Page 49 of His Mad Duchess
Behind her, Sebastian’s voice drifted softer. “You’re good with them.”
Margaret glanced back over her shoulder. “They’re honest. I like honest creatures.”
He tilted his head, one brow lifted just so. “Including black cats…and me?”
She shot him a look that made his grin flash quickly and unguarded.
As she moved down the table, she caught her fingers against the cuff of her glove, and it slipped. She fumbled to pull it back—but small, sticky hands were quicker. The little girl with the slate-smudged nose peered up at her, clutching Margaret’s hand in both her tiny palms.
“Pretty ring,” the child whispered, pointing at Margaret’s wedding band. Her voice was so small it made Margaret’s heart tip oddly.
Sebastian, beside her now, murmured something she didn’t quite catch, only that his voice was warm, and she felt it settle at her collarbone in a way she didn’t mind.
When she rose, her skirts brushed his boot. He didn’t step back.
Margaret dipped her head politely to the mistress. “You do good work here. If there’s anything you require…”
The woman gave a brisk nod, eyes glancing to Sebastian and back again. “A new roof before winter, Your Graces. And a few more candles for the dark days. I’ll make do with the rest.”
Sebastian’s voice came low at her side. “Done.”
Margaret looked up at him, startled. He caught her gaze—steady, certain.
“One roof, one winter saved,” he said, too quiet for the children to hear. “Seems worth it, doesn’t it?”
She found herself smiling, the kind that started deep and warmed her whole face.
When they stepped out into the pale noon light, the little door swung shut behind them with a soft click. For a moment, neither of them moved; they only stood side by side on the narrow lane, the cottage roofs tumbling away to the fields beyond.
Margaret breathed in the fresh air, sharper here than in the gardens at Ravenscourt. She felt the pressure settle on her shoulders again, but this time, it did not weigh so heavily.
Sebastian’s coat brushed her sleeve as he shifted. “You’ve a knack for that,” he said after a moment.
“For what?” She glanced up, the wind tugging loose a wisp of hair at her temple.
He half smiled. “For making a thing feel… lighter. Less grim than it is.”
Margaret laughed softly, surprised at the warmth that spilled out of her. “Hardly. You did most of the talking.”
“True,” he allowed. “But you listened. It’s a talent few possess.”
She dipped her head, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I suspect you’re dreadful company in London clubs, then. No one to listen?”
Sebastian made a low noise in his throat—almost a laugh, almost not. “Plenty of ears but very few that hear.”
Their eyes met. The wind rustled the hem of her gown and carried a loose petal from a hedge rose across the path between them.
Margaret tucked her hands together at her waist. “Thank you for today. It means more to them and to me than you think.”
He tilted his head, the faintest glint in his eye. “I should be worried then. Gratitude from you usually precedes trouble.”
Her mouth curved. “Only if you deserve it.”
“Which, apparently, I do not,” he returned, starting up the path.
She fell into step beside him. “No, and you may consider that the last highest praise you are likely to receive from me today.”
A silence bloomed between them again, but this time, it felt oddly companionable, stitched through with the warm echo of children’s laughter and the warmth of the chalky schoolroom.
