Page 77 of His Mad Duchess
But even as the man stumbled off, Sebastian bent closer, refusing to let go. He pressed his fingers to her wrist, desperate for the flutter of a pulse. Faint—God, so faint—but there. He dragged in a breath, steadied his shaking hand, and with the other loosened the fastenings of her gown at the throat, willing air to reach her.
“Margaret. Do you hear me?” He brushed cool fingers against her temple, her throat, anything to rouse her. Nothing.
Panic clawed higher. He seized a silver vinaigrette Rook left on a console nearby, snapped it open, and held the sharp salts beneath her nose.
At last, a tremor shook her. Her lips parted, lashes quivered, and breath shuddered into her chest.
“Margaret,” he said again, softer now, his thumb stroking the line of her cheek as if touch alone might anchor her.
Her eyes opened slowly, dazed and heavy, but instead of turning to him, they fixed, wide and unblinking, on the portrait looming above.
“Sebastian,” she whispered, her voice no more than a ragged thread. “Who is that man?”
He followed the line of her gaze, startled, then shook his head briskly. “Never mind that now. You ought not even to be sitting upright.” He slid an arm beneath her shoulders, attempting to lift her. “Come, there is a bench by the window. You need rest, not questions.”
But she resisted, her trembling fingers curling into his sleeve. Her eyes never left the painted face above them. “Please. Tell me.”
He gathered her carefully into his arms, rising with the same tenderness he might have carried a wounded bird. “Enough,”he muttered, voice taut. “You are not lying here on cold stone another instant. You need air, water, rest?—”
“Sebastian.” Her voice was a rasp, weak but insistent.
“Hush. Do not speak.” His stride was already carrying her toward a nearby bench beneath the windows. He set her down as though she were made of porcelain, then dropped to one knee beside her. His hands busied themselves with smoothing her sleeve, righting the folds of her gown, finding something… anything… to do to disguise the terror still scalding his veins. “Rook will bring the physician. You must not exert yourself.”
Her fingers, trembling, caught his wrist. “No, listen. That man?—”
“Margaret.” He tried for firmness, but it came out almost pleading. “You are as pale as death. Think only of your strength.”
She shook her head, the motion small, stubborn. Her eyes did not waver from the portrait above. “Tell me. Who is he?”
Sebastian stilled. He followed her gaze at last and exhaled, the sound sharp. “That is my late uncle. George, the Marquess of Redmere.”
Her grip tightened. “Your uncle.” The words tasted foreign on her tongue. “Then he was real. Not some phantom born of fever.”
He frowned, searching her face. “What are you saying?”
She lifted her eyes to his, wide with a terror he had never seen in her. “It is he, Sebastian. The man who haunts my dreams.”
He went very still. “Margaret?—”
“I swear it.” Her voice shook, but the conviction beneath it rang like iron. She turned back to the portrait, her breath uneven. “That face… I have seen it again and again, looming over me in the dark. It is the very same.”
Sebastian’s jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, only studied her, as though by sheer force of will he might wrest sense from the impossible. His hand covered hers at last, firm, steady, as though anchoring her to the world.
“You are overwrought,” he said lowly. “Fainting, fevered dreams?—”
“No.” Her gaze snapped back to him, fierce despite her trembling. “You think me mad, but I know what I saw.”
He faltered, struck by the blazing certainty in her eyes.
The gallery had grown crowded in a matter of moments. Mrs. Hardwick and the other maids were wringing their hands, footmen hovered uncertainly, and the physician shifted fromfoot to foot. Fanny appeared breathless, clutching a steaming cup of valerian tea, her wide eyes darting from Margaret’s pallor to Sebastian’s grim face.
“She must drink, Your Grace,” Fanny pleaded, pressing the saucer forward.
Sebastian reached to refuse, but Margaret’s hand lifted weakly, her fingers trembling as they closed around the handle. He steadied the saucer with his own hand, guiding it to her lips.
“Slowly,” he murmured, his voice gentler now.
The bitter steam curled upward as she swallowed a few tentative sips, the color in her face no better but at least no worse. Sebastian did not release the cup until she leaned back against the cushions again, spent by the effort.
