Page 7 of His Mad Duchess
His mouth curved into just the ghost of a grin, enough to make her feel caught.
“Careful, Lady Margaret,” he said, tone low and amused. “Keep looking at me like that, and someone might think you actually want my help.”
She pressed her lips together, trying to gather the trailing fabric without tearing more stitches. Her cheeks burned not just with shame but with the effort of not letting him see how badly her hands shook.
“You could leave,” she said finally, voice thin but steady, “if you dislike the view so much.”
“Oh, I don’t dislike it.” His eyes gleamed faintly, catching the firelight. “It’s the most honest thing I’ve seen all night. A torn gown, a damsel in distress. It is far more interesting than all those lambs and peacocks outside.”
“I’m not—” she began, then faltered. She drew a sharp breath and lifted her chin. “I can manage. You needn’t stare, Your Grace.”
“And yet here I am,” he murmured. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me. If I left you here to stitchyourself back together, how long before your aunt found you? Or some passing gossip with nothing better to do than peek under doorways?”
She stared at him. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he said, too easily. “But I find it… tedious. The way they talk about you. The mad niece. The unlucky girl. Seems rather dull when the truth is just a girl, a tear, and too much pride to ask for help.”
Her throat bobbed. “It’s not pride. I just… I can fix it myself. If I could thread the needle.”
He lifted a brow. “Then may I?”
“No!” It came out too quickly, too loud. She pressed her lips together. “Absolutely not. I’d rather… It’s improper.”
“So is bursting in here half-undone,” he pointed out. His mouth curved. “At least let me fetch a maid. Or would you rather I sew it myself? I promise you, I’m very handy when the mood takes me.”
She fumbled the torn lining tighter in her grip, chin tilting despite the heat clawing up her throat. “I don’t need help. Especially not from a duke at a ball where I’ve already…” She stopped herself, breath catching. “It’s enough embarrassment for one night.”
“I see,” Sebastian said, leaning back, eyes glinting with lazy amusement.
“It would help if you could fetch a maid instead of standing there… smirking,” she snapped before she could swallow it back.
A flicker of something akin to approval—amusement?—crossed his face. He inclined his head, graceful as a cat rising from its nap.
“As you wish, my lady. Consider me your humble errand boy tonight.”
He moved past her, the faintest trace of warm cologne brushing her shoulder, something more expensive than anything she’d ever worn yet not nearly as stifling as the ballroom’s cloying perfumes.
She turned just enough to see him pause at the door. He cast her a look over his shoulder, one brow arched, a smile coiled at the corner of his mouth, sharp and curious.
“Try not to vanish before I’m back. It’s rather dull when the scandal slips away before the punchline.”
He reached for the handle, gave it a quick twist, then frowned.
He tried again. Harder this time, his shoulder braced and wrist twisting. The latch rattled but held firm, stubborn as old iron warped by too many damp winters.
Margaret watched the line of his shoulders tighten. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t look back. “Nothing at all. Just a stubborn hinge.”
She took a step closer, one hand pressed to the ruined seam at her waist. “Open it then.”
Sebastian tried again with a sharp shove, then another. The door thudded in its heavy frame, unmoved.
He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Well. This is novel.”
Margaret’s throat tightened. She surged forward, pushing past him to wrestle with the handle herself. “Move.”
He stepped aside just enough to watch her scrabbling at the brass handle that refused to budge.
