Page 62 of His Mad Duchess
Margaret’s lips curved despite herself. Cecily had a gift for turning even a scolding into a performance.
Cecily tugged her toward the sofa, patting the seat beside her. “Come, sit and tell me everything. Is Brighton as dreadful as I imagine? Were you wretchedly bored? Or…” She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is it true your new husband has scandalized half the county with his hunting parties?”
“Cecily,” Aunt Agnes interjected, her tone measured but not unkind, “allow Margaret to breathe. She has scarcely removed her bonnet.”
Cecily only laughed and waved the remark aside, Margaret beside her as though they were still girls sharing secrets in the nursery. “Very well, I shall ask no more questions, yet. But you must know how dearly you were missed. London was half its usual brightness without you.”
“You have missed everything,” Cecily declared, her blue eyes alight with mischief. “Lady Harrowby has eloped with her music master, and Parliament has been in an uproar, and Mrs. Dalloway insists her new gowns were stitched in Paris, though everyone knows they were made by Madame Fleur on Bond Street. And…” She broke off suddenly, eyes finally dropping to the wicker basket Margaret carried. “Oh, heavens. You brought her.”
“Of course, I brought her,” Margaret said serenely, though she adjusted the basket on her arm as Miss Fortune shifted within it. “Would you have me abandon her in Brighton?”
Cecily giggled. “I had rather thought dukes preferred carriages and coronets to cats in baskets.”
“Dukes may prefer what they like,” Margaret replied, lifting her chin with a faint smile. “But I will not be parted from her.”
Miss Fortune, as though in agreement, pushed her head above the basket’s rim and blinked imperiously at Cecily.
“Good heavens!” Cecily cried, reaching out to stroke the cat’s ears. “Your letters did not do her justice. She is quite the sovereign. I daresay she grows more regal with every hour. Just look at her! One could almost bow. If she were mine, I should crown her.”
“She would allow it,” Margaret said dryly. “On the condition that she sit upon the throne at all hours.”
It was then that Aunt Agnes spoke again, her eyes narrowing on the basket with amusement. “I suppose, my dear, it is better than arriving with a cat than nothing at all. Still, a duchess ought to be seen with a child in her arms rather than lugging a creature about like a nursemaid. One wonders what impression you mean to give.”
With that, she swept from the chamber, skirts whispering over the polished floor.
Margaret sat very still, her hand resting on the wicker lid as though she might shield its small occupant from such words.A child. How easily spoken, as though one might summon love and family on command. She knew the truth; she was already branded mad, unlucky, and a danger to any man fool enough to care for her. She could scarcely trust that her marriage to Sebastian would last beyond its bargain, so to dream of a child was to invite heartbreak she dared not court.
No, Miss Fortune was all she could allow herself. A cat could not be cursed by her presence, nor disappointed by her failings. Better to have found her now, in youth, than to sit alone in some withered age, grasping at companionship too late. The creature’s simple affection was the only kind Margaret might ever be permitted.
The sharp clatter of the door broke her reverie. Beatrice entered, her bonnet dangling by its ribbons, her face carefully arranged into composure that fooled no one.
Margaret rose, hopeful, but her cousin only offered a curt nod.
“You are returned earlier than expected,” Cecily said, curiosity brightening her tone.
Margaret, seeking to close the distance, added gently, “How did it go?”
“A wasted afternoon,” Beatrice replied shortly, tugging at her gloves. She would not meet Margaret’s eyes, nor expand upon her words.
Margaret tilted her head. “An afternoon meant for company, then?”
Beatrice’s lips curved in something too bitter to be called a smile. “Company that found better amusement elsewhere, no doubt.”
Margaret hesitated, smoothing her skirts as though the folds might supply her with words. “Perhaps… perhaps he was called away on some pressing matter?”
Beatrice gave a low laugh, devoid of mirth. “Do not gild it, Margaret. A gentleman rarely forgets what he wishes to remember.”
Cecily frowned and linked her arm through her sister’s. “Perhaps he was unworthy of your company.”
“Or perhaps,” Beatrice said, her voice taut, “I am simply too much… or not enough. Whichever it may be, I cannot seem to get it right.” Her arms folded tight across her bodice, a shield against the room, and she turned toward the window as though the glass might hold an answer.
Margaret spoke gently. “I think I understand more than you know.”
Beatrice gave a sharp, brittle laugh. “You? Forgive me, but how could you? You claim you understand, but you are pitied before you open your mouth and feared before you have done a thing. You do nothing but hide behind your madness, yourcursed reputation, and still you manage to snare a duke. I give everything, I could dance myself ragged, speak until my throat breaks, and no one would see me. It is never enough.”
The chamber cooled with her tone, silence pressing heavy between them. Cecily shifted, her gaze darting between her sister and Margaret, but she found no footing in the frost that lingered.
“You mistake me, Beatrice,” Margaret said softly, shaking her head. “What I have is no gift. It is a burden I would lay down in an instant if only I could.”
