Page 33 of His Mad Duchess
Margaret’s fingers twisted in the counterpane, knuckles white. She forced a nod, too slow to feel like a habit.
“Yes, Jenny. Thank you. That will do nicely.”
Jenny’s answering “Yes, ma’am” was as careful as footsteps over glass, and her eyes dropped to her task again, and that small mercy told Margaret enough—that the house had listened, even if no one would say so.
She dressed slowly, fumbling the buttons twice before she let Jenny finish them for her. The room smelled of polish and lemon oil, bright and cold and new in ways that made her throat ache.
A moment later, another softer knock, and a second maid slipped in behind Jenny. This one was young with freckles dusted across her nose, eyes darting up just once before she dropped her gaze. She held a small tray close to her apron. On it sat a single porcelain cup, steam rising in gentle spirals.
“Mrs. Fowler sent this up, Your Grace, to calm you if you have the mind for it,” she murmured. She offered the tray with both hands, careful not to clink the porcelain.
Margaret looked at the cup of pale tea: a wisp of lavender and a curl of steam that smelled faintly of chamomile.
She lifted the cup with steady hands. “Thank you, Mary. Tell Mrs. Fowler, I’m obliged.”
Mary bobbed a quick curtsey, relief flickering in her wide eyes, and stepped back. Jenny busied herself at the wardrobe, careful not to glance at the tea or at Margaret for longer than courtesy demanded.
Margaret sipped once, the warmth catching at the raw edges of her throat.
In the breakfast room, the morning sun spilled across the long table with enough gleam to make the silverware look sharper than necessary.
The breakfast room felt too large for one table. Sebastian sat alone at the far end, his back straight, paper in hand, a cup of coffee steaming at his elbow.
Margaret paused at the threshold, smoothing her gloves against her skirt. She made her steps slow, deliberate—a duchess’ steps, not a frightened girl’s. When she took her seat opposite him, the chair’s faint scrape on the marble startled her more than she’d admit.
For a moment, she just watched him over the rim of her teacup. His dark hair bent toward the paper, his mouth unreadable, his eyes hidden as if he were the only soul in the room.
Did he hear?The question clanged in her ribs.
Margaret cleared her throat. “It’s a fine morning,” she said, light as she could make it.
No reply. He turned a page neatly, the crisp rustle louder than her words.
She glanced at her untouched porridge. Tried again. “A bit cold for June, though. Colder than this table at least.”
Nothing. The corner of his mouth didn’t even twitch. He lifted his cup, sipped once, and flipped the pages of the paper with precise care.
Margaret traced her spoon’s edge along the porcelain bowl.Say something. Anything.But he didn’t.
Her spoon dipped once into the porridge. Bland. Cold. She forced it down anyway, two mouthfuls before the taste turned to ash.
Margaret tried once more, voice careful, almost wry. “Do you always read the newspaper cover to cover, or is it just to avoid conversation with your wife?”
This time, a flicker crossed his face, his fingers paused at the edge of the paper, but he didn’t lift his head. He folded the page neatly and finished his tea in three measured sips.
His eyes, green and distant, unreadable as ever, lifted just enough to meet hers, not quite at her face but somewhere over her shoulder, polite as marble. Then they dropped to the paper again, dismissing her question like another headline not worth the ink.
He set the cup down with the soft click of finality. “I have business in the study.”
Margaret managed a nod. “Of course. Of course, you do.”
He left without a backward glance, the door sighing shut behind him.
Alone, Margaret stirred the porridge once, watching the steam vanish into the draft. Her pulse thudded in her throat.He knows.And maybe now he believed the worst of what they whispered.
He thinks I’m mad.The words settled heavy as lead under her ribs. Mad and not worth the trouble.
Margaret rose, hands smoothing her skirts. She caught her reflection faintly in the polished sideboard, the new Duchess of Ravenscourt, chin lifted, eyes too bright for dignity.
