Chapter 5
Margaret just stared at the butler, lips parted, heart stumbling hard against her ribs.
“Of course, he is,” she whispered to no one. “Of course.”
The silence that followed cracked louder than any shout. Beatrice’s breath caught in a half-sob she strangled into a cough. Cecily’s hand found Margaret’s sleeve in a death grip.
Aunt Agnes pressed a hand to her brow, her voice suddenly brittle. “Show him in, Simmons. And fetch tea, the good set. Quickly.”
Simmons bobbed a bow so clumsy that his tray nearly tipped. He fled before anyone could ask more.
Margaret found Cecily’s wide eyes searching. A lot terrified and a little hopeful. “This isn’t real,” Margaret murmured. “It feels like the nightmare again.”
“It’s real,” Cecily whispered back, squeezing her arm. “It’s real.”
The drawing room door swung wider on its old brass hinges, then the butler stepped aside, and Sebastian crossed the threshold like he owned the floor beneath him.
Margaret’s heart skidded sideways. He looked different in the gray light, his coat still immaculate but his cravat a bit skewed as if he’d tugged at it on the carriage ride over.
Dark hair a shade too tousled, shadows under his sharp eyes.
He looked like a man who hadn’t slept, but his shoulders were squared, his mouth set.
Margaret’s breath caught as their eyes locked, the tension stretched so tight, she felt it in her throat.
His gaze held hers for one heartbeat. Two. Then he spoke, voice smooth but still edged with steel under the exhaustion.
Aunt Agnes rose so fast her chair nearly toppled. “Your Grace, you honor us.”
“I doubt you’ll think so for long,” Sebastian cut in, voice calm as a winter pond. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at Beatrice or Cecily either, just at Margaret. “Lady Margaret.”
Margaret’s throat bobbed. She forced herself to stand straighter, chin high. “Your Grace.”
No curtsy. Not this time. She felt Cecily shift closer at her side, a silent line of warmth pressed to her elbow.
Sebastian’s gaze flicked once to Aunt Agnes, gave her a polite nod, then back.
“Last night has left us both in an impossible position,” he said, each word measured, stripped of any softness. “So, I’ve come to resolve it properly.”
Beatrice sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Resolve…?”
Sebastian didn’t so much as blink at her. “I am here to propose marriage.”
The word marriage hung between them—too large for the walls to hold.
Beatrice actually staggered a step. Aunt Agnes pressed a hand to her chest like she needed air. Cecily made a noise between a gasp and a laugh.
Of all the things she had thought he’d offer as help, never in a million years did she think marriage would be part of it. Margaret’s mouth went dry. She shook her head a fraction, voice rough. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I do,” Sebastian said. Calm. Certain. “I will not be the man who destroys a lady’s name to save my own.”
“It was an accident!” Margaret’s hands fluttered helplessly at her sides. “It’s not your burden to—”
“It is now,” he cut in, not unkindly but final, too final for her panic to find space to breathe. “I know what they saw. And I know how people speak. If you think I’d leave you to their teeth, you mistake me.”
Beatrice found her voice first, and it could only come out sharp and frantic. “Your Grace, we are deeply grateful for your honor, truly, but surely we can settle this more discreetly. There must be—”
“There is no discreet path left,” Sebastian said. Still, that calm, that subtle edge of iron under velvet. “The only path now is marriage. It will silence every whisper worth silencing.”
Margaret barked a laugh that cracked. “Silence them? Or hand them a new story—the girl who trapped a duke in the library?”
Cecily’s gasp turned to a growl. “You didn’t trap him, you stubborn—”
“Enough, Cecily,” Margaret said gently without looking away from Sebastian. “This isn’t your fight.” She drew a breath and squared her shoulders like she might square up to a storm.
“Your Grace, I need a moment. To understand what you truly want. If we must speak of… this… I want to do it privately. With Cecily present as chaperone.”
Aunt Agnes gave a brittle laugh, half disbelieving. “Margaret, you dare—”
“She dares,” Cecily cut in. “I’ll chaperone them. We’ll do it properly.”
Agnes’s eyes widened. “You, child? You are hardly—”
“It makes no difference,” Cecily said, her tone sweet as spun sugar and twice as cutting. “She’s already ruined, remember? And I’ve an excellent memory for scandal. I promise not to add to it… much.”
Margaret’s spine went stiff, but she met Sebastian’s gaze squarely.
Sebastian’s eyes never left Margaret’s. A flicker of something wry ghosted the corner of his mouth.
“I’m at your disposal, Lady Margaret. Lead on.”
Margaret’s fingers twitched at her skirt hem. Her voice came steady, but her pulse thundered at her throat. “The west sitting room, then.”
“Perfect,” Cecily said tightly, looping her arm through Margaret’s before anyone else could protest. “We’ll be fifteen minutes, Mother. Try not to faint.”