Page 52 of His Mad Duchess
“You ought to be in the house, not wandering my gardens with thunder for company,” he scolded lightly. “Your garden, I suppose… I forget myself.”
She swallowed, huddling deeper into the warmth he’d left behind in the cloth. “It was sunny. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I wanted air. I wanted?—”
He ducked his head to catch her eye. “To outrun your thoughts?”
She huffed a laugh that caught on a shiver. “So, you do read minds, Your Grace.”
A roll of thunder made her flinch again, and then his hand was at her elbow, steadying her without hurry. “Look at me, Margaret.”
She did. Even in the thin gray light, the shape of his mouth almost startled her. It was so near and so alive.
Then, very carefully, he reached out and brushed the bonnet from her hair entirely, setting it aside on the workbench. His thumb found her temple, brushing away a stray drop of rain that lingered.
“Come here,” he murmured. He sat beside her on the dry sacks, their shoulders pressing, heat and rain and breath all tangled together.
Margaret stiffened. But when the next roll came in a deep, rolling growl that made the door shiver again, she felt herself lean. Just enough to let her shoulder settle against his.
His hand hovered at her back.May I?it asked. She gave him her answer in the tremor of her breath and felt his palm rest between her shoulders, solid and steady as stone.
They sat like that, listening to the rain hammer the old tin roof. His coat smelled of wet wool and the faint ghost of something sweet—the brandy he sometimes sipped in his library. She counted her breaths against his ribs and felt his thumb tap once, twice, like he might be keeping time for her heartbeat.
“You know,” he said after a while, voice pitched low against her ear, “when I was a boy, I used to pretend storms were drums. A king’s drums calling the brave out to dance in the fields.”
Margaret huffed a tiny laugh against the rough wool of his sleeve. “And were you brave?”
He paused, and she felt it in the breath he drew, deep and tight. “No,” he said at last. “But I wanted to be.”
The thunder cracked again, but softer now. Further off. Margaret felt it in her bones, but it did not catch so sharply this time.
She turned her head, just enough to see him. His hair was a wet tangle at his brow. She reached up—she did not know why—and brushed it back with trembling fingers. His lashes lowered, then lifted, a question flickering behind the green of his eyes.
Another distant rumble. Another heartbeat closer than sense should allow.
She pulled her hand back before it could become something she didn’t know. He let it go, though his eyes lingered on her mouth a fraction longer than proper.
“Listen here. We’re dry enough for the moment, but if you tremble every time the heavens growl, you’ll wear yourself out before supper. So…” He cast a glance around the cramped littleshed, his gaze landing on a teetering stack of implements in one corner. “We shall distract you. I propose a competition.”
Margaret followed his look. “A competition?”
“For the most distinguished rake,” he said solemnly, stepping toward a rack hung with at least six of them. “And I do not mean the gentlemanly sort.”
Her lips curved. “A difficult choice. They are all in such fine condition.”
“Indeed. That one there has a very elegant handle. This one…” he lifted another and twirled it once. “Is clearly the work of a master craftsman. And here—ah, a true rogue.”
She shook her head, amusement breaking through her unease. “You cannot possibly have a favorite among them.”
“I can,” he said gravely, replacing the rake and dusting his hands. “But I shall not reveal it until the judging is complete. We must be impartial, Duchess.”
Margaret gave a small laugh. “Very well. Though I cannot promise my vote will not be swayed by charm.”
“In that case,” he said, stepping closer to the row of tools, “I suspect the competition is already lost.”
Another peal of thunder, but it sounded further now, muffled behind his easy nonsense. Margaret breathed in, out, the storm’s teeth dulled by the silly picture he painted of roses where trowels should be, a black cat ruling over blooms.
“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, but she did not move from the circle of his warmth.
“I have it on good authority that ridiculousness is my best quality,” he said gravely, voice pitched low. “Now, breathe, Duchess. The storm will pass. I am here.”
