Page 32 of His Mad Duchess
He watched her fingers hover over the edge of the board and how carefully she touched the rook, lining it up as if the whole outcome depended on this single piece.
“Fair odds, Duchess,” he said, matching her pieces with lazy precision. “Now hush. It’s my opening.”
They moved through the first plays—half-serious, half-spiteful. When she nearly cornered his bishop, he leaned back, feigning shock. “You’ve done this before.”
Margaret flicked a pawn free with her fingertip. “My uncle taught me. He thought it would keep me quiet.”
“Did it?”
“Never.”
Sebastian huffed a laugh. “Good.”
The first few moves were quiet, mechanical. Then he saw the spark when she trapped one of his bishops, the sly curl of her mouth she tried to hide behind her hair. Sebastian leaned back, tapping a finger against the edge of the board. “Remind me to never play cards with you.”
She flicked him a look, all faux sweetness. “Oh, I cheat terribly at cards.”
Their banter bounced like a small fire between them. She teased him when he muttered under his breath after losing a rook. He called her tactics fiendish when she trapped his queen. Her laugh, sharp and soft all at once, loosened something in his ribs that he hadn’t realized was locked tight.
When he leaned forward to slide his knight, their knuckles brushed, causing a spark neither of them named. She didn’tflinch. He didn’t pull away. The library felt smaller suddenly, more alive than it had in months.
Margaret tilted her head, studying the board. “You’re not very good at this.”
Sebastian made a wounded noise. “I’m an excellent strategist. Ask Parliament.”
She snorted. “Are you trying to bore me into checkmate, Your Grace?”
He pointed his knight at her king. “Hardly. Look alive, Duchess.”
They went on like that, two people who had no business laughing in each other’s company, laughing anyway. By the time she cornered his king, his grin had slipped past polite and settled into something real. Easy.
Sebastian leaned back, flicking his fingers at her victorious pieces. “I yield.”
Margaret sat back too, her smile a flash of teeth. “Rule time, Your Grace.”
He raised both brows. “Go on, then. Make it dreadful.”
She leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Every meal. You’ll dine in the hall. With me. No libraries. No excuses.”
Sebastian let out a final laugh, too loud for the quiet of the library. “God help me! Checkmate indeed.”
Margaret woke with her scream caught in her throat, pulse hammering in the soft dark. The remnants of fire clung to her eyes; the hiss of smoke merged with the press of heat under her skin. She lay still, pressing her palm to her ribs until the sharp edges of the dream dulled enough to breathe around.
It was always the same: the fire, the hand, the crackle at her ear that never fully went quiet. She counted the seconds until her pulse slowed, until she could swallow the acid behind her teeth.
When she pushed herself upright, the faint light creeping past the drapes looked almost kind—almost. She wished it felt like safety.
Margaret pressed her wrist to her temple, forcing the tremble back into her bones. No more noise. Not now. She prayed no one had heard her in the night.
When the knock came, Margaret flinched as if she’d been caught. The door cracked open, spilling a slant of pale dawn across the carpet. Jenny stepped through, arms full of fresh linen, a basket hooked neatly over one wrist.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” The girl bobbed a quick curtsey, voice pitched just too soft to echo. She kept her eyes on thehearth as she crossed to the dressing stand, fussing with the folded linen like someone might scold her if she dared look up.
Margaret watched her, searching for any hint that the walls had betrayed her secrets in the night—the scream, the ragged breathing, the muffled sob she’d crushed into the pillow.
Jenny’s hands fluttered once over the clean chemises, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. When she finally risked a glance at Margaret’s face, her polite smile slipped sideways, not quite reaching her eyes.
“Will Your Grace dress now? I’ve brought your dove-gray as Mrs. Fowler thought it might suit the morning’s calls.”
