Page 93 of His Mad Duchess
The Dowager froze, her lips parting as if to protest, but no sound came. Her shoulders, so rigid with pride, seemed to fold in upon themselves.
Sebastian took a step forward. He did not raise his voice; the cold finality in it was sharper than any shout. “Look around, Mother,” he said, each syllable deliberate, damning, “You have no family anymore.”
The Dowager blinked, her lips parting, her composure fracturing at last. “What?” The word slipped out in disbelief, thin and almost broken.
Sebastian stared at her, scarcely recognizing the woman before him. “Not one.”
The color drained from her face. Her lips trembled, but no answer came.
Silence fell, heavy as stone.
Sebastian turned at last, reaching for Margaret’s hand. His grasp was steady, decisive. “Come. We are finished here.”
But Margaret resisted, her hand caught but not moving, her gaze fixed on the Dowager. “Sebastian…” Her voice wavered, urgent, pained. “She is alone. Whatever she has done, she is still your mother.”
The words struck like a blow, but he did not flinch. His jaw locked, the line of his shoulders unyielding as stone. “She forfeited that claim long ago.”
Margaret’s lips parted, as though to argue further, but the look in his eyes silenced her. He drew her up with him, firm, resolute, her protest faltering though her sorrow lingered; it was a weight he could feel but could not carry. Not now. Not ever.
He turned, leading her toward the door. Behind them, the Dowager did not rise. He felt her gaze on his back—empty, clinging, hollow as a ghost. He did not look. He would not look.
CHAPTER 32
The carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestones, each turn loud in the silence that pressed upon them. Margaret kept smoothing the folds of her skirts, her gaze fixed on the dark blur beyond the window.
A dull ache had begun at her temples, the kind that came not from noise or light but from the strain of too much feeling, too much revelation. At length, she raised her hand, pressing her fingers lightly against her brow as though the gesture alone might soothe the pain.
She could feel Sebastian beside her, tense and unyielding, his anger still coiled like a storm not yet spent. Neither spoke. There were no words for what had been revealed in that room, no balm for the ruin they had left behind.
When at last the carriage slowed, Margaret stirred, expecting the familiar gate of Moreland Manor, but when she glanced out, her breath caught. Not the neat, welcoming façade of heraunt’s home, but the looming grandeur of Ravenscourt House rose before her, its stone face shadowed and severe beneath the lamplight.
Her headache seemed to pulse sharply, confusion mingling with unease. She darted a glance at Sebastian, but he did not look at her. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed forward as the footman lowered the step. He offered his hand without a word.
Her gaze darted to Sebastian, but he did not look at her. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed forward as the footman lowered the step. She felt a pang of surprise—unease, even. She had not crossed the threshold of this house since leaving it in anguish. That he brought her here now… what did it mean?
Margaret hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand gently within his.
And as the great doors opened, she felt her steps falter.
Sebastian stopped in the drawing room, his back to her for a long, unbearable moment. His shoulders were rigid, his hands fisted at his sides. When at last he turned, his face was stark with resolve.
“You are free now,” he said. His voice was low, steady, though she could hear the strain beneath. “If you wish for a quiet separation, I will grant it. I will not hold you in chains you did not choose.”
Margaret’s lips parted, but no sound came. The words struck deep, leaving her at once shaken and hollow.
He pressed on, each word as if torn from him. “I cannot undo the wrong that was done to you, but I will make it right as far as I am able. The truth will be told. I will stand before every man and woman of the ton and swear it myself. I will see your name cleared so that no one will dare whisper it with scorn again.”
Her breath caught. “But if you do that…” Her voice broke, and she forced it steadier. “If you do that, it will ruin you. Your title, your family’s name, everything you have ever borne?—”
“Let it,” he cut in, sharp, unflinching.
She stared at him, stricken. “How can you speak so? You have lived your whole life for duty, for the Ravenscourt name. You would throw it all away—for me?”
He moved closer, and Margaret saw it then. Margaret realized the steadiness he wore was a lie, trembling at the edges. It was only a mask stretched thin, trembling as though one breath might tear it apart. His shoulders were too rigid, his jaw too tight, his hands restless at his sides. She had never seen him quite like this, not even in anger.
For a moment, he only stood there. The silence was unbearable, filled with the sound of his uneven breath. Margaret’s heart pounded against her ribs, each beat loud enough to drown out thought.
“Do you not see?” he said, almost hoarse. “That name, that duty—it has been my prison. Since the day I could walk, it has bound me, chained me, demanded every breath.” His hands flexed once, twice, as though the words were shackles he could not shake. “And still… still… I bore it without complaint. I bent myself to its weight until I no longer knew where I ended and it began.”
