Page 40 of His Mad Duchess
Margaret only laughed—she laughed!—as she tucked the struggling cat into the crook of her elbow. “I nearly have him. Do mind?—”
“Margaret,” he ground out, bracing himself. “Come. Down.”
She inched back, one boot scuffing his knee as she found her footing on the branch. He caught her wrist, felt her pulse leap under his thumb. She smelled of crushed leaves and the faint sharpness of rosemary soap.
“Now,” he said, softer this time. “One step. Good. Just?—”
Her heel slipped again, this time too quickly. He grabbed her waist, hauled her tight, but the branch betrayed them both. A shudder of splintered wood, a jolt of weightlessness, then the ground thudded up to meet them in a rush of grass and startled gasps.
Pain burst behind his ribs, his breath slammed out. But all he registered was Margaret, sprawled across his chest, hair wild, a streak of leaf-green at her temple, with the black cat huddled smugly in her elbow crook. His ribs were starting to protest the fall, but he didn’t want to move; all he felt was her. The heat of her pressed flush against him, her hair loose from its pins and brushing his jaw in soft, maddening wisps, made the pain vanish in that moment.
His hands had found her waist by instinct in a way that was almost possessive, and he felt the wild flutter of her heartbeat against his palm, matching the ragged thrum of his own.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Her skirts fanned about his knees, her breath caught somewhere near his throat. The stray cat squeaked indignantly but didn’t flee, tucked between them like a warm, squirming coal.
His hands stayed locked around her waist. Hers pressed to his shoulders for balance. She blinked down at him, eyes wide, mouth parted in a startled laugh that trembled with something that didn’t feel like fear.
For a fraction of a moment, he did not breathe. The garden, the staff’s muffled gasps, the foolish black cat, it all vanished into the pounding rush of blood in his ears. There was only the warmth of her, her eyes wide, her mouth parted in a breath she forgot to finish.
He should have let go. He knew it. But he didn’t.
Margaret’s lashes fluttered. For one reckless heartbeat, her fingers curled lightly at his collar, steadying herself or steadying him, he couldn’t tell. The shape of her pressed into him, softer than any threat, more dangerous than any blade he’d ever crossed.
He heard himself exhale her name, not Your Grace, not Madam, just a soft, almost foolishMargaret. And at the sound of it, she seemed to blink back into herself. Her gaze darted away, color flooding her cheeks as if the wind itself had caught her in a lie.
Sebastian felt every heartbeat in the space between them, quick and reckless. He swallowed hard, finding his voice somewhere low in his throat.
“Next time,” he rasped, breathless against her hair, “try sending a footman for the cat.”
Margaret’s lips curved into a wicked, breathless smile. “Where would the fun be in that?”
The cat purred, content as sin itself.
For one heartbeat more, Sebastian could not move. Her weight pressed lightly over his ribs, the cat’s purr rumbling somewhere between them like a scandalous secret. He could smell leaves, the warmth of her skin, and the faint sweetness of her hair where it brushed his jaw. Something tightened low in his chest—a snap of heat that startled him more than the fall.
He let out a breath that might have been a laugh or a curse and forced his hands to ease their hold on her waist. Still, he felt the shape of her there, like the skeleton of a touch he had no business craving.
Margaret pushed herself up first, her skirts rustling, her face flushed from the tumble and something else he didn’t want to think about. The cat tumbled free, perfectly unbothered, and plopped down in the grass to lick its paw.
Sebastian dragged in a breath, wholly unsteady inside his chest. He pushed himself upright, brushing dirt from his coat with more force than needed, as if he could sweep away what had just passed between them. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and he rose, brushing grass from his coat, breath still ragged from the stupid drop.
“Are you mad?” he said, sharper than he meant, voice carrying across the stunned silence of the garden staff. He caught herelbow, lightly this time, to check her balance. “Did you plan to break your neck for a stray cat?”
Margaret, still catching her breath, tried to gather her dignity around her like her skirts. She glanced at him, eyes wide but glinting with a tiny spark. “I am sorry. I didn’t plan the falling part.”
He barked a laugh that was too near disbelief. “God save me. A Duchess up a tree. What next? Must I keep you off rooftops, too?”
Margaret huffed. “I said I’m sorry. I only—She was stuck. She looked so frightened.” Her voice dipped, brushing something soft in him he pretended not to feel. She kneeled to scoop up the black cat, which immediately tucked its head under her chin with shocking trust.
“Look at her,” Margaret whispered, as if that explained everything. And to her, it probably did.
Sebastian pressed his palm over his ribs where her laugh had landed moments ago. “And what do you mean to do now, Madam? Bring her into my house?”
Margaret hesitated, gaze flicking to his in that half-defiant, half-hopeful way she had. “May we? I know what people will say—especially if it’s me with my so-called misfortune. A black cat in my hands? They’ll whisper until they choke on it.”
Sebastian snorted, voice roughened by the rush of blood still in his ears. “Let them whisper. They always will, whatever you do.”
Her arms tightened around the little creature. The cat blinked its luminous eyes and purred louder.
