Page 65 of His Mad Duchess
“There,” he said quietly, withdrawing at once.
Margaret’s breath tangled. She managed a nod, clutching the rescued sleeve against her bodice like a shield. “You are… very obliging.”
A curve touched his mouth. “I try.”
Across the table, he was already turning to another letter, his profile calm, untroubled, as if nothing at all had passed between them.
Yet she carried the warmth of it—his glance, his faint smile—like a hidden ember beneath her stays.This is foolish,she told herself firmly,foolish and dangerous.And still, the thought of seeing Cecily later in the day suddenly seemed a necessity, for only Cecily could be trusted to make sense of this bewildering unrest within her.
She rose, smoothing her skirts with composed hands. “If you will excuse me, Your Gra—Sebastian, I shall see to my note.”
He inclined his head without looking up, and Margaret left the breakfast parlor, her pulse still beating faster than it ought.
Margaret turned, spine straight, every step measured. But once the door closed behind her, her composure shattered like spun glass.
“Fool,” she whispered fiercely, pressing her hands to her heated face. “Hopeless, witless fool. What must he think of me? Stammering like a schoolgirl, simpering over toast, blushing at the mere touch of a napkin?”
She paced the corridor, skirts rustling, her pulse hammering with every remembered glance, every flicker of his smile. “Sebastian,” she repeated under her breath, the sound of it damning. “As though the man’s name were some charm to be whispered over tea leaves.”
She gripped the banister for steadiness, whispering through clenched teeth, “I will not be one of those silly creatures, fluttering and foolish, waiting to be noticed. I will not.” And yeteven as she said it, the warmth of his nearness clung like a brand, and her lips betrayed her with the faintest curve.
The morning light set the gravel paths shimmering as St. James’s Park stirred to life. Along the Mall, carriages rattled loudly, the ring of hooves carrying through the trees, while within the walks, parasols unfurled like blossoms, silk and muslin drifting in a slow, elegant fashion. The air was busy with chatter, the sweep of gowns, and the sharp bark of a restless dog, until it seemed all of London had chosen that very morning to be outside.
Margaret fell into step beside Cecily, her arm linked with her cousin’s, grateful for the familiar ease of her company after the awkward formality of breakfast. Cecily’s eyes darted everywhere, quick as a sparrow’s, never missing the smallest detail.
She could feel, even without looking, the way eyes lingered as they passed—first curious, then sly, as whispers leaped from one bonnet to another.
Cecily, of course, noticed. Her chin lifted a fraction higher, as though daring anyone to say aloud what they only muttered behind her hands. “They might at least have the decency to be subtle,” she murmured.
Margaret gave the faintest smile, as if nothing touched her. “London has never been celebrated for subtlety.”
Before Cecily could retort, a carriage rolled by, its occupant crowned with three enormous ostrich plumes that wobbled precariously in the morning air. Cecily seized the chance for mischief.
“Only look at her,” Cecily whispered, tilting her chin toward the lady gliding past in the carriage. “That bonnet is a crime against nature. Three whole plumes, and each threatening to take flight.”
Margaret’s lips curved, a reluctant laugh escaping. “If she rises into the air, may her husband be prepared to hold the ribbons fast.”
They both stifled their amusement as the lady passed, Cecily tucking her head closer to Margaret’s shoulder. “And that poor pug on her lap, swallowed entirely in lace. You may tell me the truth; is it dressed finer than either of us?”
Margaret glanced at the unfortunate creature, its black eyes peering out from beneath ruffles of silk. “Infinitely finer. I should curtsy to it, if only it would return the courtesy.”
The jest sent them both into a bubble of quiet laughter, and for a while, they walked on in companionable silence, the world around them a bright, careless whirl of carriages and ribbons.
They had not gone far before a figure detached herself from the crowd—Lady Tresham, sharp-nosed and sharper-tongued, who delighted in other people’s disgraces. She swept forward with false brightness, her curtsy little more than a mocking dip.
“Well, if it is not the new Duchess of Ravenscourt.” Her voice carried just far enough to be heard by the nearest cluster of eager ears. “What a… surprise… to see you in town at last. I suppose country air grows dull when one has snared her prize.”
Margaret’s breath caught. “I?—”
Lady Tresham’s smile widened, cutting. “Oh, come now, we must not pretend. Everyone knows the tale. To be caught in such a compromising situation… how fortunate that His Grace behaved so nobly. Why, half the ladies here could only dream of forcing a duke into matrimony!”
A ripple of laughter answered her. Margaret’s cheeks burned, her tongue tangled. She opened her mouth to answer, but found no words would come.
It was Cecily who stepped forward, her voice ringing clear as a bell. “Strange, Lady Tresham, that you should sneer at good fortune. I was under the impression you had been hunting for it yourself for the past Seasons, and with considerably less success.”
Gasps, titters, and a hurried turning of heads followed. Lady Tresham’s smile faltered, her painted lips tightening. With a stiff nod, she withdrew, though not without one last daggered look at Margaret.
Margaret let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. “I should have answered her,” she murmured. “I wanted to. But the words?—”
