Page 94 of His Mad Duchess
She wanted to speak, to soothe, but her throat had closed. The force of his words pinned her in place.
“But to see you suffer beneath it, Margaret—” His voice broke. He dragged a hand across his mouth, as though even speaking the thought tore him open. His chest rose hard, the breath shuddering from him. “To see your life ruined by the sins of others… by shadows not your own… God…” He turned his head aside, the motion sharp, almost helpless. “God, I cannot bear it.”
Her eyes stung, hot and sudden. She pressed her hands tight to keep them from trembling.
His hands clenched then opened helplessly before he let them fall, useless at his sides as if he might reach for her and yet could not. She felt the ache of that unfinished gesture as though it had been torn from her own body.
“I would burn Ravenscourt to ash before I let it destroy you.”
Margaret’s breath shivered loose, the air in the room pressing heavy, trembling. His control was gone; she could see it inevery line of him—shoulders taut, chest heaving, the proud mask shattered into pieces at her feet.
His chest heaved, his composure breaking at last. He raked a hand through his hair, as though to steady himself, then dropped it helplessly.
And then, unguarded, raw, the words tore from him, words she had scarcely dared to imagine, words that struck like fire to the heart.
“Because I love you.”
It was not calm, nor was it noble, but rather, it was desperate. His chest rose and fell like a man who had leaped from a height and only now felt the ground rushing up to meet him.
The words fell sharply into the room like a struck bell. He stood there, waiting. Waiting for her voice, her eyes, her hand… something.
But Margaret was struck still, her throat locked, her heart so painfully full that not a single syllable could escape.
The silence stretched.
A shadow crossed his face, and he swallowed hard, shoulders drawing taut as though bracing against a blow.
“I see,” he murmured at last, almost to himself. His gaze dropped, and he turned from her, retreating step by step, as if her silence had answered more cruelly than words ever could.
Margaret’s heart throbbed painfully, her throat tightening. The ache in her temples was nothing beside the ache in her chest. She could only stare, stunned, as he turned from her, as if ashamed of the confession, as though he would leave her with those words hanging in the silence like a wound.
“Wait.” Her voice was little more than a breath, but it was enough to halt him.
She rushed forward, and her hand found his sleeve, trembling, desperate to hold him there. He stilled but did not turn, and for a moment, she feared he would shake her off, walk away, leave her in the silence she herself had created.
Her feet carried in front of him, her heart pounding until it hurt. “Do not go,” she whispered, the words breaking from her like a prayer. And before she could falter, before her courage could fail, she reached for him with both hands now, clutching his arm, his shoulder, then pulling him into her embrace.
Her cheek pressed against the broad plane of his chest, and the sob she had held at bay escaped her. “I love you,” she breathed, her voice broken with the truth. “God help me, I love you.”
The words tumbled faster now, jagged, desperate, before she could stop them. “I tried not to. I swore I would not. I told myselfit would ruin me—but it was no use. I cannot stop. I cannot breathe without it.”
Her fingers curled in the fabric of his coat, clinging. “I am afraid every moment that I will lose you. And still—still I would rather face ruin at your side than safety without you.”
Her voice broke, and she pressed her cheek harder against his chest, as if she might hide from her own confession. “I thought I was sparing you. Do you see? I thought if I pushed you away, if I let you believe I was cold, you would be free.”
She drew in a ragged breath, her fingers fisting tighter in his coat, as though afraid he might vanish if she released him. Sebastian stood utterly still, his breath held, the weight of her words striking like blows.
“They whisper about madness in my blood; they call it a curse upon my family—I could not bear the thought of it staining you. So, I lied. I told myself I could endure it, that I was strong enough to carry the loss.”
For a heartbeat, she faltered, the sob rising too fast to swallow. Her chest shook against him, and she pressed her lips together as though the truth itself might break her.
“But I am not.” Her breath hitched, sharp as a sob. “I am not strong at all.”
Her hands tightened, shaking. “I let the rumors rule me. I let them convince me you deserved better than the shadow that clings to me. I thought I was saving you when all I did was tear us both apart.”
Her words faltered into silence, her body trembling against his. “I love you,” she whispered again, raw and bare. “Too much to let go. Too much to pretend I do not.”
For a heartbeat, he did not move. His breath shuddered above her crown, his body rigid in disbelief. Then, with a sound almost like a gasp, his arms closed tight around her, and he was trembling, as though he might never let her go again. He buried his face in her hair, holding her tightly as if he was afraid she might vanish if he let her go.
