Page 8 of His Mad Duchess
Outside, the faint strains of a violin drifted through the walls. It was bright, cheerful, and utterly indifferent to the quiet panic building between the bookshelves.
Margaret’s breath hitched. “They’ll be looking for me. My aunt… if anyone finds me…”
Her mind stumbled over the wordsalone with a man, her cheeks flaming so hot they hurt.
Sebastian knocked sharply, three times, then called out, voice smooth but clipped. “Anyone there? The door’s stuck. Would you kindly?—”
No answer. The waltz swelled. Laughter, glass, polite applause, the entire house deaf to one locked door.
Margaret’s fingers curled tight at her side. “This is your fault,” she hissed.
“Mine?” He let out a low laugh with no humor in it this time. “Forgive me, but which one of us burst in unannounced, half-undressed, without so much as knocking?”
“You shouldn’t have stayed. You should have left the moment you saw me come in?—”
He rounded on her, exasperation flaring bright behind the lazy grin he usually wore like armor. “Forgive me for not vanishing like a ghost behind my own brandy. If anyone’s at fault, it’s you, sneaking into other people’s libraries like a scandal looking for a headline…”
“I was trying to fix my dress?—”
“And now, I’m the fool locked in a room with you,” he shot back, arms flaring wide. “Marvelous. Truly, your timing is spectacular.”
“I thought it was empty!” She snapped her head up, cheeks burning. “And you, sitting there in the dark like some highwayman with a brandy glass?—”
“Better a highwayman than a wallflower eavesdropper crawling under tables,” he shot back, voice rising.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping! I was…” She bit it back, dragging in a breath that only seemed to tighten her ribs. “If my aunt finds me here with you… if anyone finds me…” Her voice cracked. “Beatrice will never be rid of it. Cecily too. You don’t understand.”
“I understand ruin quite well, Lady Margaret.” His eyes narrowed, green and sharp even in the dim light. “Don’t flatter yourself that you’re the only one at risk here. I’m not in the habit of being caught behind locked doors with young ladies who can’t mind their hems.”
Margaret flinched like he’d struck her. “I didn’t ask you to stay!”
“And yet here we both are.” He gestured at the stubborn latch. “Unless you’ve some hidden trapdoor tucked under your skirts, too.”
“Do not talk about my skirts!” she shot back, voice strangled, hands bunching at the ruined seam. “God, this night couldn’t get worse. Unless the entire door comes off, and the whole ball parades in to watch.”
They glared at each other.
Margaret pressed her palms to her temples, breathing hard. “This is useless. We’ll be caught. They’ll find us in here like… like?—”
“Like exactly what they’ll assume,” Sebastian muttered, scanning the shelves, the door, the dark corners that offered no salvation. Then he spotted it, the tall window behind the desk, half shuttered, moonlight slicing through the crack like a plan he didn’t quite trust. His eyes narrowed. It was not exactly hope, but close enough.
“Stay put.” He crossed to it, flicked the latch, and shoved the sash up. The rush of cold night air snapped her out of her spiral.
“What are you doing?” She hugged her arms tight, glaring. “You expect us to jump? You first, then. I’ll wave as you break your neck.”
“I expect us to be cleverer than a stuck door. There’s a ledge and the garden trellis beneath if you trust your slippers to hold fast.” He tested the frame with a quick shove; it was old but not rotten. Doable.
“I don’t trust you, never mind my slippers,” she snapped.
“Your slippers aren’t the problem,” he shot back. “The problem is we’ve six minutes at best before your dear aunt thinks you’vefainted behind the orchestra. But if you’d rather wait here for your dear aunt’s discovery, be my guest.”
“I could faint right now, and it’d be preferable.”
He gave her a look, all lazy mockery on the surface, all coiled urgency beneath. “Be grateful I’m handy in a crisis. Most dukes would sit here waiting for the scandal sheets to arrive.”
“Most dukes have the sense to stay out of locked libraries…”
“And most nieces knock first,” he countered.
