Page 60 of His Mad Duchess
Her heart beat painfully fast, a mingling of shame and sorrow she could not unravel. She pressed her palms to her eyes, wishing she might vanish into the floor. She had never felt so exposed, so raw. The words clung to her skin as though they had been branded there. Foundling… Mad.
The door opened without warning. Sebastian strode in, still taut with the storm of his temper. His cravat was slightly disordered, his color high, and there was a dangerous light about him that made her pulse leap.
Margaret started where she stood, her hands clasped too tightly before her. Sebastian halted at once. For the briefest instant, the air between them held nothing but silence, heavy and trembling. His gaze moved over her face—the unnatural pallor, the quiver of her hands, the wide, wounded eyes, and she saw the recognition strike him like a blow. He knew. He knew she had heard it all.
That’s right. I heard everything. Every single insult. Every cruel, deliberate word meant for me.
“We are leaving,” he said without preamble. “Tomorrow. You will prepare what you require for a stay in London tonight. I will not have you remain here another day under the same roof as her.”
The declaration struck her almost as fiercely as the insult she had just overheard.
He hesitated, as if realizing he had not yet said enough. His hand lifted, then dropped again uselessly at his side. “And…” His tone faltered, awkward, almost timid for the space of a breath. “And see that Miss Fortune is brought. She comes with us.”
The servants had scarcely begun to lay out the first course when the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscourt’s eyes fastened upon the sleek bundle of fur at Margaret’s feet. Miss Fortune had installed herself with regal indifference beneath the table, her tail flickingidly against the hem of Margaret’s gown, blissfully unaware that the household would be departing on the morrow.
“Sebastian,” the Dowager said, her voice as crisp as frost, “you cannot mean to allow that creature in the dining room. Remove it at once. Such habits are hardly proper in a house of this standing.”
Margaret’s hand stilled on her napkin, her pulse quickening, but Sebastian did not so much as shift in his chair. He leaned back, languid as though carved from indolence, though the muscle ticking in his jaw betrayed the strain of his restraint.
“No,” he said simply.
The Dowager’s brows arched, her tone sharpening. “It is a cat at the table, Sebastian. This is neither a stable nor a kitchen. Such indulgence reflects poorly on you both.”
“She stays,” Sebastian replied, more firmly now. His gaze cut across the table, hard as flint. “Miss Fortune belongs to Margaret. And Margaret belongs here, duchess of this house. I will not have her comforts dictated—least of all by you.”
The Dowager’s lips thinned, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on the stem of her glass. For a moment, silence reigned louder than any word. Then, with a faint sniff, she looked away, though her displeasure clung to the air like smoke.
Margaret bent to stroke Miss Fortune’s silky head, hiding the tremor of relief in the movement. When she straightened, she lifted her chin, her gaze calm and steady.
The last course had been cleared, yet the table glittered anew with porcelain dishes of syllabub, marzipan, and candied fruit, their sugared perfumes mingling with the richer aroma of roasted pheasant and claret sauce.
Margaret sat very straight, her gaze tracing the polished surface of the table before her. At her feet, Miss Fortune curled against her skirts as though sensing the tension.
Across from her, Honoria observed with a glint of calculated interest, her gaze sharp as a blade dressed in velvet. At the head of the table, Sebastian lounged with studied nonchalance, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed how thinly his patience was worn.
“My dear Margaret,” the Dowager began, her voice syrupy, “I do hope you are finding Ravenscourt to your liking. Country life can feel… rather confining to those accustomed to livelier circles, and of course, the demands of a duchy are hardly light. Even the most seasoned mistress may find herself… overburdened.”
Margaret’s fingers smoothed Miss Fortune’s fur, her smile composed, though her pulse had quickened. “I find Ravenscourt most agreeable, Your Grace. The country offers a steadiness one cannot always find in London, and as for the duchy’s demands, I believe diligence and order make even the heaviest burdens light.”
The Dowager’s brows arched ever so slightly, as though Margaret had spoken out of turn by sounding capable. “Commendable indeed,” she murmured, her tone sweet but her eyes assessing. “And yet… one wonders whether diligence is enough. A duchess must not only manage accounts and servants but also cultivate grace enough to soothe any disquiet beyond these walls. Society, after all, thrives on perception.”
Margaret’s spoon clinked softly against her saucer. She willed her hand not to tremble, even as her chest tightened at the word perception. So that was the weapon chosen tonight. Not what she did, but what she seemed. Always what she seemed.
Sebastian’s hand halted halfway to his glass. His gaze flicked sharply toward his mother, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “Margaret possesses both,” he said, his voice even but edged with warning.
Margaret inclined her head as though the Dowager had merely offered a compliment, though her heart beat hard against her stays. “Perception is a fickle thing, Your Grace,” she replied softly. “It may be managed best by quiet steadiness, rather than fuss.”
The words left her lips before she could tame them. A tiny rebellion spoken gently enough to pass for politeness. But she felt Sebastian’s glance slide to her, quick and fierce, and heat rose traitorously to her throat.
The Dowager’s smile cooled, her gaze narrowing as though weighing the girl before her. “Steadiness is admirable,” she said,her tone silk over steel, “but it cannot erase origins. One cannot help but note that not all ladies are raised from childhood to bear the weight of a duchess’s crown. Habits, ways of thinking… they cling, even when one would wish them gone.”
A chill coursed through Margaret, though her face betrayed nothing. Her hand stilled over Miss Fortune, who shifted against her skirts as if in protest.
Sebastian set his glass down with deliberate force, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “If you suggest Margaret is unequal to her station, you are mistaken. She carries it with a grace I have rarely seen, and I will not hear her diminished in her own house.”
The Dowager’s lips tightened—not quite a frown, but the smile no longer reached her eyes. “My intent is not to diminish, Sebastian,” she said smoothly, though the rebuke lay beneath the words. “But to caution. Many a young wife has been undone not by malice but by the smallest misstep. A whisper in the wrong ear, a gesture misread… such things travel quickly through drawing rooms.”
Margaret’s chin lifted a fraction, her voice steady though her pulse raced. “Then I shall give them nothing to whisper about, Your Grace.”
