Page 87 of His Mad Duchess
“Parsons,” he called, scarcely more than a whisper.
The butler appeared almost at once, as if he had been waiting just beyond. His brows drew together at the sight of Sebastian’s face. “Your Grace?”
Sebastian lifted the note, though his grip was white knuckled. “Have the carriage brought round. At once.”
Parsons hesitated only a heartbeat. “To London, Sir?”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse, hollow. “Without delay.”
The older man inclined his head, though worry flickered in his eyes. “Shall I send for food to carry with you? You have not eaten.”
“No.” Sebastian closed his fist around the paper, as though it might vanish if he loosed it. “Only the carriage.”
Parsons bowed and withdrew at once. Within minutes, the clatter of harnesses and the rumble of wheels echoed through the courtyard.
Sebastian descended the steps with long, unsteady strides, the bitter air cutting sharply against his skin. He climbed into the carriage without a backward glance, the note still clutched tight in his hand.
The door shut. The whip cracked. And in a storm of hooves and wheels, he was gone.
CHAPTER 30
The morning crept by in stillness, broken only by the faint scratch of Margaret’s needle through linen and the gentle strains of the pianoforte where Cecily sat attempting a sonata with more diligence than skill. A wrong note stumbled here and there, yet she pressed gamely on, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Margaret sat near the window, her embroidery frame balanced in her lap, though her hand moved without care. A stem left unfinished, a flower begun and abandoned—the design faltered as her thoughts drifted, thread looping loosely as though it, too, had grown weary.
At her feet, Miss Fortune stretched herself upon the rug, paws twitching as she batted idly at the trailing thread that had fallen from the basket. Now and then, she mewed softly, a plaintive sound that seemed almost to reproach Margaret’s inattention. The fire burned low in the grate, giving little warmth, and the gray light beyond the window only deepened the hush within the chamber.
Cecily looked up from her pianoforte practice, her fingers pausing on the keys. “You will ruin that blossom if you stitch so distractedly,” she said with a smile meant to be light.
Margaret’s lips curved faintly. “Then it shall resemble me, a thing half-wrought, neither one nor the other.”
Beatrice, sprawled indolently in a chair with a book resting upside-down on her lap, glanced over and said with unusual brightness, “That shade of thread suits you, Margaret. You ought to wear more of it—it would set off your eyes delightfully.”
Margaret did not answer at once. She drew her thread once more, slow and uneven, as though each pull wearied her.
Beatrice glanced over from her chair and gave a light laugh. “Even Miss Fortune has more energy than you, Margaret. Look at her positively performing for attention.”
Margaret lowered her gaze, the corner of her mouth stirring despite herself as the cat sprang up to chase her own tail in dizzying circles.
A long silence stretched, broken at last when Beatrice let her book fall shut with a decisive thump. “This is intolerably dull,” she declared, swinging her feet to the floor. “We ought to do something positively diverting. A turn about Hyde Park, perhaps… or a visit to Gunter’s for ices. Even an hour at the milliner’s would be preferable. My bonnet is practically begging for new ribbons.”
Cecily glanced up from the keys, seizing the thought with eagerness. “Oh yes! Or we might call upon the Harrows—Mrs. Harrow always contrives to make her table sparkle with laughter. Or we could ride—anything but sitting still another moment.”
Beatrice gave Miss Fortune a scratch, a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, something to remind us we are not cloistered nuns. Anything beyond these four walls must be an improvement.”
Their chatter dwindled as both turned toward Margaret. She had not moved, her gaze still fixed on the loose stem of her embroidery. Her silence pressed upon them like a weight. Cecily flushed faintly, closing the pianoforte with a gentle hand. Beatrice looked down, her voice softer. “Forgive us. We chatter like selfish children, while you?—”
Margaret forced her lips into the shape of a smile, though it touched nothing in her eyes.
“Forgive me. I would not spoil your gaiety. You should go—take the air, enjoy the day. I find I have no appetite for company just now.”
For a moment, Cecily studied her, searching the careful mask, then she inclined her head with a small, steady nod. “I understand,” she said softly. “We’ll not leave you unless you wish it.”
The words were true, and yet a quiet weight pressed in her chest. To face the bright crush of London risked running into him. Orworse, into sharp-eyed acquaintances eager with questions she could not bear to answer.
Each street, each salon, each turning might hold his shadow, and she had not the strength to weather it. Better the sickening silence of this chamber, however heavy, than the chance of meeting his gaze and breaking entirely.
Margaret gave a sad smile, looking down at the drooping flower in her embroidery hoop. “If I stepped into society now, I fear I should shatter at the first whisper. You remember what it was like the last time we went out together—every look, every laugh turning sharp the moment we passed. I cannot weather that again. Better to spare them the spectacle.”
