Chapter 5
Margaret shouldn’t have come to the orangery.
She knew it the moment she stepped inside.
The humid air wrapped around her like a secret.
The air was sweet with orange blossom, a warm aroma that caught at the back of her throat.
Candle flames quivered in brass sconces, throwing leaf-lace shadows across potted palms and glossy citrus laden with fruit.
It appeared too secluded and too much like stepping outside the world she knew into one where different rules applied. But her feet had carried her here anyway, away from the ballroom’s scrutiny and the exhausting pretense of thriving in a role that was suffocating her.
She crossed to the fountain at the center—a shallow basin carved from pale stone, water trickling over its edges in a soothing rhythm. She pulled off her gloves and trailed her finger through the cool water.
Just five minutes. That’s all she needed. Time to breathe alone and gather herself after the dance with the handsome duke. She had no business feeling like a debutante who had something to offer a man like him and yet he made her feel things she only knew from books.
Footsteps crunched on gravel.
Margaret’s heart stopped. She spun around.
Henry stood at the entrance, silhouetted in the doorway. His evening coat was gone, his cravat hung loose, and his dark hair looked thoroughly mussed, as if he’d been dragging his fingers through it.
He looked… undone.
I shouldn’t be here.
This situation was all too familiar… a moment to breathe and a moment alone with a man… This time it’s different.
“Your Grace.” Her voice came out breathless. “I didn’t expect you to follow me.” She wrung her hands when he remained quiet. “We shouldn’t be found alone together.” Even as she said it, she didn’t move toward the door.
“I know.” He stepped closer so slowly it could only have been deliberate, as if approaching something wild that might bolt. “But I saw you leave and I couldn’t—” He stopped. His jaw worked. “I couldn’t let you disappear into the dark alone.”
This time really was different. She didn’t have a single innocent thought to mistake the risk or the allure of the moment.
“I’m not alone now,” she said softly.
“True.” His eyes found hers and held them. “You’re not.”
The silence between them felt weighted. Charged with everything neither of them said.
He crossed to her. Each step closed the distance until he stood near enough that she could smell wine and something uniquely him.
“May I?” He gestured to the space beside her at the fountain.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He sat. Not touching her. But close enough that the heat of him warmed her side.
Henry found her in the orangery. She stood at the fountain, trailing her fingers through the water. Moonlight caught in her hair. He should have left or at least maintained proper distance, but she was just so… so… he moved closer.
“You disappeared,” he said quietly.
She spun. Hand to her chest. “You followed me.”
“I did.”
“That was unwise.”
“Probably.” He was near but not improper. “Watching you go away felt worse.”
She studied him. Wary. “Why?”
“Because we were interrupted.” He gestured vaguely at the space between them. “Earlier. When we were—”
“Dancing badly?”
His mouth curved. “I was going to say, ‘having an actual conversation.’ But yes. Also dancing badly.”
“You weren’t that terrible.”
“You’re being kind.”
“I’m being honest. You only stepped on my foot twice.”
“Three times.”
“Twice. I counted. And only the right, not the left even once.”
“Which means I’m even worse than you thought. I assault beautiful ladies unevenly with my clumsy dancing.”
Her lips twitched. “Devastatingly worse.”
“Thank you for your honesty.”
“You’re welcome.”
They sat there with the fountain burbling behind them. Close but not touching, the air charged to the point of crackling.
“Margaret…” He stopped. Because what came next felt too big. Too fast.
“Henry.” Her voice was soft.
“I don’t know how to do this.” The confession escaped before he could stop it.
“I don’t know the rules. Don’t know what I’m allowed to say or feel or—” He ran a hand through his hair.
“Six weeks ago I was a tutor. I knew exactly who I was. Now I’m supposed to be a duke, and I have no idea what that means except apparently I’m not supposed to follow widows into orangeries. ”
“You’re not.”
“And yet here I am.”
“Here we both are.” She took a breath. “I should tell you something about—about being a widow.”
Something in her tone made him go still. “All right.”
“Everyone assumes—” She stopped. Started again. “People think I’ve been married. That I know about—” Her cheeks flushed. “That I understand how marriage works.”
He waited unsure what she’d tell him.
“But I was married for three days.” Her words came faster now. “Three days. My husband left for the continent. I never saw him again. We didn’t—I mean, there wasn’t time to—” She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. “I’m explaining this terribly.”
Understanding crashed through him. “You’re saying you weren’t really married, not in the way people assume.”
“No. I never had the chance to have my full first season and not even…” Relief flickered across her face when she seemed to find the words.
“We shared exactly three conversations. One at a ball. One in his father’s parlor when the marriage was arranged.
One on our wedding day when he told me he was leaving at dawn after I moved to the house he owned. That was my entire marriage.”
