Chapter 6
The west sitting room was half-lit, curtains drawn tight against the pale dawn. Cecily perched dutifully on a rosewood chair by the door, her arms crossed, eyes sharp as any governess.
Margaret stood by the cold fireplace, one hand braced on the marble mantel. Sebastian stood opposite her, coat perfectly buttoned again.
For a moment, neither spoke. The clock on the mantel ticked dry, smug.
Finally, Margaret broke the silence. “Well. Here we are.”
Sebastian’s brow lifted, faintly amused. “Indeed.”
She turned, fingers tapping the stone. “You could sit, you know. You look like you’re about to give a speech on naval tactics.”
He let out a breath that might have been a grunt, then dropped into the nearest armchair, stretching one leg out carelessly. “And you look like you’d rather fling yourself into the fireplace than hear it.”
Margaret’s mouth twitched. “Depends. Is it about honor and duty? Or the tragic horror of being forced to wed a half-mad wallflower?”
Sebastian’s lips quirked. “I hadn’t planned to use the word tragic. But if it makes you feel better, then yes. Dreadful ordeal. I’ll suffer heroically.”
Cecily cleared her throat. “I’m right here, you know.”
Neither of them looked at her.
Margaret’s eyes narrowed, still on him. “Why are you really doing this? Not the polite answer, the real one.”
Sebastian’s fingers drummed once on the chair arm. “Because leaving you to the ton’s teeth would be worse than marrying you. I also need to get my mother off my back.”
“You don’t even know me,” she said flatly.
“Don’t need to.” His tone stayed maddeningly calm. “I know enough. You didn’t drag me into that room, you didn’t bolt when the door stuck, and you looked more horrified than I did when they found us. You’re not a schemer, Lady Margaret, you’re just unlucky, sometimes.”
Margaret let out a brittle laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
“If you have a better one, I’m all ears.”
“Cursed.” She met his eyes dead-on, daring him to flinch. He didn’t.
“I don’t believe in curses,” Sebastian said mildly. “I believe in gossip and stupid people with big mouths. And I know how to shut both up.”
“By shackling yourself to me forever.” The words came out sharper than she intended. Her knuckles whitened on the mantel edge.
“I’ve done worse things with my time,” Sebastian said dryly. “I promise not to ruin too many of your evenings with my scandalous charm.”
“Scandalous charm?” Cecily muttered from the corner. “You’re practically a warning sermon in trousers.”
Sebastian flicked her a half-amused, half-exasperated glance. “Lady Cecily Moreland, do hush. I’m trying to negotiate my ruin here.”
Margaret pressed her lips together, fighting the startled snort that rose up. She failed, just a little. It cracked through the air.
He tilted his head, studying her. “You have a good laugh. That’s promising.”
“It’s not a good laugh,” she said quickly, bristling. “It’s nervous. Entirely situational. Don’t get used to it.”
“Noted.” He shifted forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Look. I don’t want this either. I never planned to be cornered like some debutante at her first dance. But I won’t have them tearing you apart for something that wasn’t your doing. So here we are.”
“Here we are,” she echoed. Her throat felt raw, scraped by every word. “Trapped together. All for the sake of your spotless honor.”
“Spotless?” he barked a laugh. “God, no. I’ve just never ruined an innocent girl by accident before. Feels tacky.”
Cecily snorted. “Charming.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said gravely. “I do try.”
Margaret let her eyes fall shut for a moment. Then she lifted them again, meeting his stare with her chin up. “So, what happens now?”
Sebastian’s shoulders shifted, a faint, rueful shrug. “Now we do what decent people do when they’ve been caught being indecent while doing nothing indecent at all. We marry. Quickly.”
“How quickly?”
“A week. Less, if your aunt can manage it.”
“A week.” She tasted the words. Bitter but inevitable. “No fuss. No fuss suits me.”
“Good. I hate fuss.” His mouth quirked again into that irritating almost-smile. “Though I suspect your aunt will try to summon half the county to see her reputation patched up.”
“She will,” Cecily chimed in. “And you’ll both stand there and smile for the papers, and everyone will pretend it was the happiest accident in the world.”
Margaret made a small noise that might have been a laugh or a sob. She braced her palm flat on the mantel, grounding herself. “Very well, then. A week.”
She looked at his hand—it was broad, steady, scarred at the knuckles. A ruin signing on for another terrible decision.
Margaret hesitated just a breath too long. And for that heartbeat, something shifted behind Sebastian’s eyes; it was definitely the faint glint of real feeling.
“Truth be told,” he said quietly, softer than before. “I wish it hadn’t come to this.”
