Page 42 of His Mad Duchess
He said after a beat, “I thought no one came in here anymore.”
Margaret let her hands rest on the keys, her shoulders a touch stiff under his stare. “Even broken things can make music,” she said lightly.
Margaret’s mouth curved in spite of herself. She pretended to study the page, fingers hovering above the keys. “Do you even play?”
He shifted closer. The warmth of his shoulder brushed hers, a touch too steady to be accidental. “Once. Long ago. My mother made me learn. Said it might toughen my edges.”
She raised a brow, daring. “Did it?”
His mouth twitched just for her. “Briefly. Until I discovered fencing was far more satisfying.”
She laughed outright this time, the sound startling the cat awake. “A piano or a sword, not much difference for a man like you.”
His voice dipped lower, velvet and dangerous. “Careful, Margaret. I might challenge you to a duel for that insult.”
She met his eyes then. It was too close and too bright for comfort. “You’d lose. I’d strike you with a single sharp note.”
Their knees bumped again as he leaned over, and before she could think better of it, he placed his hand over hers on the keys—warm, solid, steadying her tremble.
“Try it again,” he murmured, softer now. “I’ll play the lower notes. You take the melody.”
She swallowed, her pulse fluttering at her wrist where it brushed his cuff. “Together?”
“Together.”
They did. The melody rose, awkward but sweet. She stumbled; he caught the note. He stumbled; she filled it in. Once, her pinky brushed his thumb and lingered a heartbeat too long. She felt it, and so did he. Neither of them looked away until the cat nudged against their feet, meowing loudly.
They laughed. Together. A sound like sunlight in the dusty room. The melody grew clumsy but sweet, old and half-remembered but alive.
When she turned the page, her knuckle brushed his again—warm skin on warm skin, brief but sparking enough that she forgot her next note entirely.
When they reached the end of the line, he lifted his hand but did not pull back. “Not so hopeless after all,” he said, so close she felt his breath warm against her temple.
“Liar,” she whispered, breathless. “You flatter me, Your Grace.”
He leaned back just enough to see her face, but his smile was too soft to match his teasing voice. “I never flatter, Margaret. You ought to know that by now.”
Something in her chest turned over at the sound of her name in his mouth. She found the courage to nudge his shoulder lightly with hers. “Well. Perhaps we should try the violin next. Or the harp. Would you like to play the harp with me, Your Grace?”
He huffed a laugh, low and disbelieving. “I’d sooner be up another tree.”
Margaret’s laughter cracked through the room like birdsong. The cat flicked her tail and settled again at their feet, unimpressed by humans making music of themselves instead.
Sebastian leaned back a fraction, studying her with a grin. “You know, I didn’t expect this,” he said, voice dipping softer in the room. “To be here. To be… this. Away from London. Away from all the noise and people I pretend to like. I didn’t expect to enjoy myself at all.”
She turned to him, close enough she could see the faint shadow of stubble at his jaw and the tiny nick where he must have cut himself shaving.
“Well, I didn’t expect to be here either,” she said, her mouth curling at the edge. “I expected I’d be reading household ledgers until my eyes went crossed.”
He huffed a laugh. “Ah, but instead you’re rescuing stray cats and playing the piano with a dreadful man who can’t keep time.”
Margaret laughed too, a flutter spreading in her chest from his words. “I think you keep time very well, Your Grace.”
He looked at her then. His gaze lingered on her mouth a fraction too long.
“You’re a good friend, Margaret. A very good one.”
She went still, her fingers resting on the ivory, the faint vibration of the last note buzzing beneath her skin. Something caught in her throat, sharp and sudden. She swallowed against it, eyes fixed on the keys as though they might shift if she looked away. When she finally did, it was only to angle her face from his, letting the space between them fill with the soft, dying echo before she found the next chord by touch alone.
