Page 95 of His Mad Duchess
When at last he drew back enough to look at her, his eyes were luminous, shining with something she had never seen unguarded in him before. They shone with awe and relief and a love so unashamed, it undid her utterly.
“Margaret…” he whispered, her name breaking on his lips, his voice raw with awe and wonder.
He cupped her face with reverent hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears even as more slipped free. Her lips trembled, parted with a sob she could not swallow. He bent, slow and certain, until his warm breath mingled with hers, carrying all the words he could not say.
“I’ve loved you… always,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple before they met hers.
When their mouths met, it was soft at first, trembling and damp with her tears. His lips pressed to hers as though she were something fragile, something holy, and the tenderness of it stole her breath. She tasted the salt of her own tears between them, felt the shiver that went through him, and clung harder, her fingers curling into his coat.
“I was so afraid I’d lost you,” she murmured against him, her voice breaking, her fingers clutching his coat.
He shivered and kissed her, still careful, each movement reverent. “Never,” he breathed against her lips. “Never a moment.”
She let herself cling to him, tears spilling freely, whispering her own confession, “I love you too… so much.”
He kissed her again, deeper, still careful, his mouth moving against hers with aching reverence. His hands moved with deliberate tenderness, sliding from her shoulders to cradle her face, tilting her head slightly, coaxing her closer.
Her fingers threaded through the dark fabric of his coat, clutching as if he could anchor her to this certainty. Each brush of his lips was measured, lingering at the corners, at the curve of her jaw, at the tender swell of her lips, as though he could convey a lifetime of devotion in each contact.
When at last he drew back, it was only far enough for his forehead to rest against hers. His eyes glistened, his breath ragged as though the kiss had undone him, too. She gave a shaky laugh through her tears, then rose to meet him again, her lips finding his with quiet certainty. This time she kissed him, not as the girl who had lost everything but as the woman who had found where she belonged.
EPILOGUE
The carriage stood waiting in the drive, its polished panels gleaming faintly in the waning light. Brighton’s air was softer than London’s, scented with salt and late roses, and it stirred the ribbons of the Dowager Duchess’ bonnet as she descended the steps with measured grace.
Margaret stood at the threshold of the Brighton estate, curtseying with the utmost propriety as the Dowager Duchess adjusted her gloves. There was a faint slump to her shoulders, a softening at the edges of her usually sharp posture. The proud set of her jaw was still there, but the lines around her eyes carried a trace of weariness, and the gleam of imperious authority seemed a little dulled.
“Your Grace,” Margaret said, her voice soft, measured, “it was… a pleasure to receive you.”
The Dowager regarded her for a moment, and in her eyes, there flickered something quieter, something that might almost havebeen weariness. “You keep the house well,” she said at last, her voice not unkind. “Sebastian has chosen wisely.”
Margaret’s lips curved faintly. “It is kind of you to say so.”
A pause stretched between them, not hostile but filled with all that would never be spoken. At last, the Dowager inclined her head, the gesture regal even in its brevity. “I shall not keep you from your duties. You are mistress here now.”
Margaret lifted her chin, the weight of the words settling upon her not as a burden but as a mantle. “I will do my best to honor it,” she replied softly.
“Safe journey, Your Grace,” Margaret said, stepping forward just enough to ensure the parting carried no shadow of coldness.
The Dowager paused on the threshold of the carriage, her gaze returning once more to her daughter-in-law. “You have courage, child. I daresay that will serve you better than all the rest.”
Margaret gave a slight curtsy. For the first time, she did not feel the Dowager’s shadow pressing upon her.
The Dowager’s lips pressed together briefly, then parted in a faint, almost wistful smile. “Good day, Duchess,” she said, her tone polite yet tinged with a subtle fragility. She gave a final nod before turning, her steps slower than before.
Margaret exhaled, letting the tension drain from her shoulders. She watched the carriage wheels recede, the image of the once-imposing Dowager now tempered by quiet melancholy lingering in her mind.
Margaret bent slightly to scratch Miss Fortune behind the ears, the cat purring and weaving between her ankles. “Come along, little one,” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Let’s go and find Sebastian. I’m certain he’s been waiting far too long for us.”
Miss Fortune mewed in agreement and padded ahead, tail high, leading the way as Margaret followed, her steps lighter now that the weight of the visit had lifted.
Margaret crossed into the Brighton drawing room and let herself sink into its warmth. The sunlight glinted across the polished floorboards, and the quiet hum of the estate felt like a balm.
Sebastian was already there, sitting close to the fire, his eyes lighting up the moment they met hers. “And how did tea go?” he asked, voice teasing yet low, as though no one else existed in the world.
Margaret smiled, the tension of the past weeks melting with the ease of their shared space. “Civil enough,” she murmured, stepping toward him.
Margaret let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh. “Do you think she meant it? That she will leave us in peace?”