A huff of something like a laugh slipped out, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. And now, they’ll bind us up like a pretty cautionary tale for every gossip in London.”
He paused, thumb brushing his other palm as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands for once.
“If I could spare you, hell… spare myself, I would.”
A beat, then the humor flicked back into place.
“But here we are. I promise I’ll be… mostly tolerable. As husbands go.”
He held his hand out again. It was steady now, the half-smile neat and practiced.
“Shall we, Lady Margaret?”
Margaret stared at him, seeing the slip, the patch of raw truth he’d tried to hide. Then slid her smaller hand into his. Warm and too steady for how her pulse jumped in her throat.
“A week,” she said again, but softer.
And Cecily, in the corner, only whispered, “Oh, Margaret…” but it was too quiet for either of them to answer.
Sebastian’s gaze lingered a moment longer, unreadable, before he inclined his head. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out, the door closing softly behind him.
Cecily stepped forward from the corner, her hand finding Margaret’s wrist and tightening gently. She drew her away from the spot where Sebastian had stood, guiding her back across the threshold into the drawing room. The warmth of the fire and the faint clink of porcelain swelled to meet them.
Margaret moved as if through water. Cecily’s fingers were still looped around her wrist, half-guiding, half-holding her up as they crossed back toward Beatrice and Aunt Agnes by the fireplace. Margaret’s tongue felt numb, her chest tight with words that wouldn’t shape themselves.
Cecily cleared her throat, voice too brisk to tremble.
“It’s done, then. He said it himself. They’ll marry.”
Beatrice let out a strangled sound that sounded suspiciously like half-laugh or half-sob. She pressed a fist to her mouth like she could hold it in.
“He … he’s really… marrying you?”
Margaret’s eyes flicked to her cousin, but she couldn’t hold them there. They darted back to the door instead, the empty space where he’d vanished. Her voice came out raw.
“He is.”
Beatrice stared at Margaret like she’d grown a second head. “I thought you hated him.”
“I do,” Margaret muttered, still staring at the door. “I barely know him.”
Aunt Agnes sank into the nearest chair as if her knees had buckled all at once. Her handkerchief twisted between her fingers until the lace bit into her palm.
“The Duke of Ravenscourt,” she murmured, staring at the hearth as if the coals might answer her. “Marrying you. God help us all.”
Beatrice whirled on her, voice pitching sharp with panic. “Do you realize what people will say? What this will do to the rest of us if it falls through?”
“It won’t,” Margaret snapped before she could stop herself. The room flinched. She pulled in a breath, softer. “It won’t fall through.”
Cecily touched her elbow. “Do you want this?”
Margaret’s laugh broke out dry, brittle. “Want? What does that matter now?”
Beatrice folded her arms tight, like she was hugging her ribs back in place. “This is the best we could hope for, isn’t it? After… after the library? After everything?”
Aunt Agnes’ eyes snapped open. Whatever tremor had cracked her voice vanished behind a spine of iron she’d borrowed from the generation before her.
“Enough,” she said sharply, cutting through Beatrice’s half-formed protest. “If he’s given his word, we won’t waste time waiting for him to think twice. We’ll have you ready within the week.”
Margaret blinked at her aunt, too tired to argue. “Ready?”
“For the papers. The vows. All of it.” Aunt Agnes rose, smoothing her skirts with one precise sweep of her palms. “If he wants this done quietly, it will be quiet. No carriages rattling half of Mayfair awake, no fluttering maids. It’ll be quiet and fast. No chance for the Duke to change his mind. Beatrice—”
Beatrice startled, chin jerking up. “Yes, Mama?”
“Find her something suitable to wear. Something plain, nothing to catch gossip. Your dove-gray silk or lilac will do—the one from your last supper with the Collingwoods.”
Beatrice’s mouth opened and closed, then she nodded once, turning for the stairs with her hand still half outstretched like she might catch Margaret before she fell.
Margaret found her voice as her aunt pivoted toward the hallway, already barking a quiet order at the footman who’d materialized near the door.
“Aunt, you don’t have to…”
“Quiet now, child.” Aunt Agnes’s tone gentled only a hair. “It must be done. Best done fast. Best done right.”
She turned, pinning Cecily with a glance that softened only when she saw the way Cecily’s arm looped protectively through Margaret’s.
“Stay with her,” she told Cecily. “Keep her calm.”
“I will,” Cecily said, squeezing Margaret’s wrist.
But Margaret’s gaze had dropped to the carpet, her lips pressing hard together, her shoulders drawn in as if bracing against a blow.
“And for heaven’s sake…” The older woman’s eyes moved to Margaret. “Don’t let anyone catch you weeping. It’s not a funeral. It’s a wedding, however it may feel to you.”
