Page 56 of His Mad Duchess
She stepped back with the silent grace of long training, but her gaze flicked quickly—almost concerned—over Margaret’s face before she withdrew.
When the door closed, silence settled. Margaret pressed her palms briefly against the cool wood of the dressing table. Only a rehearsal, she reminded herself. Only duty. Then she turned and walked out, her skirts whispering along the corridor toward the unused ballroom.
The unused ballroom smelled faintly of dust and polish when she entered. Its long windows poured pale afternoon light across the floorboards where Sebastian already stood waiting, coat off, gloves tucked beneath one arm. He turned as she approached, his expression unreadable, though his bow was impeccably correct.
At the far end of the room, a hired violinist lingered in shadow, bow poised in readiness, the faint scrape of tuning strings breaking the quiet in the room.
“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly before he could speak. “I was… rather sharp this morning. You meant no harm, and I am grateful for your care.”
A faint crease eased from his brow. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Her fingers knotted together, then unclasped. “Even so. Thank you.” She hesitated a beat, then added with a trace of firmness, “But the rule stands, Sebastian. It must.”
For a moment, he only inclined his head, as though he understood too well. “As you wish.” His voice was even, yet something in it carried the weight of disappointment.
Margaret’s gaze flickered to the space between them, the broad stretch of polished floor that seemed, absurdly, to urge them nearer. She drew a steadying breath. “We should begin before I lose my nerve.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Then let us begin at once.” He extended his hand, palm open, waiting.
Her pulse stirred at the gesture, quick and uncertain. Still, she placed her hand in his, the touch light at first though the distance between them seemed to lessen of its own accord.
“Shall we?” he asked again, softer this time.
From the shadowed end of the room, the violinist drew his bow across the strings, the first low notes trembling into the stillness. She let him draw her forward. His other hand found its place at her waist, steady and warm even through the muslin, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the air closer. She fixed her eyes on the far window, refusing the sudden awareness of how near he stood.
“You keep looking away,” he murmured.
“I am rehearsing my composure,” she replied, forcing a brightness she did not feel. “It would not do to glare at you in public.”
“I rather thought you excelled at glaring,” he said, the faintest thread of amusement beneath the words.
Her lips twitched despite herself. “And you at provoking it.”
“Someone must keep you sharp.” His thumb brushed, almost imperceptibly, against her hand. “Besides, you’d be bored if I were too agreeable.”
“I should like to test that theory.”
“I should like to prove you wrong.”
Their steps moved into measure, the silence broken only by the soft slide of shoes across the boards. She felt the rhythm settle between them, his presence shaping her movements with practiced ease. It was too easy, she thought, how quickly they fell into unison.
“See?” he said, lowering his voice as their turn drew her closer still. “We can appear united if only for an evening.”
Their steps moved into measure, the silence of the room broken only by the soft slide of shoes across the boards. She felt the rhythm settle between them, his presence shaping her movements with practiced ease. It was too easy, she thought, how quickly they fell into unison.
“See?” he said, lowering his voice as their turn drew her closer still. “We can appear united if only for an evening.”
Margaret swallowed, the words catching.Appear united.That was all it must be. And yet her hand in his tightened, betraying her.
His eyes lingered on her face. “Appearances are all the world asks of us. But it feels…” His breath stirred faintly against her temple. “It feels rather more than that, does it not?”
She drew in a sharp breath. “That is precisely why the rule exists.”
“And yet,” he murmured, “you follow my lead as though you trust me.”
Margaret glanced up, startled, her composure faltering for the span of a heartbeat. “I trust the steps, not the man.”
His mouth curved. “Then perhaps I should be grateful the steps are steady enough to carry me with them.”
