Page 69 of His Mad Duchess
CHAPTER 23
Margaret’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around Sebastian’s arm as the doors swung wide.
The stir of conversation at the top of the stairs stilled as the steward’s voice rang out, polished and carrying.
“His Grace, the Duke of Ravenscourt, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Ravenscourt!”
Every syllable seemed to echo against the gilded ceilings, striking Margaret like a tolling bell. She felt Sebastian’s arm firm beneath her hand, steady, unyielding, while her own pulse leaped with a betraying quickness.
A hush rippled through the crowd below, the music pausing just a fraction too long before resuming. Heads turned, fans snapped open like wings. She could feel their gazes—assessing, weighing, judging—as if every eye in the room had decided she was tonight’s diversion.
Sebastian descended with the easy assurance of a man born to command attention. Margaret followed, each step measured, her chin lifted with the pride drilled into her since childhood. And yet, behind her calm smile, her thoughts churned. Already she caught the tilt of parasols, the lean of powdered heads bent close together, and the flash of eyes too curious by half.
The blaze of chandeliers struck her first—light fractured across gilded cornices, polished marble, and a sea of jewels and satin. For a heartbeat, she could not move, for the sight was dazzling and terrifying at once.
“Breathe,” she told herself, though her chest felt too tight to obey. Cecily’s voice echoed faintly in memory—Head high, shoulders square. If they must speak, let them speak to your back.
So, she did. She set her chin at a defiant angle and allowed Sebastian to guide her forward.
Still, the whispers came. Soft as the flutter of wings, sharp as the sting of nettles.
“Have you ever seen such nerve?” one voice hissed.
“Oh, shameless,” another replied. “She all but clings to him.”
“With the mad Greystone girl, no less,” a third cut in. “It’s indecent.”
“Indecent? It’s desperate. And he’ll tire of her soon enough.”
A soft titter of agreement rippled through them, half-muffled behind fans.
Heat prickled at Margaret’s nape. She kept her chin lifted toward the glitter of chandeliers, refusing to let her gaze drop. If she met those eyes—smug, pitying, cruel—she might falter.
Sebastian’s head turned, sudden and sharp. His gaze landed squarely on the knot of ladies, and one of them faltered mid-sentence. The others shrank, color rising beneath their powder.
He did not look away. His stare was cool steel, unblinking, as if daring them to continue. One muttered something about needing refreshment, and the group dissolved in a rustle of skirts.
Margaret’s breath caught. He had not spoken a word, and yet the room itself seemed to shift, bending around his presence.
Another murmur rippled through the crowd, sharper this time, a gentleman bending toward his companion with a smirk.
“Trust Ravenscourt to snatch her up. He was never?—”
Sebastian halted mid-step. The abrupt stop tugged Margaret to a standstill, her pulse leaping. He turned his head, slow and deliberate, until his gaze locked on the offender. The air seemed to tighten around them.
“Is there something you wish to say aloud, sir?” His voice carried like a blade sheathed in velvet—controlled, cutting, and pitched to carry just far enough.
The gentleman blanched, his bravado crumbling. “N-no, Your Grace.”
“Then I suggest you keep your tongue where it belongs.” Sebastian’s arm flexed, firm against Margaret’s, and with a decisive shift, he steered her forward, dismissing the man as though he were beneath notice.
Margaret’s stomach, knotted with dread a heartbeat before, loosened in a rush that nearly stole her breath. He had not ignored the whisper, nor pretended not to hear. He had silenced it—for her. The realization unsettled her far more than the insult ever could. Which was the greater danger—the venom of society or the unflinching power of the man at her side?
The crowd thinned at the base of the staircase, clearing a path to where the Duke and Duchess of Aylesford stood ready to receive their guests. The Duchess stepped forward, her smile gleaming as brightly as the diamonds about her throat.
“Your Graces,” she purred, her curtsy executed with exaggerated elegance. “What an… unexpected pleasure. We had thought you might prefer to remain at Ravenscourt for a time until… well, until matters were… less fresh.”
Her eyes lingered on Margaret a fraction too long, her smile sharpening. “Such haste always does set tongues wagging, doesit not? Though perhaps you are wise to appear swiftly. Better to face the storm than to let it gather.”
