Page 58 of His Mad Duchess
Then, the door burst open.
“Your Graces!” The footman halted, blanching at the sight before him, eyes darting anywhere but their faces. His voice cracked as he stumbled through the words. “Forgive me—Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, has arrived.”
The words slammed into the room. Margaret startled back, color flooding her cheeks, horrified at how easily she had leaned into him. She folded her hands sharply before her, as if they might hide her treachery.
Sebastian straightened at once, every inch the Duke again, but the muscle in his jaw betrayed him. He took the letter from the servant with measured composure. Only when the man had gone did he turn back to her.
Silence settled once more. He looked at her then, his expression carved of restraint, and only a slight flicker in his eyes betrayed all that had nearly passed between them.
“My mother will expect me,” he said at last, voice low and controlled.
Margaret managed a nod, though her pulse still thundered. And then he was gone, the echo of his presence lingering, the taste of an unspoken moment trembling in the air between them.
CHAPTER 19
Sebastian had scarcely crossed the threshold of his study when the echo of Margaret’s near touch still stole his breath. Her scent, the warmth of her hand at his shoulder, lingered like a ghost upon his skin. Fool that he was, he could still hear the faint swell of music, could still imagine what might have happened had he leaned that fraction closer—had the world not intruded.
And intrude it did. The crunch of carriage wheels on gravel drew him to the window, and at once his mind splintered: his mother, here, now of all moments. His mother, who would meet Margaret with cool appraisal sharpened into cruelty. His mother, whose standards no woman could ever satisfy.
He dragged a hand across his mouth, as if to wipe away what had nearly been, as if to brace himself for what must come. It was Margaret he thought of now. How would Margaret fare beneath that gaze? The question pressed on him like a weight.
The door to the library opened before he had quite collected himself. “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscourt,” the butler intoned.
And there she stood—wrapped in sable, chin raised, surveying the room as though Duncaster Estate were her rightful throne.
“Mother,” he said, forcing civility into his tone, though distraction still tugged at him. “This is… a surprise.”
“I imagine it is.” Honoria removed her gloves with efficient little tugs, eyes sweeping over the library as if she inspected the place for dust. “I decided I would come down for a few days. London is insufferable at present.”
“You might have written,” he said evenly, though his jaw tightened.
She lifted a brow. “And give you time to marshal your defenses? No, my dear. Best to arrive as one is, without the ceremony of letters. They only encourage evasion.”
He folded his hands behind his back. “Courtesy, I had always thought, was the business of letters.”
Her mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Courtesy, yes. Truth, no. If I had written, you would have conjured some pressing matter to occupy you here—crops, tenants, a sudden fever among the horses, perhaps. You have a fine imagination when it comes to excuses.”
His gaze sharpened. “You think me so bent on avoiding you?”
“I know you,” Honoria returned coolly. “Better to appear without notice. Saves you the effort of lying.”
His teeth clenched, but he said nothing.
She drifted closer to the fire, adjusting the fall of her cloak with precise, restless fingers. “The city is in a fever over the coming ball. I daresay it will be the most attended of the season. Of course, I cannot possibly endure it.”
“And why not?” His tone was clipped, a warning edge beneath the civility.
She arched one brow, drawing out the pause as if savoring his impatience. “Why? Because I have no taste for being gawped at like a specimen in a jar. Do you imagine I wish to be cornered by every smug countess and grasping matron, all demanding to know about your… choice?”
Sebastian’s shoulders stiffened. “My choice?”
Her lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained cold. “Yes. Your sudden, inexplicable marriage. They will be waiting to whisper behind their fans. They already are. I cannot walk into a salon without hearing some sly remark, some pitying glance—as if you had leaped from a cliff into the sea.”
He let out a low breath. “Let them whisper.”
“Easy enough for you to say,” she retorted, a flare of scorn in her voice. “You may bury yourself here at Ravenscourt, sulking among your books, while I must bear the brunt in every drawing room. It is I who must face their smirks and condolences. Do you know the words being passed about?”
“I do not care to, Mother.” His voice was flat, but his hand tightened at his side.
