it mattered more than whatever this new reality was.
Sebastian’s eyes flicked to the high windows, then back to the staff. “That’s all for now. You’ll give my… wife anything she needs. Any problems, she speaks to me directly.”
Parsons gave a quiet ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ and Mrs. Fowler bobbed another small curtsey.
Sebastian turned back to Margaret. For a moment, she thought he might say something real, something that indicated more, like that flicker behind his mask, but it shuttered as quickly as it came.
“I trust you’ll settle in,” he said, softer than the rest but not soft enough to stick. “You’ll find me in my study if you need anything.”
She opened her mouth, thought of asking him to stay, then shut it again before the foolishness slipped out.
Before she could form a suitable reply, he was already turning away, the heavy boots clicking across polished wood, past a pair of maids who bowed their heads as he passed. The sound vanished behind the heavy door to what must be his study.
Mrs. Fowler cleared her throat. “Your Grace, if you’ll come this way? I’ll show you your rooms. Your rooms face the garden. The sea air will do you good.”
Margaret forced herself to breathe, adjusting her grip on her gloves. She managed a half-step forward before Cecily’s lastwords flickered in her memory like a candle guttering in the wind.Be happy or safer or something in between.
Margaret swallowed it down. She lifted her chin. “Of course, Mrs. Fowler. Lead on.”
She followed the housekeeper up the wide staircase, the hush of the hall swallowing her footsteps while the staff trailed behind like polite shadows. Below, somewhere behind a closed door, her new husband’s voice murmured something low to Parsons, but no words reached her.
Only the smell of flowers and salt and the echo of her own new name.
CHAPTER 9
Margaret stirred from a fitful half-sleep with a faint gasp.
For the first time in years, Margaret woke without the echo of flames at her back.
No dream had dragged her through smoke and heat, and no phantom hand had reached for her in the dark. Only pale light met her when she opened her eyes to the soft warmth of a morning that felt too clean to be hers.
The Duchess of Ravenscourt.The words settled over her collarbones like a weight. The title fit ill, still stiff at the seams.
She turned her head. The fire had not yet been lit in the small hearth, but logs lay neatly in the grate, ready for the spark that had not come. A low clock on the mantel ticked in prim measure. Beside it, someone, a maid, no doubt, had left a tray set forher waking, which had on it a pot of tea, one roll under a linen napkin, and a pat of butter glistening in a silver dish.
She swung her feet to the rug. The wool beneath her toes was thick, pale green, and scattered with neat vines and flowers that looked too new to be walked upon.
A knock at the door startled her upright. Her breath caught—Foolish,she scolded herself, but the house felt so very wide about her.
“Yes?” her voice was hoarse, so she cleared her throat and tried again, firmer. “Come in.”
The door opened just enough for a young maid to slip through. The girl bobbed a curt curtsey, eyes lowered.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I am Jenny. Mrs. Fowler asked that I attend to you this morning, if it please you.”
