His Mad Duchess (Dukes of Redemption #1)

Chapter 1

“This feels like a parade,” Cecily hissed in Margaret’s ear, her fan half-hiding the unladylike frown pulling at her mouth. “And not even the fun kind with elephants and sweets. Just dreadful men and worse perfumes.”

Margaret stifled a laugh that threatened to slip out loud enough for Aunt Agnes to hear across the ballroom. Margaret hid her smile behind the edge of her dance card; it was blank as usual.

Around them, the Duke of Wrexford’s grand ballroom glittered with candlelight and silk, diamonds glinting at every wrist. The crush of people pressed too much warmth into the air; candle wax and sweat and rose water all tangled together until Margaret wondered if they were all just pretending not to suffocate.

Beside her, Cecily fidgeted with the carved ivory sticks of her fan. Her cousin—more sister than cousin, really—always said what no one else dared to breathe in these rooms. Maybe that’s why Margaret liked her best.

“You’d prefer elephants in the Duke’s ballroom?” she murmured, leaning a fraction closer, so no one else could hear her dry amusement.

“At least they’d be interesting,” Cecily snapped back. Her nose wrinkled in that way that made Margaret want to laugh.

“I’d take one over Lord Aberley’s breath; he’s danced with me twice already.

If he asks again, I might swoon from the fumes and faint dead away, and they’ll have to carry me out on a tray.

” Cecily wrinkled her nose again, sweeping her gaze across the crowded hall.

Silk gowns, glittering jewels, everything polished, except the gossip floating behind every lace fan.

Margaret’s lips twitched. Cecily could always drag a smile out of her, even when she’d rather keep her mask in place. “Careful. Swooning attracts attention. I hear that’s the worst possible fate for a lady at her first ball. And your mother would never forgive you for collapsing before midnight.”

They both flicked their eyes across the sea of powdered heads.

Lady Agnes, the Dowager Countess of Wexley, Margaret’s aunt and Cecily’s mother, stood near the string quartet, one hand fluttering like a small, polite threat.

Smile. Be charming. Catch a duke if you can, a viscount if you must. But for heaven’s sake, don’t stand like statues.

“She keeps glaring at me,” Cecily grumbled, snapping her fan shut with an unladylike click. “Like I’m about to upend the punch bowl on a viscount’s shoes. I’m not. Not unless he deserves it.”

“You’d better not,” Margaret said, fighting another smile. “Aunt Agnes would flay you alive.”

“She’d flay you first. She still thinks you’re the bad influence.”

Margaret didn’t bother to protest. She’d learned long ago that people believed whatever story made them feel important. At least Cecily never flinched from saying so aloud.

She let her eyes drift to Cecily’s pale silk gown, the tiny pearl buttons, the bit of green ribbon at the waist. So young, so bright. Not yet ruined by other people’s whispers. “Only two near-mishaps and a death wish for Lord Aberley. An excellent debut, I’d say.”

“He deserves it for the breath alone,” Cecily shot back.

Then her frown softened, and she dipped her voice. “Are all balls like this? Or does it only feel worse when…” she hesitated. “When no one’s asked you yet?”

Margaret felt the edges of her dance card bite into her gloved palm. She angled it so Cecily could see the neat, empty columns so painfully clean they almost gleamed in the candlelight.

“It depends,” she said, her voice dry but her chest oddly tight. “Some people are happier being ignored. It saves all that tedious conversation.”

Cecily’s face pinched; her loyalty never did know when to hold its tongue. “They’re fools, all of them. You’re the loveliest lady here, scandal or not.”

Margaret opened her mouth to hush her, but the music swelled, a waltz she knew by heart, the same tune year after year, always played for other people’s fairytales, never hers.

Margaret’s gaze drifted past Cecily’s fan to where her aunt stood like a hawk beside the musicians. Lady Agnes nodded graciously to a passing viscount’s wife, her hand drifting to Beatrice’s elbow like she was a prized filly to be displayed just so.

Beatrice, Margaret’s older cousin, with perfect posture, perfect laughs, and a perfect neck for displaying the family pearls.

It was Beatrice everyone whispered about tonight.

Whether the Earl of Collingwood might propose before the summer ended, and whether she’d finally do what Margaret never could—make the family proud.

No one even bothered pretending to fuss over Margaret anymore. What good was fuss, when the girl in question was said to be mad—or worse, cursed?

They had named her a fire-born harbinger, the child who raved of a man in the smoke, who grew into a young woman plagued by nightmares loud enough for servants to repeat below stairs.

Some whispered she carried death like a dowry, others laughed that any man bold enough to marry her would be in his grave before the year was out. Four seasons of such talk had worn the novelty away. Even scandal grows stale when repeated too long, though never so stale as to be forgotten.

She tipped her dance card, so Cecily wouldn’t see how tight her grip had grown. Better mad than miserable, she told herself. Better invisible than pitied.

And just as she thought it, the ballroom gave her the reminder it never failed to deliver.

A pair of silk-gloved ladies drifted too near behind her shoulder, their voices low but sharp enough to cut and just enough for Margaret to catch a hiss.

“One wonders what possessed Her Grace to invite a lady whose name is so steeped in misfortune…”

A second voice pitched in, softer but sweet with pretend pity:

“Such a shame, really, all that beauty wasted. Those blue eyes. That lovely hair, you’d never guess… would you, looking at her?”

The first voice gave a quiet, careless laugh.

