Chapter Two #2
He studied her for a long moment—taking in her plain dress, her calm expression, and her unflinching posture.
"Miss Hartwell." His voice was cold. Controlled. "You have my sympathy. My aunt is using you as a weapon. I apologise for the inconvenience."
Margaret kept her voice level. "I am employed to serve Her Grace, Your Grace. If she requires my presence at dinner, I will be there."
"How obliging." His tone suggested anything but approval. "Tell me, Miss Hartwell, do you always allow yourself to be used so freely?"
"I allow myself to do my duty, Your Grace. As I imagine you do yours."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or irritation.
The dowager made a sound of satisfaction. "Seven o'clock, Nathaniel. Do not be late."
The duke looked at his aunt for a long moment. Then he inclined his head; a gesture so slight it barely qualified as an acknowledgement.
"As you wish, Aunt. But do not expect civility beyond what courtesy demands."
"I expect nothing, Nathaniel. I have learned not to."
He turned and walked to the door. But before he left, he paused and looked back at Margaret.
"Miss Hartwell."
"Your Grace?"
"My aunt is ill. She requires rest and calm. I trust you will not allow her to exhaust herself with these... theatrics."
It was a dismissal. An accusation. An attempt to make Margaret complicit in controlling the dowager's behaviour.
Margaret met his gaze directly. "I am a companion, Your Grace. Not a gaoler. Her Grace is in full possession of her faculties. I will not presume to dictate her actions."
The duke's eyes narrowed. "How principled."
"I prefer honest, Your Grace."
For a brief moment, something shifted in his expression. Then the mask returned; cold, impenetrable, absolute.
"Seven o'clock, then. I will endeavour not to offend your honesty with my presence."
He left, and the door closed behind him with careful, controlled precision.
Margaret stood very still, her heart pounding, her hands trembling slightly. She had just contradicted a Duke. Twice.
The Dowager's laughter broke the silence, and it was soft, delighted, utterly shameless.
"Oh, Miss Hartwell. You are magnificent."
Margaret turned. "Your Grace, I apologise if I overstepped…"
"Overstepped? You did exactly as you ought." The Dowager's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "He expected you to defer. To apologise. To make yourself small and invisible. Instead, you stood your ground."
"I merely spoke the truth, Your Grace."
"Precisely. And my nephew has not heard the truth from anyone in five years." The dowager leaned back in her chair, looking more pleased than Margaret had yet seen her. "This will be very interesting indeed."
Margaret set down the book she had been clutching. Her hands were still trembling.
"Your Grace, I fear I have made an enemy of His Grace."
"Nonsense. You have made an impression. There is a difference." The dowager smiled. "An enemy would be easy for him to dismiss. An impression... that will linger."
Margaret was not reassured.
***
The rest of the day passed in careful routine. Margaret read to the Dowager, wrote letters at her dictation, and helped her walk slowly through the gardens despite the chill in the air. The dowager tired easily, her breathing laboured, her strength clearly failing.
But her mind remained sharp as ever.
"What will you wear tonight?" She asked as they returned to the house.
"My blue muslin, Your Grace. It is the only dinner dress I possess."
"Hmm. We must remedy that. A companion in my household should not appear shabby."
"I am not shabby, Your Grace. Merely practical."
"Practical is another word for dull, Miss Hartwell. But no matter. My nephew will not notice, regardless." The dowager paused to catch her breath on the stairs. "He notices very little these days beyond ledgers and duty."
Margaret helped her up the remaining steps, noting how light she felt, how fragile. Three to six months, the physicians had said. Perhaps less.
She pushed the thought away and focused on the immediate: getting the Dowager settled, ensuring she rested, and preparing for dinner.
The meal she was already dreading.
***
At a quarter to seven, Margaret stood before the mirror in her room and assessed herself with ruthless honesty.
The blue muslin was clean but out of fashion.
Her hair was pinned severely back from her face.
She wore her mother's pearl earrings—the only jewellery she owned.
She looked exactly what she was: a woman of two-and-thirty, plain-faced and plainly dressed, who had long since stopped hoping for anything beyond respectability and employment.
A knock at the door.
"Miss Hartwell? Her Grace is ready."
Margaret took a breath, squared her shoulders, and went to collect her employer.
The dowager was dressed in black silk, her hair arranged with more care than usual, a shawl draped around her thin shoulders. She looked formidable despite her illness; a duchess to her bones.
"You look frightened, Miss Hartwell."
"I am not frightened, Your Grace."
"Liar. But I appreciate the effort." The dowager took Margaret's arm. "Come. Let us see if my nephew remembers how to use a fork."