“Margaret—”
“So everyone thinks I’m this worldly widow who understands men and—and kissing, passion, love… but I don’t. I’ve never even been properly kissed. Which is absurd, isn’t it? To be a widow who’s never been kissed?”
The words hung between them.
Henry’s heart was hammering. “That’s not absurd.”
I’d like nothing better than to kiss you.
“It feels absurd.”
“It’s tragic.” He hesitated. “That you were forced into marriage with a stranger. That you’ve spent years performing grief for something you never had. That you’ve been carrying that alone.”
Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “People don’t understand.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I understand performing a role you didn’t choose.” He was close enough to admire again the gold flecks in her eyes. “I understand feeling like a fraud, like any moment someone will realize you don’t belong.”
“Yes.” The word came out breathless. “Exactly that.”
They were standing too close now. Definitely improper.
Neither moved away.
“Can I tell you something true?” he asked.
“Please.”
“I’ve thought about kissing you approximately thirty-seven times since we met.”
Her eyes widened. “Thirty-seven?”
“At minimum. Possibly more. I lost count somewhere around the pea conversation.”
A startled laugh escaped her. “That’s very specific.”
“I’m good with numbers. It’s the Latin tutor in me.”
“What else did the Latin tutor in you notice?”
“That you bite your lower lip when you’re nervous. That you have three freckles on your left cheek. That when you really smile—not the feigned widow smile, the real one—you have a dimple.” His voice dropped. “That I want very badly to be the person who makes you smile like that.”
She swayed slightly toward him. “Henry—”
“Tell me to leave.” His hands flexed at his sides. “Tell me this is too fast. Tell me I’m being presumptuous. Tell me anything except—”
“I’ve thought about it too, but I just don’t know how…”
His breath stopped. “About what?”
He swallowed since his lungs forgot to fill with air.
“Kissing you.” Her cheeks were flaming but she held his gaze. “Though I’ve never actually kissed anyone, so I don’t know if I’d be any good at it. I’d probably be terrible. I’m terrible at most things that require—coordination.”
“You weren’t terrible at dancing.”
“I stepped on your foot.”
“Once. I counted.”
She laughed. Shaky but real. “What if I’m awful at kissing? What if I—”
“Then we’ll practice.” The words came out rough. “We’ll practice until you’re brilliant at it.”
“That’s very presumptuous.”
“It’s very honest because there are no steps or formula. We can do it any way we like. Just for our pleasure.”
They were so close now. Close enough that he could see her pulse racing at her throat. Could feel her breath against his skin.
“Margaret.” Her name was question and plea. “May I—”
“Yes.”
The word barely escaped before his mouth found hers.
Soft. Warm. The barest brush of his lips against hers.
She froze.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
He didn’t push. Didn’t press. Just held his mouth there—gentle, patient—letting her choose.
Her shoulders loosened as if a ribbon had been unknotted. A soft sound left her—half sigh, half surrender—against his lips. And then she tipped forward, closing the last inch herself.
He touched her face tentatively, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. The other hand found her waist steadying her and anchoring them both. He moved his mouth against hers slowly. Teaching. Showing her the rhythm. The give and take.
Her hands fisted in his coat, holding on like he was the only solid thing in the world.
He tilted his head slightly to change the angle before he let his lips trace the shape of hers. Top lip. Bottom lip. Learning her.
She made a small sound in her throat. Surprise or pleasure, he couldn’t tell.
He pulled back just enough to breathe. “All right?”
“Don’t stop.” Her voice was shaky. “Please don’t stop.”
He kissed her again but less carefully this time. His mouth pressed more firmly. His tongue traced the seam of her lips forming a question.
She opened for him.
The taste of her flooded through him. Wine and something sweet. Something uniquely her but then it broke.
“Oh?”
“That was—” She blinked up at him. Dazed. “I had no idea.”
“No idea about what?”
“That kissing was supposed to feel like that.”
His chest tightened. “Like what?”
“Like everything.” Her fingers twisted in his coat. “Like I might fly apart. Like I never want to stop.”
“Then don’t stop.” He pulled her closer. “Kiss me again.”
She did. More sure. Her mouth moving against his with growing confidence.
He made a sound low in his throat. His hands slid into her hair, deepening the kiss, showing her the rhythm and response. She learned fast.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping, he pressed his forehead to hers. “We should stop,” he managed.
“Probably.”
“Someone could find us.”
“They could.”
Neither of them moved.
“Margaret.” He pulled back just enough to see her face. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I’m going to court you properly if you allow it. With chaperones and calling cards and all the ridiculous formality. I’m going to write you terrible poetry. I’m going to bore you with Latin conjugations. I’m going to—”
“Lady Margaret!” A shrill voice came from the direction of the aisle leading to the house.
They sprang apart.
Lady Thornby stood at the entrance, her face arranged in shock.
But Henry saw the satisfaction underneath because he knew about gossips. She’d been hunting for this.