Page 75 of His Mad Duchess
“You?” Margaret’s lips curved despite herself. “Quiet as a mouse? Impossible. You chatter more than the bells of St. Paul’s.”
Fanny grinned, unrepentant. “Well, perhaps. But mice do squeak.”
Margaret shook her head, a laugh slipping out before she caught it. “You are not to follow. I want to see it for myself, without interruption.”
Mrs. Hardwick’s brow creased, though her tone remained steady. “If it eases your mind, I can walk with you until you’ve seen the main rooms, then leave you to your thoughts.”
Margaret touched the housekeeper’s hand, the briefest press of gratitude. “Thank you, but I truly wish to be alone. This is my home now… I must learn it with my own eyes.”
Mrs. Hardwick inclined her head. “As you wish, Your Grace. I’ll be in the dressing room if you need me.”
“Ghosts and creaks and all,” Fanny muttered, scooping up her bundle again, though the twinkle in her eye betrayed her mischief.
Margaret smiled faintly, then turned toward the door.
Margaret moved quietly through the townhouse, her slippers whispering against the gleaming wood floors as she slipped from one chamber into the next. Margaret’s hand skimmed along the cool mahogany banister as she descended, each step lighter than it felt, as though she were trespassing in her own house.
The kiss haunted her still—burning at the edges of memory, impossible to banish. She loved him. The knowledge had struck her like a blade in the dark, and now, it lived beneath her skin, aching with every breath.
And yet… they would part. They must. That had always been the plan. To think otherwise was folly. He would not change, and she dared not hope. The very thought of leaving hollowed her out, but clinging to him would be worse. Better that he be free of her, free of the weight she brought, and she must be strong enough to give him that freedom.
Her chest tightened as she told herself the lie she wished were true—that it meant nothing, that she could forget the warmth of his mouth and the way the world had shifted beneath that single kiss. If she repeated it often enough, perhaps she might believe it.
The drawing room was the first to catch her eye. Pale afternoon light filtered through tall sash windows, falling in slender stripes across an Aubusson carpet whose colors had long since softened with age. It was a handsome chamber, but stiff. Margaret tapped a finger against the back of one chair.
“Too stiff,” she murmured, her voice startling her in the quiet. “No one could sit here and feel at ease.” She glanced around, imagining bright skirts and fans. “Still… it might do for a larger gathering. With tea. Plenty of chairs for everyone.”
A fire lay waiting in the grate, neat logs stacked with a servant’s precision, though the hearth was cold. The air held a faint trace of dried roses and violets from sachets tucked between the cushions, an effort, perhaps, to disguise the must of a room seldom used.
She paused at the threshold, fingertips grazing the carved doorframe. How easily she could picture ladies gathered here, skirts rustling as they arranged themselves on gilt chairs, porcelain teacups trembling in saucers while voices rose in polite, well-practiced chatter. She could almost hear the laughter—bright and eager.
Would they come, though? Would any of them risk being seen in the company of the new Duchess of Ravenscourt, the girl whispered to be dangerous even to befriend?
The thought lodged like a stone in her throat. For a heartbeat, she nearly turned back, nearly fled upstairs to the safety of solitude, but then she drew her shoulders square, pressing the ache down where no one could see it, and walked on.
She walked on, skirts brushing softly against the polished floorboards, until the smaller parlor opened before her. The chintz was warmer here, sunlight lying across it like a welcome. A little gasp escaped her.
“Yes,” she said aloud, stepping further in. “This is better. A morning room. Six ladies at most, perhaps cups by the window, a plate of seedcake.” She gave a rueful little laugh at herself. “Listen to me. As though anyone would come.”
Her voice wavered, and she caught the silence pressing close. Margaret squared her shoulders, lifting her chin a fraction.
“No,” she corrected herself softly, as though chiding a timid pupil. “They will come. They must. I am a duchess after all.”
The dining room she found next. The long mahogany table stretched under its regiment of tall chairs, severe and waiting. She stood at the head, one hand on the carved chair-back.
“Too much for a tea,” she mused, “but candlelight might soften it.” She imagined the low murmur of voices, the clink of crystal, her place at the head, his at the other end. Her stomach tightened, and she pressed her hand flat against the polished wood.
Back in the hall, she let out a shaky breath. “God help me,” she whispered, half to the empty house, half to herself. “I am beginning to sound like a duchess.”
Margaret drifted onward, her slippers soundless against the velvet runner that stretched the length of the corridor. The house seemed to stretch forever, long corridors bending away into shadows. She walked without aim, her fingers trailing along cool paneling, until she stepped into a long, high-ceilinged chamber lined with gilt frames.
She had not seen Sebastian all morning. For that, she was grateful. After what had passed between them the night before, she could not have borne his nearness, the look in his eyes, the memory of his mouth.
She swallowed, almost impatiently, and gave her head a little shake, turning her gaze firmly to the gallery instead.
Her gaze lifted to the chamber around her. It was a long, high-ceilinged gallery where portraits stretched in solemn procession, each heavy frame catching the pale afternoon light.
A ripple of unease stirred through her. She had stood in such a place before. This was smaller than Brighton’s gallery, less intimidating in scale, yet the likeness struck her all the same. The same endless line of faces of dukes draped in their robes of state, their duchesses strung with pearls and frozen hauteur. Generations staring down as though judgment were their inheritance.
