Page 64 of His Mad Duchess
“Forgive me,” she said quickly, drawing back as though the dish had scorched her.
His mouth curved, though only faintly. “You must not apologize for wanting toast, Miss Margaret.”
The ridiculousness of it made her lips twitch, but she buried the smile in her chocolate, the cup trembling faintly against its saucer.
Her lips twitched, sparking a warmth she could not quite smother. “Perhaps,” she murmured, eyes lowered, “but one ought not be greedy.”
“Greedy?” His tone was even, but she thought she glimpsed a glint beneath it.
She busied herself with her cup, her smile hidden in the steam. “Yes. To reach for more than one ought… it tempts censure, does it not?”
The words no sooner slipped out than she wished them unsaid. Heat shot to her cheeks, mortifying in its swiftness. What was she about, to speak so, as though she were a practiced coquette rather than a woman who could barely meet his gaze without unraveling?
She pressed the rim of the cup to her lips to disguise the foolish rush of color, cursing herself silently.Oh… Margaret.Greedy, indeed. If he guessed at her meaning, she might never survive the shame.
The door opened, and a footman entered with a small silver tray, upon which a neat stack of letters lay. He presented it first to the Duke with a bow. Sebastian accepted the post with a murmur of thanks, sliding one finger under the pile as if it weighed no more than air. Margaret, who had not the smallest letter addressed to her, found her chocolate suddenly very absorbing.
The crisp tearing of paper broke the silence. Sebastian scanned the page, then gave a short breath that was almost a laugh. “My aunt. She entreats me to call on her because…” He tapped the letter with one finger. “Her pug has grown melancholy since the rain.”
Margaret looked up despite herself. “She wishes you to cure him?”
“She suggests my company might revive his spirits.” His tone was perfectly grave, though there was a light in his eyes.
The laugh escaped her before she could stop it, quick and irrepressible. And when she glanced across the table, his gaze was already upon her, steady, lingering a heartbeat too long. She dropped her eyes at once, retreating to the safe, swirling depths of her cup.
Margaret’s thoughts clutched at an escape.Cecily. Cecily had a way of making everything tolerable, of smoothing the frayed edges of the world. She set down her spoon carefully. “I was thinking I might walk with Cecily in the park today. If it is not disagreeable to you.”
He looked up from his letter, one brow lifting. “Disagreeable? Not in the least. I should be glad for you to have the company.”
Something eased inside her at once, a soft uncoiling she had not expected. She felt it too keenly, this relief at his approval, and bent her eyes to her plate again before it could betray her.
“Then I shall send her a note at once,” she said.
“You may find it unnecessary.” He folded the letter with a flick of his wrist, neatly and assuredly. “I must go into town this morning. If you wish, I will have you and Cecily set down at the park on my way.”
The offer startled her into glancing up. His gaze was steady, intent enough to make her breath catch for the briefest instant. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her cup, as though the porcelain might anchor her. “That would be… very convenient. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” His voice was even, but his mouth curved at the edge, just slightly. It sent a warmth through her, sudden and treacherous. She pressed her lips to her cup to hide the betraying smile that threatened.
Margaret lowered her cup, setting it carefully upon its saucer lest her hand betray the tremor she felt.
She reached for her napkin then, intending to lay it neatly aside, but the linen slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the carpet. She half-rose, flustered, only to find him already standing.
“I have it,” he said, and before she could protest, he bent to retrieve the square of white. His fingers brushed hers as he placed it back into her hand, warm against the tremor that betrayed her. The contact lasted no longer than a heartbeat, but it startled through her like a pulse.
Her gratitude lodged in her throat. She managed only a faint, “Thank you,” her voice thinner than she intended.
His expression gave nothing away, and he resumed his seat as though nothing at all had happened.
But Margaret, pulse skittering, could not bring herself to touch her chocolate again.
“Your sleeve,” he said suddenly.
Her head jerked up. “My…?”
He inclined his chin toward her wrist. She looked down and saw the faintest smudge of chocolate at the lace cuff, a tiny blot against the white. Mortification surged hot across her cheeks.
Before she could hide it, he reached for the linen napkin again, leaned across, and with slow precision dabbed the stain away. His touch was careful, almost formal, yet the nearness of him, the steadiness of his hand, sent the air rushing from her chest.
