Page 70 of His Mad Duchess
A ripple of knowing laughter stirred among those within earshot. The Duchess tilted her head, lowering her voice with the intimacy of gossip and the volume of performance.
Her eyes swept Margaret from head to toe in a single, withering glance. “But then, boldness is its own armor, is it not? You do wear it so well.”
A few ladies standing nearby stifled their laughter behind fluttering fans.
“Besides…” Her gaze flicked, deliberate and cruel, to Margaret’s waistline. “One never knows what… delicate circumstances may hasten a wedding. It would be such a pity if the whispers ran ahead of you.”
Margaret felt heat rise to her cheeks, but the Duchess was not finished. She leaned closer, her voice pitched in a mock-confidential tone that nevertheless carried.
“Though, I confess, I can only pray our rafters hold steady this evening. One never knows what calamity may follow such a… tempestuous arrival. Wouldn’t it be dreadful if the house fell upon us all?”
A ripple of delighted titters passed through the circle.
The laughter this time was bolder, crueler.
Sebastian’s smile was a slow, dangerous thing. He bowed, perfectly correctly, but when he straightened, his voice carried easily to every ear.
“Your Grace, if your roof quakes, I suggest you examine your own foundations. My duchess is accustomed to far grander halls than these—and it would be a pity if Ravenscourt’s strength should shame Aylesford’s weakness.”
The air snapped taut. The tittering died at once; several ladies drew in sharp breaths. The Duchess of Aylesford’s painted smile froze, her color high, but Sebastian was already turning away, offering his arm to Margaret with deliberate ease.
“Come, my dear,” he said, loud enough for the circle to hear. “We would not wish to test our hostess’ beams any longer. They seem… fragile.”
The crowd dissolved in a rustle of skirts, whispers flaring anew—but this time not at Margaret’s expense.
Sebastian’s hand closed firmly around hers, warm and unyielding, his other settling at the small of her back with just enough pressure to remind her, without words, that she was his.
“Margaret,” he said low, as though tasting her name for the first time, “dance with me.”
The orchestra struck the opening chord of the waltz, yet to her, it might have been the same reel they had rehearsed in Brighton that afternoon in the drawing room when they had nearly—too nearly—forgotten themselves. His hand was in the same place, steady at her back, and she remembered the way his gaze had lingered on her mouth then, the same way it did now as he drew her into the first figure.
Every motion was dictated by his lead, but it felt less like steps than a private conversation of bodies. His thumb traced the inside of her glove, a deliberate stroke that made her breath catch. The press of his palm at her spine urged her closer in the turn, until the scent of him and the faint rasp of his breath at her temple left her perilously aware of every inch between them—how little, how nothing, it was.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, bending just enough that she felt the whisper graze her skin.
“Am I?” Her voice was hardly more than a thread.
“Yes.” His lips curved against the air between them. “I like it.”
Her answering flush only seemed to deepen his intent, a wildfire of heat rising through her chest. When she glanced up, meaning to steady herself with the cool indifference she had once worn so well, his gaze caught hers and held it fast with unyielding intensity. The room, the crowd, the watching eyes—all blurred into irrelevance. There was only his hand, firm and possessive at her back, the claim of his lead, and the dangerous certainty thathe had no intention of letting her forget who guided her through the steps.
“Do stop staring at me like that,” she said, attempting lightness though her pulse was not in the least light.
“Like what?” His brows lifted as the corner of his mouth betrayed him, but his eyes were molten, dark, and possessive.
“As if you mean to eat me alive here in the middle of the assembly.”
He leaned fractionally closer in the turn, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. “I would never risk so vulgar a display. Though…” His thumb traced the base of her glove again. “You tempt me sorely.”
She rolled her eyes, though her smile refused to be checked. “You do realize this is meant to be a waltz, not a duel of wills?”
“On the contrary, I find it very much a duel. One I fully intend to win.”
“And if I do not choose to yield?”
“Then I shall make you forget you ever meant to resist.” His grin flashed, wolfish and teasing, his body pressing just close enough to steal her breath as he guided her into the next figure with perfect, unrelenting control.
Her laugh escaped before she could stop it. “You are insufferable.”
