Chapter 3
Margaret slipped through the narrow side corridor, her breath shallow, one hand pressed tightly to her waist, the other clutching her reticule so hard the chain dug into her glove. The muffled thrum of violins and laughter faded behind her as she pushed at the heavy, old oak library door.
“Empty. Thank God.”
She crossed the carpet in three quick steps to the nearest armchair near the hearth, a quiet corner where no one would see her tugging at the seams like a scullery maid. The silk at her hip pulled again, and she felt the tear spread, the loose lining tugging free beneath her skirt.
“Please just hold,” she whispered to the traitorous fabric.
She sank to her knees, balancing awkwardly, tugging up the hem enough to see the damage.
The lining had already half-detached, the outer silk puckering in a way any eye would catch.
Her tiny sewing kit rattled inside her reticule, but her hands trembled too much to thread the needle.
She bent closer, muttering curses her aunt would have fainted to hear.
She was so focused that she didn’t hear the faint clink of glass behind her until a voice slid across her spine.
“Forgive me, but if you’re going to dismantle yourself in my friend’s library, I feel obliged to offer my assistance.”
Margaret jerked so violently she nearly toppled backward, clutching the torn silk to her chest just in time. She twisted, heart hammering against her stays.
A man sat half in shadow in a leather chair by the hearth, long legs stretched out, one hand draped lazily around a glass of dark amber. He looked perfectly at ease with dark hair, eyes like flint catching fire, a ghost of a smile curling under the brandy’s edge.
“You…” Her voice caught. “You frightened me.”
“Did I? Forgive me, I thought you’d seen me. Or perhaps you’re in the habit of crawling under furniture when the mood strikes?”
Margaret’s cheeks burned hot. “I—I didn’t see you, and I wasn’t… I’m not crawling,” she stammered, tugging the fabric tighter. “It’s none of your concern.”
“I’d say it is now,” he said, tilting his head. “You’ve turned my quiet refuge into a—” he flicked his fingers at her dress “—makeshift sewing circle.”
He shifted forward, letting the fire catch the sharp lines of his face. Something about him prickled at the edge of her memory. Her mind flashed her aunt’s hissed warnings, the name passed between fans like an expensive sweet.
“What are you…” She stammered, words tripping over her own shock. “What are you doing in here?”
He raised a brow. “Enjoying a moment’s peace from mothers, lambs, and badly played waltzes.
I could ask the same of you, but I believe I’ve gathered the gist.” He flicked his gaze to the fist of silk still crushed to her waist, then back to her face, his eyes lingering, just for a heartbeat, on the bright shock of her blue eyes, startling even in the low light.
“Who—” she began.
“Sebastian Duncaster, Duke of Ravenscourt,” he said easily, lifting his glass as if toasting her fluster. “At your service, Lady… Margaret, isn’t it? Wexley’s niece. The one with the reputation for disappearing acts and inconvenient truths.”
Margaret stiffened, stung despite herself. “You know who I am? You know my aunt?”
“I read the scandal sheets,” he said lightly, “when I’m bored. Besides, Wexley knows everyone.” He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers. “She keeps her gossip close. You are the niece they whisper about, the one who vanishes at balls and reappears with new rumors stitched to her hem.”
He let his eyes drop to the silk bunched in her fists. “Sometimes literally, it seems.”
“How kind of you to remember, Your Grace,” she said, voice sharp enough to surprise even herself. “If you’ll excuse me—”
She tried to turn, but the hem tugged again. He watched the frustration flash across her face and the fierce little breath she bit down.
“Running off again?” he asked lightly. “How dramatic. Tell me, do you always unravel at other people’s parties?”
“Only when they’re dreadful,” she shot back, then winced at her own honesty.
His laugh came low, genuine, the first warm sound in the big, book-scented room. “I knew I liked this library for a reason. It collects all the best secrets.”
Margaret found herself staring as if her eyes needed proof of every whispered scrap the world had ever offered her.
Up close, he looked like every scandal inked into flesh.
His obviously broad shoulders pressed against the high leather chair as if even that sturdy wingback couldn’t quite contain him.
His coat fit him too well; it looked like it was built for someone lean, yes, but layered over a frame that was all muscle and more muscle.
His features were sharply drawn with cheekbones cutting, nose straight, mouth too generous to trust… and his eyes, when they met hers fully, caught the firelight in a shade of green. A vivid and clear shade that was watching her like he found the whole mess… curious. Amusing.
