Chapter 8
The road blurred under iron wheels, hedgerows turning to a green smear that made Margaret’s head ache if she stared too long. She kept her eyes on it anyway. Safer than looking at him.
Sebastian sat opposite her, his boots braced wide against the floor, his fingers drumming once against his knee. He’d been quiet since they left London’s smoke behind, but the quiet didn’t fool her. A man like that never sat still for long.
When he spoke, his voice slipped through the rattle of iron and road like the click of a lock turning.
“We should speak plainly,” he said. “Set some rules. Now that we’re…” His mouth pulled at the corner, a flicker of something bitter, “… inconveniently bound.”
Margaret’s reflection flickered with a small smile that wasn’t sweet at all. She didn’t look at him.
“Rules. How romantic.”
He shifted his gloves, adjusting the fit like he’d rather be anywhere else than here, facing the future they’d both stepped into.
“It is practical. First rule: this is not, nor will it ever be, a love match.”
Margaret let out a small sound that could have been a laugh, though it was too sharp to be kind. “Clarity. How noble.”
He ignored the bite in her tone. “You’ll find it simpler this way.”
“Simple,” she echoed, glancing at him now. His face was unreadable, carved in that cold green stare. “I’ve always dreamed of a simple marriage.”
He shifted, the faintest edge of discomfort tightening his shoulders. “It saves us both the embarrassment of illusions.”
Margaret almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she pressed her teeth together, the words slipping out. She raised a brow. “Did you think I’d be scribbling poetry about your eyes by next week? Is that what you think I expected? That I’d swoon into your arms now that you’ve given me your name?”
His eyes flicked up, green and steady. “Stranger things have happened.”
She let her head tilt just enough to meet his stare, seeing the cut of his cheekbones and the faint pulse at his temple that gave away more than his voice did. “Not to me.”
The road jolted beneath them, knocking her knee lightly against his boot. She pressed her leg back against the seat edge, hoping he hadn’t felt her flinch. Neither of them apologized.
He cleared his throat, voice lower now, like he was reciting a list he hated.
“Second rule: in two months, we go our separate ways. You’ll keep to your house.
I’ll keep to mine,” he said as though it were already settled.
“Ravenscourt has a property in Surrey. It is quiet and well-kept. You may have it all to yourself. I’ll see it furnished.
We’ll do our duty in public when necessary, but you’re free to live as you please.
Just don’t drag my name into fresh scandal. ”
Margaret’s lips twitched at that, not quite a smile, more the ghost of one.
“Free to live as I please,” she murmured. “Imagine that.”
He didn’t blink. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” She turned her face back to the window, though she felt his stare like a weight on her cheekbone. “No illusions, no entanglements. So neat.”
“Don’t mock it,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Most wives in your place would beg for the same.”
She tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she might never finish. “Did you imagine me begging for anything?”
He held her gaze. “No. I know better now.”
Silence folded in for a moment. She felt his stare still on her, steady as the drum of the wheels. Margaret pressed her thumb into the seam of her glove, grounding herself on something small when everything else felt too large to hold.
He shifted again, boot tapping once, voice careful but firm. “It’s only sense. Two months, clean break. No pretense once the scandal dies down.”
She flicked her eyes back to him, catching that careful mask he wore so easily. “And after two months, we pretend this never happened?”
His mouth twitched. “Exactly.”
Margaret nodded once. Let him think he’d written the last line. She slid her gaze back to the glass, watching her reflection pale against the muddy fields. The road thumped steadily beneath them. She counted the bumps with her teeth.
“My turn,” she said. “Rule three.”
He cocked a brow. “There’s a third?”
“There is now,” she said, turning to look at him fully. Her voice didn’t shake. “There will be no heir.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed just a touch. “No heir.”
She nodded once. “We will not share a bed or a room or anything that might hint at an heir. Not now. Not ever. I don’t care what polite society expects.”
He almost smiled, but the edge of it died on his lips. “I hadn’t planned otherwise.”
Margaret turned back to the window. “Men like you change their minds when it suits them. Better to have it spoken.”
He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped. For a second, she thought he might actually smile, but his eyes stayed too sharp for that.
“You think I’m so easily tempted?”
“I think you’re a man.” Her eyes met his reflection in the glass. “That’s enough.”
