Page 6 of His Mad Duchess
Before another syllable could bubble from the girl’s lips, he slipped sideways into the corridor. The hush in the corridor felt like stepping into a cool pool after standing too long under too many chandeliers. The music faded behind him, the giggles, gossip, and clink of crystal dulled by thick doors and velvet drapes.
Sebastian loosened his cravat as he walked, the press of the crowd falling away with each step. All he wanted now was the quiet weight of a library, a decent drink in his hand, and no one expecting him to dance, flatter, or wed before midnight.
CHAPTER 3
Margaret slipped through the narrow side corridor, her breath shallow, one hand pressed tightly to her waist, the other clutching her reticule so hard the chain dug into her glove. The muffled thrum of violins and laughter faded behind her as she pushed at the heavy, old oak library door.
“Empty. Thank God.”
She crossed the carpet in three quick steps to the nearest armchair near the hearth, a quiet corner where no one would see her tugging at the seams like a scullery maid. The silk at her hip pulled again, and she felt the tear spread, the loose lining tugging free beneath her skirt.
“Please just hold,” she whispered to the traitorous fabric. She sank to her knees, balancing awkwardly, tugging up the hem enough to see the damage. The lining had already half-detached, the outer silk puckering in a way any eye would catch. Her tiny sewing kit rattled inside her reticule, but her hands trembled toomuch to thread the needle. She bent closer, muttering curses her aunt would have fainted to hear.
She was so focused that she didn’t hear the faint clink of glass behind her until a voice slid across her spine.
“Forgive me, but if you’re going to dismantle yourself in my friend’s library, I feel obliged to offer my assistance.”
Margaret jerked so violently she nearly toppled backward, clutching the torn silk to her chest just in time. She twisted, heart hammering against her stays.
A man sat half in shadow in a leather chair by the hearth, long legs stretched out, one hand draped lazily around a glass of dark amber. He looked perfectly at ease with dark hair, eyes like flint catching fire, a ghost of a smile curling under the brandy’s edge.
“You…” Her voice caught. “You frightened me.”
“Did I? Forgive me, I thought you’d seen me. Or perhaps you’re in the habit of crawling under furniture when the mood strikes?”
Margaret’s cheeks burned hot. “I—I didn’t see you, and I wasn’t… I’m not crawling,” she stammered, tugging the fabric tighter. “It’s none of your concern.”
“I’d say it is now,” he said, tilting his head. “You’ve turned my quiet refuge into a—” he flicked his fingers at her dress “—makeshift sewing circle.”
He shifted forward, letting the fire catch the sharp lines of his face. Something about him prickled at the edge of her memory. Her mind flashed her aunt’s hissed warnings, the name passed between fans like an expensive sweet.
“What are you…” She stammered, words tripping over her own shock. “What are you doing in here?”
He raised a brow. “Enjoying a moment’s peace from mothers, lambs, and badly played waltzes. I could ask the same of you, but I believe I’ve gathered the gist.” He flicked his gaze to the fist of silk still crushed to her waist, then back to her face, his eyes lingering, just for a heartbeat, on the bright shock of her blue eyes, startling even in the low light.
“Who—” she began.
“Sebastian Duncaster, Duke of Ravenscourt,” he said easily, lifting his glass as if toasting her fluster. “At your service, Lady… Margaret, isn’t it? Wexley’s niece. The one with the reputation for disappearing acts and inconvenient truths.”
Margaret stiffened, stung despite herself. “You know who I am? You know my aunt?”
“I read the scandal sheets,” he said lightly, “when I’m bored. Besides, Wexley knows everyone.” He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers. “She keeps her gossip close. You are the niece they whisper about, the one who vanishes at balls and reappears with new rumors stitched to her hem.”
He let his eyes drop to the silk bunched in her fists. “Sometimes literally, it seems.”
“How kind of you to remember, Your Grace,” she said, voice sharp enough to surprise even herself. “If you’ll excuse me?—”
She tried to turn, but the hem tugged again. He watched the frustration flash across her face and the fierce little breath she bit down.
“Running off again?” he asked lightly. “How dramatic. Tell me, do you always unravel at other people’s parties?”
“Only when they’re dreadful,” she shot back, then winced at her own honesty.
His laugh came low, genuine, the first warm sound in the big, book-scented room. “I knew I liked this library for a reason. It collects all the best secrets.”
Margaret found herself staring as if her eyes needed proof of every whispered scrap the world had ever offered her. Up close, he looked like every scandal inked into flesh. His obviously broad shoulders pressed against the high leather chair as if even that sturdy wingback couldn’t quite contain him. His coat fit him too well; it looked like it was built for someone lean, yes, but layered over a frame that was all muscle and more muscle.
His features were sharply drawn with cheekbones cutting, nose straight, mouth too generous to trust… and his eyes, when theymet hers fully, caught the firelight in a shade of green. A vivid and clear shade that was watching her like he found the whole mess… curious. Amusing.
