Page 37 of His Mad Duchess
They turned their mounts toward the house, the horses falling into a steady canter. The sky darkened above them, but neither hurried; their pace was easy, almost reluctant, as though stretching the moment before the storm broke.
By the time they sat for supper, the rain had claimed the evening in full. Candlelight flickered on porcelain, thunder muttered somewhere beyond the glass. Her seat was now close to his, close enough to catch the faint spice of his cologne each time he moved.
Sebastian poured wine into his glass, then into hers without asking, as if it had become the natural order of things.
“You enjoyed the ride,” he said, and though the words were delivered with the same easy lilt, his body betrayed more with the proud lift of his shoulders, the faint tilt of his chin, as though he’d been the one to carve the path or set the tree line in its place. A glint warmed his gaze, quiet satisfaction at seeing her keep pace where he had not expected it.
“I did,” she replied, breaking a bit of bread between her fingers. “Your Bramble is a handsome creature.”
A flicker—pride perhaps—crossed his face. “He’s worth the trouble.”
She reached for her glass, tilting it slightly to watch the wine catch the candlelight. “Trouble? I thought he was serious.”
“One does not keep a horse like Bramble without earning a few bruises.”
Margaret glanced up, curious. “You make it sound like a battle.”
His mouth tugged in the faintest half-smile. “In the beginning, it was. He arrived with a temper that could shame a courtier. In the first week, he threw me into a water trough. In front of an audience.”
Her brows rose. “An audience?”
“Mrs. Fowler. Parsons. The groom. Two stable boys. And a delivery cart from the fishmonger.” He paused, as if reliving thehumiliation. “I believe the fishmonger still greets me as ‘Your Grace the Eel.’”
Margaret bit back a laugh but failed. “You’re inventing that.”
“I assure you, I am not. The man finds it hilarious.”
The image of him—drenched, sputtering, and furious—was far too delicious to keep from smiling at. “And yet you kept Bramble?”
He reached for his knife, slicing neatly through a piece of lamb. “I’ve never been in the habit of giving up on creatures with too much spirit. Even when they bite.”
She arched a brow, tearing her bread in two. “And do you extend that philosophy to people, Your Grace, or only to horses?”
He huffed silently as the thunder rolled, the sound almost lost beneath the rain, though the faint curve at his mouth betrayed him.
When the last spoon clinked against her dish and the candles burned lower, the staff moved with their usual quiet efficiency, clearing plates and replacing them with nothing more than the faint fragrance of roasted lamb and rain-washed air drifting in from the windows.
Margaret sat back, letting her fingers smooth the napkin into a precise fold. She wasn’t sure why she lingered—habit, perhaps, or the faint sense that the evening wasn’t quite finished. The rain’s steady patter filled the pause between them, unhurried and companionable.
Her gaze flicked to the decanter, to the glass before her, to the faint arch of his brow as if waiting for something unspoken.
She cleared her throat. “We never finished our last game.”
Sebastian’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk framing his mouth. “I believe I was winning.”
She gave him a look that might once have cut him in two—at least, it had worked on others before. “You had a rook cornered. Do not pretend you had a strategy.”
“Cornered rooks are the soul of strategy, Madam.” He rose, pushing his chair back with a fluid ease that made something in her chest tighten in a way she chose not to examine. “Come then. Let us see how merciless Your Grace intends to be tonight.”
She stood as well, smoothing her skirts with a practiced flick of her wrist. He was watching—she knew he was—though he would never admit it.
In the library, the chessboard was already set, a quiet courtesy that had become a part of their evenings without either of them remarking on it. Margaret settled into her chair, the firelight catching in the polished bone of the pieces. She slid her pawn forward, meeting his eyes.
“You cheat,” she said as he mirrored her move.
“I never cheat,” he replied mildly. “I strategize. Entirely different crime.”
She narrowed her eyes at the board. “Mm. Is it a strategy when you knock the piece with your elbow?”