A beat of silence, filled only by the soft creak of leather and the roll of wheels on gravel.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” Sebastian said at last.
She shrugged. “I’m not afraid. I’m careful.”
His mouth curved, just barely. “A careful wife. How novel. You’re full of surprises.”
Margaret breathed out through her teeth, tasting the leather and the cold air. “And you’re painfully predictable.”
He blinked once, almost surprised. Then he leaned back, stretching one leg out as if he owned the whole carriage, the road, and the sky beyond it.
“Is that all, then? Three rules to keep you safe from my terrible charms?”
Margaret shifted, letting her skirts rustle as she crossed her ankles. “Well, since we’re collecting rules—”
He lifted an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
“There’s always more. It’s for my peace of mind,” she said, tone syrup-sweet. “Rule four. For the short time we share a roof, you’ll keep your… habits elsewhere.”
His brow furrowed. “Habits.”
“No actresses at the back door,” she said. “No widows lurking in the garden. No fresh gossip for the staff to trail through my rooms by morning.”
His eyes widened just enough to amuse her. “Jealous already, Duchess?”
Margaret sighed. “Hardly. I’m exhausted. I’ve had ten lifetimes of gossip. If they must whisper about me, I’d rather they run out of breath before they get to you.”
He stared at her a beat longer than was proper. She met it, steady, unflinching. Then he dipped his head once, as if granting her an audience with his better nature.
“Very well,” Sebastian said. “I’ll be good. For two months.”
Margaret leaned back, letting the seat jolt her with the road. She tipped her chin, letting the window’s chill kiss her temple. “Try not to sprain anything heroic.”
Sebastian’s mouth twitched; he didn’t bother replying, just shifted his gaze to the blurred hedgerows outside, boots braced against the floor.
For a moment, the carriage settled into something almost like peace. Just the steady thrum of wheels, the soft squeak of leather, the hush of rain tapping glass. Margaret flexed her fingers, testing how much calm she could hold.
Margaret rolled her wrist, feeling the soft rub of kid leather. She lifted her brows just enough to prod him.
“So, Your Grace, what about meals?”
He blinked, caught off guard for the first time since they’d stepped inside this rolling cage.
“Meals?”
“Yes, meals,” she said, crisply but almost amused now. “Will you want a daily breakfast companion? Or shall I eat alone, so you can scowl into your eggs in peace?”
He chuckled, “I don’t scowl into my eggs.”
She tilted her head, pretending deep thought. “Toast, then. Tea?”
His mouth twitched. “Tea has never offended me. Though I might glare now if you’re there watching.”
She pressed her lips together to hide the smirk. “So we eat apart. I’ll spare your tea the scandal of my presence.”
He shifted, leaning forward just enough to look at her properly. “Maybe I like company at dinner.”
Margaret cocked her head, pretending to weigh it. “Dinner’s different?”
His eyebrow lifted. “Dinner’s tolerable. There’s wine. Wine makes you bearable.”
Margaret turned her eyes to the window again, hiding her own grin at the edge of her teeth. “Very well. Breakfast apart, dinner… endurable. No illusions, no forced niceties. We’ll leave each other to our trays and polite gossip when the staff is near.”
“I’ll glare at my tea in private, Duchess.”
“And I’ll glare at my toast, Your Grace.”
He studied her as if she’d sprouted a second head, then commented softly, “You really do plan every corner of this, don’t you?”
“I prefer no surprises,” she murmured. “I find I handle disappointment better when I see it coming.”
Their eyes caught then—brief, tight, too raw for the rattle of wheels around them. She looked away first.
Margaret felt the first briny kiss of the Brighton wind before the carriage even rounded the last bend. The sea wasn’t visible yet, but she could smell the salt and distant storms tucked behind the trim green hedges that lined the long, winding drive.
The hedgerows lining the long drive were trimmed to neat, green walls, with bright beds of foxglove and summer roses peeking out in careful bursts of color. No weeds. No wild edges. Someone had ordered all this beauty into obedience.
Ahead, Duncaster Estate rose pale against the soft gray sky, three tall stories of clean white stone, window frames painted a fresh, dark green. Ivy curled tight along the west wing but clipped at the corners, so it looked deliberate, not like it was creeping in where it shouldn’t.
The carriage wheels crunched to a halt on the broad gravel sweep.
Margaret’s stomach did a small, useless turn when Sebastian’s shadow moved beside her.
