Page 59 of His Mad Duchess
“Then I will enlighten you,” Honoria said, her eyes glittering. “They say you were bewitched into it, that the girl ensnared you with tricks and soft tears. That she is not fit for the title. That she is…” Her pause was deliberate and severe, the word sharpened with relish. “That she is mad. The mad girl of Ravenscourt.”
His teeth clenched, but she was not finished.
“Do not look at me so,” she went on, her voice pitched louder now, carrying beyond the chamber, a brittle laugh following. “I did not invent it. I merely repeat what half of London already believes. You may stamp your foot and glower, but gossip has longer legs than any man. And if you imagine, Sebastian, that I shall endure smirks and pitying glances on her account, you are much deceived.”
He said nothing, though the silence was taut as a drawn bow.
Her chin lifted higher. Her tone, sharper and more strident, rang against the walls. “For heaven’s sake, you could have chosen sensibly. A woman of family, of sense, of at the very least… sanity. But instead, you bring home a… foundling, Sebastian.God only knows what taint runs in her blood. The girl is touched by madness in her family, mark me. If you persist, you will ruin us all.”
Honoria’s voice rang clear, sharpened with disbelief.
“And now, you expect me to bow and call her duchess, you dare expect me to receive her, to call her daughter, to suffer that name on my lips when she is and always shall be nothing more than the mad girl of Everly! It is intolerable.”
Something inside him broke loose. He took one step forward, his voice cracking through the air like thunder.
“She is not mad.”
The Dowager Duchess stilled, startled by the sudden blaze of it.
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice was cool, incredulous, as though daring him to repeat himself.
“You heard me, Mother. She is my wife,” he pressed on, breath hard, chest rising with it. “The Duchess of Ravenscourt. And if I hear you—or anyone—utter such poison again, I will not hold my peace as I do now.” His eyes burned into hers, hot and merciless. “You will never speak of her so. Never.”
The Duchess faltered beneath the ferocity of his gaze, her chin lifting but her shoulders betraying the smallest tremor.
But he moved closer, his voice low and terrible, each syllable carved with deliberate force.
“She has more courage in her little finger than half the world that mocks her. She has borne trials that would have broken women ten times as strong, yet still, she stands with grace. She is mine, and I will not suffer one breath of insult against her—not from the ton nor least of all from you.”
The Duchess drew herself up, her lips pale and tight, but she did not answer.
Sebastian’s breath still came hard, his jaw set like iron. For one suspended moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Then he gave a short, cutting bow—more insult than courtesy.
“I have said all that needed to be said.” His voice was low now, but it carried the same dangerous edge. “Pray remember it.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel. His boots struck the polished floor with a measured, deliberate force as he strode out, the door swinging shut behind him with a decisive thud.
Margaret, still a little breathless from the near kiss, told herself it was only proper that she should seek out the Duchess as well. Tooffer her welcome would please Sebastian; it was the right thing to do.
She had followed the faint sound of voices down the corridor, then she paused at the threshold of the small adjoining room. The Duchess’ tones carried easily—smooth, commanding, and pitched just high enough to be heard by anyone who might pass.
“…a foundling, Sebastian. God only knows what taint runs in her blood. The girl is touched by madness in her family, mark me. If you persist, you will ruin us all.”
Margaret, pressed against the paneled wall of the adjoining morning room, flinched as though struck herself.
Margaret went cold. She had not meant to overhear—yet the words struck with the force of a slap. For one dreadful instant, she thought she must have misheard. But then came Sebastian’s answer, low but unyielding, reverberating like iron struck against iron.
“… the Duchess of Ravenscourt. And if I hear you—or anyone—utter such poison again, I will not hold my peace as I do now.”
The blood rushed to Margaret’s face. She felt as though every servant in the hall must know, every person in the house must be laughing at her expense. She pressed a hand against the doorframe to steady herself, shame and gratitude warring so violently within her that she could scarcely breathe.
Every word had carried through the half-open door. His mother had not troubled to lower her voice; indeed, she had likely raised it so the whole house might hear. Margaret’s cheeks burned hot, mortification coursing through her. To have been the subject of such venom and to hear Sebastian’s furious defense left her shaken, uncertain whether to weep or flee.
How foolish she had been, thinking her presence might delight his mother, that she might earn some small welcome. Instead, she had been made a spectacle, her name tossed about like a scandal sheet, her worth dissected in rooms not her own.
She gathered her skirts and fled, scarcely knowing how her feet carried her. Down the passage, up the stairs, her only thought was escape.
In the refuge of her chamber, she closed the door with trembling hands and leaned against it, her heart battering her ribs.