His mouth curved into just the ghost of a grin, enough to make her feel caught.
“Careful, Lady Margaret,” he said, tone low and amused. “Keep looking at me like that, and someone might think you actually want my help.”
She pressed her lips together, trying to gather the trailing fabric without tearing more stitches. Her cheeks burned not just with shame but with the effort of not letting him see how badly her hands shook.
“You could leave,” she said finally, voice thin but steady, “if you dislike the view so much.”
“Oh, I don’t dislike it.” His eyes gleamed faintly, catching the firelight. “It’s the most honest thing I’ve seen all night. A torn gown, a damsel in distress. It is far more interesting than all those lambs and peacocks outside.”
“I’m not—” she began, then faltered. She drew a sharp breath and lifted her chin. “I can manage. You needn’t stare, Your Grace.”
“And yet here I am,” he murmured. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me. If I left you here to stitch yourself back together, how long before your aunt found you? Or some passing gossip with nothing better to do than peek under doorways?”
She stared at him. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he said, too easily. “But I find it… tedious. The way they talk about you. The mad niece. The unlucky girl. Seems rather dull when the truth is just a girl, a tear, and too much pride to ask for help.”
Her throat bobbed. “It’s not pride. I just… I can fix it myself. If I could thread the needle.”
He lifted a brow. “Then may I?”
“No!” It came out too quickly, too loud. She pressed her lips together. “Absolutely not. I’d rather… It’s improper.”
“So is bursting in here half-undone,” he pointed out. His mouth curved. “At least let me fetch a maid. Or would you rather I sew it myself? I promise you, I’m very handy when the mood takes me.”
She fumbled the torn lining tighter in her grip, chin tilting despite the heat clawing up her throat. “I don’t need help. Especially not from a duke at a ball where I’ve already…” She stopped herself, breath catching. “It’s enough embarrassment for one night.”
“I see,” Sebastian said, leaning back, eyes glinting with lazy amusement.
“It would help if you could fetch a maid instead of standing there… smirking,” she snapped before she could swallow it back.
A flicker of something akin to approval—amusement?—crossed his face. He inclined his head, graceful as a cat rising from its nap.
“As you wish, my lady. Consider me your humble errand boy tonight.”
He moved past her, the faintest trace of warm cologne brushing her shoulder, something more expensive than anything she’d ever worn yet not nearly as stifling as the ballroom’s cloying perfumes.
She turned just enough to see him pause at the door. He cast her a look over his shoulder, one brow arched, a smile coiled at the corner of his mouth, sharp and curious.
“Try not to vanish before I’m back. It’s rather dull when the scandal slips away before the punchline.”
He reached for the handle, gave it a quick twist, then frowned.
He tried again. Harder this time, his shoulder braced and wrist twisting. The latch rattled but held firm, stubborn as old iron warped by too many damp winters.
Margaret watched the line of his shoulders tighten. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t look back. “Nothing at all. Just a stubborn hinge.”
She took a step closer, one hand pressed to the ruined seam at her waist. “Open it then.”
Sebastian tried again with a sharp shove, then another. The door thudded in its heavy frame, unmoved.
He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Well. This is novel.”
Margaret’s throat tightened. She surged forward, pushing past him to wrestle with the handle herself. “Move.”
He stepped aside just enough to watch her scrabbling at the brass handle that refused to budge.
Outside, the faint strains of a violin drifted through the walls. It was bright, cheerful, and utterly indifferent to the quiet panic building between the bookshelves.
Margaret’s breath hitched. “They’ll be looking for me. My aunt… if anyone finds me…”
Her mind stumbled over the words alone with a man, her cheeks flaming so hot they hurt.
Sebastian knocked sharply, three times, then called out, voice smooth but clipped. “Anyone there? The door’s stuck. Would you kindly—”
No answer. The waltz swelled. Laughter, glass, polite applause, the entire house deaf to one locked door.
Margaret’s fingers curled tight at her side. “This is your fault,” she hissed.
“Mine?” He let out a low laugh with no humor in it this time. “Forgive me, but which one of us burst in unannounced, half-undressed, without so much as knocking?”
“You shouldn’t have stayed. You should have left the moment you saw me come in—”
He rounded on her, exasperation flaring bright behind the lazy grin he usually wore like armor. “Forgive me for not vanishing like a ghost behind my own brandy. If anyone’s at fault, it’s you, sneaking into other people’s libraries like a scandal looking for a headline…”