They descended to the small dining room. The table was set for three; the Dowager at the head, two places arranged on either side. Candles flickered in silver holders, and a fire burned in the grate.
And at precisely seven o'clock, the Duke of Blackmere arrived.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, his face utterly impassive. He had changed for dinner. His coat was dark blue superfine, his cravat tied with perfect precision. He looked every inch the aristocrat.
And absolutely miserable.
"Aunt." He inclined his head. "Miss Hartwell."
Margaret curtseyed. The Dowager gestured to a chair.
"Sit, Nathaniel. Let us attempt civilisation."
He sat. A footman appeared, not the nervous young one from before, but an older man with steady hands, and began serving the first course.
The silence was excruciating.
Margaret kept her eyes on her plate, the Dowager sipped her wine, and the Duke ate mechanically, his jaw tight, his movements precise and controlled.
Finally, the dowager spoke.
"Miss Hartwell was admiring the library this morning, Nathaniel. I told her it was Catherine's favourite room."
The duke's fork stilled. "Did you?"
"She found it beautiful. As indeed it is."
The duke set down his fork with careful precision. "If you brought me here to discuss my late wife, Aunt, you are wasting your time."
"I brought you here to dine. The fact that we are conversing is merely incidental."
"We are not conversing. You are baiting me."
"Am I?" The dowager smiled. "How perceptive."
The duke pushed back his chair. "I have fulfilled your requirement. I have sat at your table. I will not remain to be examined like a specimen on display."
"Sit down."
"No."
"Nathaniel!"
"No." His voice was quiet but absolute. "I have given you one meal. Do not ask for more."
He turned to leave but stopped.
Hendricks stood in the doorway, his face carefully neutral.
"Your Grace, forgive the interruption. Mr Pembroke has sent an urgent message. There has been an incident at the home farm. He requires your immediate presence."
The Duke's entire posture changed; it shifted from barely controlled fury to cold, focused attention.
"What manner of incident?"
"A fire, Your Grace. In the main barn. Mr Pembroke believes it is contained, but he requests you come at once."
The duke was already moving. "Have my horse saddled. Immediately."
"Already done, Your Grace."
He strode past Hendricks without a backward glance. Then stopped and turned.
His eyes found Margaret's.
"Miss Hartwell. My aunt is not well. See that she retires early. Do not allow her to overexert herself."
It was not a request. It was a command.
Margaret rose. "Yes, Your Grace."
He left. The sound of his boots echoed down the corridor and then faded.
The dowager sighed. "Well. That was brief."
Margaret looked at the old woman. "Are you well, Your Grace?"
"No. But I will survive the evening." The Dowager's mouth twisted. "Unlike the dinner. That, I fear, is quite dead."
Margaret helped her from the dining room, up the stairs, to her chambers. The Dowager leaned heavily on her arm, her breathing laboured.
"Your Grace, shall I send for the physician?"
"No. I merely need rest." The dowager sank into a chair by the fire. "Ring for my maid. And then you may go."
"I should stay…"
"You should go to bed, Miss Hartwell. Tomorrow will be trying enough."
Margaret hesitated. Then curtseyed. "Good night, Your Grace."
She left the Dowager with her maid and walked slowly back toward her own room.
But as she passed the great windows overlooking the drive, she stopped.
A figure on horseback was riding hard toward the home farm, his coat streaming behind him, his posture tense with urgency.
The Duke of Blackmere. Racing toward disaster with the same cold control he brought to everything else.
Margaret watched until he disappeared into the darkness.
Then she went to her room, undressed, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
She wondered if he would return tonight.
And then wondered why it mattered.
However, she knew, with sudden, terrible certainty, that she was already in far deeper than she had intended.
***
She did not sleep.
Half an hour after midnight, she heard voices and movement in the courtyard below.
She rose and went to the window.
The Duke had returned. Even in the darkness, she could see the exhaustion in his posture as he dismounted. Soot streaked his coat, and his hair was dishevelled.
Hendricks appeared with a lamp. They spoke briefly, and then the Duke turned toward the house and looked up.
Directly at Margaret's window.
She froze. He could not possibly see her in the darkness. The candle in her room was out. She was invisible.
But he looked. For a long moment, he simply looked.
Then he turned and walked into the house.
Margaret stepped back from the window, her heart pounding.
He saw you.
No. Impossible. It was dark. He was exhausted. He had been looking at the house, not at her window specifically.
But as she climbed back into bed, she could not shake the feeling that somewhere in this vast, cold house, the Duke of Blackmere was standing at a window of his own.
Wondering.