Beatrice paused at the stairs, voice softer than before. “I’ll press the sleeves, Maggie. It’ll fit you. It’ll be fine.”
Margaret only nodded, her lips parting around words she didn’t know how to hold. Cecily squeezed her hand once, fiercely enough to sting.
In the hallway, Aunt Agnes’s voice rose again—crisp orders to the staff, instructions about the solicitor, a note sent discreetly to the church.
Margaret stood by the window while Beatrice rummaged through the wardrobe, half her skirts already pinned up to keep them from dragging in the hearth’s ash. The lilac gown lay draped across the bed, last Season’s satin, too wide at the shoulders but good enough to make a respectable bride.
“Hold still,” Beatrice called over her shoulder, tugging out a petticoat and shaking the creases loose. “If we lace you tight, you won’t swim in it.”
Margaret huffed a laugh. “Lucky me. A perfect fit for a perfect match.”
Beatrice shot her a look that was half stern and half sorry. “It’s not as awful as all that.”
“Isn’t it?” Margaret pressed her palm to the cold windowpane. “A week ago, I was just the family curse in the corner. Now, I’m the warning tale they’ll pin to the end of every gossip column.”
Beatrice’s voice softened. “He could have refused. He didn’t.”
“And that makes him what? Noble?”
“It makes him decent.” Beatrice’s fingers paused at the gown’s wrinkled train. “And I suppose there are worse things than marrying a decent man. Even for you.”
Before Margaret could snap back, a sharp knock rattled the door. Cecily popped her head in, brows high. “You two dressing or fighting?”
“Both,” Margaret deadpanned.
Behind Cecily, one of the housemaids hovered, her arms full of a hatbox and a pale linen bundle tied with green ribbon.
“Delivery for Lady Margaret,” the maid said, bobbing a quick curtsey. “From the Duke’s staff, my lady. Said it’s… your gown.”
A beat of stunned silence. Cecily’s eyes went wide. Beatrice’s mouth fell open.
Margaret just stared at the box like it might bite her. “It’s a mistake. He wouldn’t—”
“He would,” Cecily said. A smile twitched at her mouth. “Seems your duke has taste. Let’s see it then.”
The maid laid the box on the bed and scurried out, the door clicking behind her. Beatrice hesitated, then untied the ribbon, carefully and slowly.
“Ivory,” Beatrice murmured. “Not lilac. Ivory.”
The ivory silk caught the light the moment Beatrice lifted it free of the box, a shimmer so soft it looked like poured milk. Margaret’s breath stuttered in her chest.
“Don’t just stare,” Cecily prodded. “Touch it.”
Margaret hesitated. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would he—”
“Because he doesn’t want you standing there looking like secondhand sorrow,” Cecily said, blunt and warm. “Put it on. For once, let something new touch you first.”
Margaret reached out, half-expecting the fine fabric to slip through her fingers like smoke.
But it was real. Heavy, cool, and smooth as river water.
The sleeves were capped with delicate lace, tiny scallops brushing her shoulders.
The bodice cinched more narrowly than any gown she’d worn.
It was new, not let out and taken in for someone else’s shape. It was hers.
“Help me,” she said, her voice smaller than she meant.
Beatrice moved first, gathering the silk carefully, slipping it over Margaret’s shift like draping armor she didn’t deserve. The lining whispered cold against her spine. Beatrice worked quickly at tiny hooks and pearl buttons while Cecily’s hands fussed at her hair with pins and combs.
Margaret held her breath as they tugged the last seam shut. The silk fit so perfectly, it made her ribs ache, as if the gown itself were telling her to stand still, stand worthy.
“God, Margaret,” Cecily breathed when they stepped back. “Look at you. You don’t look like our Margaret.”
Margaret turned. The cracked wardrobe mirror showed a total stranger, a bride spun out of candlelight, and the finest lace. The silk hugged her shoulders, soft but unyielding, and the skirt fell wide around her bare feet like a secret pool.
“It’s too much,” she breathed. “It’s too fine. He shouldn’t… This is wrong.”
Beatrice’s hands paused on her shoulders. “It’s not wrong,” she said, voice steady. “It’s yours. He sent it because he doesn’t want the ton laughing at you in cast-offs. Let them choke instead.”
But Margaret only saw the white; it seemed foreign. The impossible sweetness for a girl who’d never been called sweet.
Her pulse tapped at her throat like a trapped bird.
“It doesn’t feel real,” she whispered, voice catching. “I feel that if I breathe too deeply, it’ll rip. Or vanish. Or I will.”