Page 68 of His Mad Duchess
The faint fragrance lingered as she drew in a steadying breath. She pressed her fingers together, as if the act might anchor her at the moment.
She stepped from her chamber, the soft sweep of silk following her into the hall. At the stairs’ head, she paused, fingers tightening against the balustrade. Below, Sebastian stood waiting, dark coat catching the lamplight, his posture easy yet somehow expectant.
Her pulse tripped. It was only a ball, she reminded herself. Their first appearance as husband and wife, yes—but merely another ritual of London society. She would walk down, he would offer his arm, and together, they would step into the carriage as if they had done so a hundred times before.
And yet when she began her descent—slow, measured, every rustle of her skirts loud to her own ears—he looked up at her.
The change on his face was unmistakable. He froze, as though the sight had taken him unawares. The silence deepened; even the clock on the mantel seemed suddenly too loud. His eyes moved over her, intent, searching, and Margaret’s stomach tightened until she felt she could scarcely breathe.
Heat rose to her cheeks. She forced her hands into a neat clasp before her waist, schooling her mouth into a polite, measured smile.Perhaps he is nervous, she told herself, desperate to make sense of it.Perhaps he wonders how I will reflect upon him—whether I will be judged a credit to his name or an embarrassment he must bear.
But still, he said nothing. Only watched her, as if he had been struck dumb.
“I am ready,” she said softly, breaking the silence that had thickened between them. The words were simple, but they carried a weight she could not entirely hide. Her voice did not quite mask the question in her eyes.Do you think I am enough?
Sebastian blinked, as though recalled from some reverie. His hand moved to his waistcoat, smoothing it in a gesture too measured to be mere habit. He was dressed to perfection—dark blue coat, ivory cravat tied in flawless folds, his boots polished to a mirror’s shine. He looked every inch the man society expected him to be, elegant with the kind of ease that cost him no effort at all.
And yet, when his gaze returned to her, there was the faintest hesitation—as though he could not quite summon the words that should have come swiftly. His eyes swept over her once more, too intent, too searching.
“You are…” His voice caught, and the pause stretched long enough that Margaret’s breath caught with it. He cleared his throat lightly. “You are ready indeed.”
Margaret’s lips curved into a polite smile, but her thoughts moved far quicker than her outward composure betrayed. She read and reread every flicker of expression, desperate to decipher whether he was merely being courteous or if something in her appearance had unsettled him. She was determined not to ask—would not, could not invite an answer she might regret—but the impression lingered that his pause had not been born of doubt alone.
Something else stirred behind his eyes. Something she could not name.
And it left her both unsettled and… unwillingly curious.
Outside, the wheels of their own carriage rolled to the front. The butler appeared in the doorway, bowing. “Your Graces, the carriage is waiting.”
He offered his arm with practiced grace, his expression carefully composed once more. Margaret placed her hand upon his sleeve, feeling the solid line of his arm beneath the fine cloth, and allowed herself to be guided down the steps. The air outside wassharp, touched with the faint scent of rain upon stone, and the lamps cast their long glow across the pavement.
The carriage door was opened, the polished wood gleaming in the lamplight. Sebastian handed her up, and she settled against the dark leather cushions. When he joined her, the door shut with a muffled thud, sealing them into a silence broken only by the creak of harness and the shifting of hooves.
As the wheels lurched into motion, Margaret’s eyes followed the sway of the lantern light across the carriage paneling, her hands unconsciously touching the carved trim. The rhythm of the carriage carried them forward, each turn of the wheel pulling them closer to a hundred expectant gazes.
Sebastian sat opposite her, his long frame angled slightly toward the window, though his eyes returned to her often—too often to be accidental, not often enough to be spoken of. Shadows shifted across his face with every flicker of the passing lamps, obscuring what might have been written there.
Margaret lifted her chin. “We shall be late,” she said, her tone carefully even though in truth, she would not have minded if the horses slowed.
“The longer we delay, the grander our entrance. I’m doing us a favor.”
Margaret arched a brow. “Or giving them more to whisper about.”
He leaned back, unbothered, his mouth tipping into that faint, knowing smile. “They will whisper regardless. I may as well choose the moment they begin.”
The carriage jolted over a rut, and Margaret caught herself against the seat. She told herself it was only the motion of the wheels that quickened her pulse, not the quiet weight of his gaze in the shadows between them.
The carriage slowed, lantern light spilling through the window as the great façade of Aylesford House came into view—columns aglow, windows blazing, the hum of voices and the strains of a string quartet drifting into the street.
Margaret drew a steadying breath.This is it.The footman swung open the door, and Sebastian descended first, turning to offer his hand. The lamplight caught the dark gleam of his hair, the stark cut of his shoulders—unmistakably assured, as if he had never doubted his place here.
Margaret hesitated only a heartbeat before placing her hands gently in his palm. Warmth closed around her, firm and steady, and she let him guide her down to the waiting marble steps.
The murmurs began at once—low ripples through the line of guests waiting to be received.
Sebastian bent his head, his voice for her alone. “Smile, Margaret. Let them see exactly what they came for.”
Her lips curved, though her pulse raced. The moment of truth had come.