Margaret felt the shift in her bones more than in her mind; her body reminded her that this was no inn, no borrowed house.
This was hers now—for however long now lasted.
He stepped out first, boots landing firm on the stones. For a moment, he paused, glancing up at the high windows that caught the dull light, as if checking they were still there. Then he turned back to her, his hand extended.
“Shall we?”
Margaret hesitated only half a heartbeat before slipping her fingers into his. His palm felt warm, steady, but the moment he’d helped her down, he stepped back like the contact might stain him.
She took in the front steps, wide, shallow, flanked by two huge stone planters overflowing with red geraniums. It struck her that this house, this whole picture, was a kind of armor for him. It was beautiful and tidy, never hinting at how raw the people inside it might feel.
The butler was waiting at the top of the shallow steps, an older man in an immaculate black coat, chin lifted just enough to look down the bridge of his nose at them both.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing to Sebastian, then he turned to Margaret. “Your Grace.”
Margaret flinched at the title. It sounded too big for her skin. She caught Sebastian’s glance, but if he noticed, he let it pass.
“Parsons,” Sebastian said. “This is the Duchess of Ravenscourt.” He turned to Margaret, gesturing faintly. “Parsons has served this house since I was fourteen. You can trust him to know what should be done when you’d rather not say it yourself.”
Parsons gave the smallest nod. “Your Grace. The household has prepared your rooms. Mrs. Fowler, the housekeeper, is inside, should you wish to speak to her directly.”
Margaret forced a smile, polite but not warm. She had to say something. “Thank you, Parsons. I appreciate your care.”
Parsons only dipped his chin again, stepping aside as Sebastian gestured her toward the door.
Inside, cool air met her, the great entrance hall smelling faintly of beeswax and fresh flowers.
The floors were gleaming black-and-white marble.
On the far wall, a wide staircase swept up in a curve, its banister dark wood rubbed soft by years of hands.
A footman hovered near the base of the wide staircase, and a slim, severe woman in a black dress stepped forward, hands folded.
A cluster of maids stood behind her, trying not to look openly curious.
“The Duchess of Ravenscourt,” Sebastian said, his voice so perfectly formal it might have been a script. “This is Mrs. Fowler, our housekeeper. She runs this house more competently than I ever could. Fowler, you’ll see Her Grace settled.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Fowler said. She gave Margaret a smile that felt stiff around the edges but not unkind. “Welcome, Your Grace.”
Margaret nodded once. Her tongue felt thick. “Thank you.”
“The household stands ready for any instruction.”
Margaret started to thank her again, but caught Sebastian’s eyes first, sharp green under lowered lashes. He was watching her. The moment she met his gaze, he looked away, adjusting his cuff like it mattered more than whatever this new reality was.
Sebastian’s eyes flicked to the high windows, then back to the staff. “That’s all for now. You’ll give my… wife anything she needs. Any problems, she speaks to me directly.”
Parsons gave a quiet ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ and Mrs. Fowler bobbed another small curtsey.
Sebastian turned back to Margaret. For a moment, she thought he might say something real, something that indicated more, like that flicker behind his mask, but it shuttered as quickly as it came.
“I trust you’ll settle in,” he said, softer than the rest but not soft enough to stick. “You’ll find me in my study if you need anything.”
She opened her mouth, thought of asking him to stay, then shut it again before the foolishness slipped out.
Before she could form a suitable reply, he was already turning away, the heavy boots clicking across polished wood, past a pair of maids who bowed their heads as he passed. The sound vanished behind the heavy door to what must be his study.
Mrs. Fowler cleared her throat. “Your Grace, if you’ll come this way? I’ll show you your rooms. Your rooms face the garden. The sea air will do you good.”
Margaret forced herself to breathe, adjusting her grip on her gloves. She managed a half-step forward before Cecily’s last words flickered in her memory like a candle guttering in the wind. Be happy or safer or something in between.
Margaret swallowed it down. She lifted her chin. “Of course, Mrs. Fowler. Lead on.”
She followed the housekeeper up the wide staircase, the hush of the hall swallowing her footsteps while the staff trailed behind like polite shadows. Below, somewhere behind a closed door, her new husband’s voice murmured something low to Parsons, but no words reached her.
Only the smell of flowers and salt and the echo of her own new name.