“What good is being pretty when everyone knows she’s mad? No one sees beauty when they’re counting ghosts.”

The whisper drifted past Margaret’s ear like cold mist. She felt it settle at the base of her throat. It felt like a tight knot filled with fury and something lonelier.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. She’d learned that much at least. If you turned, they saw they’d wounded you. If you smiled instead, well, then they found sharper knives.

“Ignore them,” Cecily muttered fiercely beside her. Her cousin’s fingers brushed Margaret’s sleeve. It was a gentle tug that almost said, ‘let me bite them for you.’

Margaret forced a small smile, eyes fixed on her dance card as if the neat blank columns might spell freedom. “I do. I always do.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” Cecily’s voice rose just enough to draw a glance from a passing chaperone. A lady with too many feathers in her hair gave Cecily a startled look, then flicked her gaze to Margaret, curiosity sparking like dry straw.

Cecily’s mouth twisted, sharp and loyal. “You’ve brought nothing but luck to this family, you know you have. Father still says the accounts balanced sweeter once you came, and Mother claims the house runs faster when you’re about. If they’d bother to remember it. If they had any sense at all—”

Margaret’s spine stiffened. She angled her fan higher, a paper shield against the sudden heat in her cheeks. Don’t draw them in, she wanted to snap. Don’t make me visible.

“It’s only gossip, Cecily,” she said instead, her voice light as spun sugar. She wished her hands weren’t trembling under her gloves. “Let them tire themselves out. My ruin is the only entertainment some people have left.”

“They’ll choke on it one day,” Cecily hissed.

“Hush.” Margaret managed a small laugh. “You’ll ruin your own debut if you look too fierce. You’re meant to smile and flutter your lashes. Leave the cursing to the scandalous cousin.”

The faint laugh didn’t settle the thrum behind her ribs. The music rose again, sharp strings and brass that seemed to scrape against her thoughts. She wished, just for a moment, that she could melt into the shadows behind the palms, vanish like a ghost, truly mad and truly gone.

The whispers behind her shoulder hadn’t died yet. Margaret could feel the stares slipping down her spine like icy fingers.

She angled herself closer to Cecily’s fan, pretending the world beyond it didn’t exist.

A lady drifted too close with too many feathers nodding over a narrow face, eyes flicking everywhere but at Margaret. Her heavy silk skirts brushed Margaret’s side, a careless bump that knocked her half a step back.

For a heartbeat, their sleeves caught. The lady yanked her arm free like she’d touched something diseased. No apology, not even a glance of polite surprise, just a flash of her eyes, wide and flinching, as if contact might leave a stain.

Margaret caught the look, that same small recoil people thought she wouldn’t notice. Like they believed madness could leap from skin to skin if they stood too near.

She steadied her balance, and her cheeks warmed, though her hands stayed cold. Cecily said something sharp beside her, ‘Did you see that?’ but Margaret only shook her head, her mouth set in a shape that might have been a smile if you didn’t look too closely.

Moments later, Margaret felt the faintest tug at her waist. A prickle of cold air where there shouldn’t be any.

She glanced down, carefully, fingers brushing the side seam of her gown. There, just above the ribbon, the stitches gaped. It was small but certain. One wrong turn, one sharp breath, and half the ballroom would see all of her spine and borrowed silk.

Of course, it would tear tonight. This dress, once Beatrice’s, was worn and reworked until threadbare. ‘An adopted daughter should be grateful for what she’s given,’ Aunt Agnes liked to remind her. No sense wasting good money on new silk when the old still fit.

She tried to fix the loose ribbon at her waist, but her fingers trembled.

The heavy silk had started to pull away from the bodice, and if the whole thing gave way now—here, under a hundred hungry eyes—they’d watch her unravel, literally.

Look, there she goes at last. Margaret Greystone, the unlucky girl, is coming apart at the seams.

Margaret forced her hand to her side, pressing the loose seam flat. The silk bunched under her glove. She tipped her head back toward Cecily’s hush of outrage and found her voice.

“Stay here,” she murmured, soft enough for only Cecily to hear. “Smile at Aunt Agnes when she scowls. Tell her I’ve gone to powder my nose or rescue a puppy. You’re clever, you’ll think of something.”

Cecily’s frown deepened. “Where are you—”

But Margaret was already turning away, careful not to tug the seam further.

She clutched her small reticule tighter against her side, feeling the reassuring rattle of the tiny sewing kit tucked inside, filled with needles and thread.

Aunt Agnes said it was unseemly, carrying such things like a maid, but Margaret knew better than to trust borrowed silk to hold its shape without help.

She slipped past the swirl of silk and candlelight, knowing Aunt Agnes would still be busy fussing over Beatrice to notice she was gone.

Halfway to the side corridor, she quickened her step and made sure she was quick. Her foot caught on something soft, a drag of fabric that shouldn’t be there. The lining, she felt it in a cold rush, had come loose from the hem and now trailed beneath the outer layer like a traitor under her skirts.

For one terrible heartbeat, she imagined the whole gown sliding from her shoulders, puddling at her feet in the middle of the corridor for any gossip-hungry lord to see.

She stumbled, one hand snatching at the fabric, crushing silk in her palm. Hold. Just hold. She didn’t know if she was begging the dress or herself. A hot tear slipped free, catching on her lower lashes.

She gathered the loose lining in a fist, fingers digging into the fine threads. Nothing else to do now but move. Keep going, find a corner, a door, any place to pull herself back together before the seams and the gossip finished what they’d started.