Page 78 of His Mad Duchess
Only then did he glance toward the house physician, who was hovering with anxious importance. “Doctor, wait in the anteroom. If I require you, I’ll send for you.”
The man bowed, muttering about the dangers of lingering weakness, but Sebastian silenced him with a look. Then he turned to the maids, all pale with fright, their whispers pricking Margaret’s raw nerves. “That will be all.”
Fanny lingered, wringing her hands. “But Your Grace?—”
“She has had enough.” His tone left no room for dispute.
The maid’s mouth opened, then closed again as if she might argue. She bent into a curtsy so low that it was nearly a bow, muttering all the while. “If she swoons away entirely, I’ll never forgive myself. Left her to ghosts and fainting fits, I did. Oh, they’ll say it’s all my fault when she perishes, and I’ll be haunted forever by her poor pale face…”
“Fanny,” Mrs. Hardwick hissed in warning.
Fanny snapped her mouth shut but shuffled backward, still casting mournful looks over her shoulder as if expecting Margaret to expire on the spot. At last, she vanished through the door with the others, her whispered lament drifting after her.
Reluctantly, they curtsied and withdrew, skirts swishing down the gallery until the door closed upon them. Sebastian placed the cup of tea beside Margaret, his forehead creasing with worry.
Sebastian kneeled beside Margaret once more, his voice dropping low. “It’s only us now.”
Her lashes fluttered, her fingers twisting in his sleeve. But her gaze, restless and haunted, slid back to the portrait above.
“Margaret,” he said gently. “It is only a painting. Nothing more.”
Her head moved in the smallest shake. “No, Sebastian. You do not understand.”
His chest tightened. “Then make me.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow. Then her lips parted, the words dragging out as though torn from a wound.
“The night of the fire… just before the flames took hold…” Her voice fractured, thin and broken, and she pressed trembling fingers to her temple as though the memory itself scorched her skin. “I was only a child. I woke to shouting. My father’s voice was thunderous with anger, my mother’s sobs were wrecking. And another voice, low and hard… a man’s. I did not know him then, but the sound made me afraid.”
Her breath shuddered, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, shoulders rising and falling in uneven breaths. “I crept to the window. I can still feel the pane, cold as ice, beneath my palms. And through the dark, I saw him.”
Slowly, her hand rose, trembling, indicating the painted face that loomed above them. “Your uncle. Marquess of Redmere. He came out of the house. The lantern light fell across his features—I swear it, Sebastian. I knew even then that I should be afraid.” Her voice faltered, but she forced the words through the tremor on her lips. “And then… the flames devoured it all. By morning, the house was ash. My parents—” Her throat closed around the word, and tears gathered in her lashes. “Gone.”
Sebastian’s throat worked convulsively. He remembered his uncle distantly, a tall, unsmiling figure who had seemed carved of ice. He also remembered his mother’s grief when her brother died in that hunting accident fifteen years ago. His mother had wept for weeks, unable to speak his name without breaking.
And now Margaret… his Margaret… spoke of him as a specter in her childhood, a harbinger of fire and ruin.
Could Margaret’s terror be madness? Or was it truth long buried?
He lowered himself before her, the weight of his family’s legacy pressing like a vice upon his chest. “Sweetheart…” The word slipped unbidden, raw. He caught her cold fingers in his. “If you are certain, then I will uncover the truth. Whatever shadow lies in that past, it will not be allowed to touch you again.”
Her eyes, wide and desperate, searched his face. “You believe me?”
“Margaret.” He caught her hand at last, enclosing it firmly in both of his. “I would tear the world apart if it meant easing that fear in your eyes. I swear it—I will uncover what happened.”
Margaret drew a ragged breath, her lashes lowering as though the weight of the past pressed her head down. For a moment, she seemed content to let his promise hang between them, fragile as spun glass. Then her fingers slipped from his, folding tightly in her lap.
“You speak of shadows,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, “but the truth is… I am not well.”
Sebastian stilled.
Her throat worked, and though her eyes glistened, she forced them up to his. “I cannot remain here, Sebastian. Not in these halls, with that face watching me, with my strength ebbing more each day. I thought I could endure until our bargain was complete, but I cannot. We must end it sooner.”
“Margaret, I—” His voice broke on her name, raw with protest.
But she pressed on, as if he had not spoken, her words gathering like a tide before she lost her courage.
“This is not only fear. It is… everything. My body falters, my mind betrays me. And if I stay, I will only draw you further into ruin. Better we cut this bond cleanly, before it roots itself deeper.”
