Chapter 17
Sebastian woke with a violent start, breath catching as a cry shattered the stillness of the night.
“Don’t!” The word tore through the silence, ragged, desperate.
For a heartbeat, he thought himself mistaken, that it was some trick of his dreaming mind. But then the sound came again. It came broken and strangled, echoing down the corridor.
“No, not again—”
Margaret.
He sat upright, the covers pooling at his waist, his heart beating hard against his ribs. The house was silent save for her cries, each one a jagged thread that pulled tight around his chest. His first impulse was to move, to run to her, but he froze, fingers digging into the mattress.
She had been explicit. No shared rooms. No indulgence of weakness. No place for him when the past tormented her. It was her boundary, and he had promised to honor it.
Another cry, sharper now, like the voice of someone drowning.
“Papa! Mama!”
Sebastian’s hand raked through his hair, his throat tight. God help him, he could not lie still while she suffered so. Yet what if she wakes up and finds me there? Would she see only trespass, betrayal, a man unable to obey her simplest plea?
But then her scream broke the air, raw and terrified, and his doubts crumbled. Whatever vows she had spoken in the safety of daylight could not bind him now.
He swung his legs to the floor, the chill of the boards biting at his bare feet. The night air was cool against his chest, for he had gone to bed without clothing. For a moment, he nearly rushed out as he was, but he thought better of it.
He seized his trousers from where they hung over a chair, dragging them on with fumbling haste.
The drawstrings tangled beneath his fingers, but he scarcely noticed.
A linen shirt lay crumpled nearby, and he shrugged into it without fastening the buttons, the fabric hanging loose, gaping over his chest.
The corridor stretched before him in darkness, broken only by the faint spill of moonlight from the stairwell. Between Margaret’s cries, there was silence, heavy, unnatural, pressing at his temples.
Each step forward felt both forbidden and necessary.
By the time he reached her door, his pulse was a storm within him. He stood a moment, his hand hovering over the latch, torn between fear of her rejection and the desperate need to end her torment. He had never felt so powerless—or so certain—that he could not remain apart.
With a breath that trembled, he set his palm to the door.
He just could not ignore her pain. The door gave way beneath his hand, and candlelight wavered across the chamber, revealing her twisting in the sheets, caught in some invisible torment. Her face was wet with tears, her lips parted on broken cries.
God above… Margaret. The sight of her, so strong in daylight yet so undone in sleep, cut through him with a force that stole his breath. How long has she borne this alone? How many nights have I left her to fight shadows with no one at her side?
Before he could think better of it, he crossed the room and bent to her side.
“Margaret,” he whispered, though she could not hear.
His hand hovered, uncertain, but when another shudder seized her frame, the choice was made for him.
He slipped beneath the coverlet, the linen cool against his skin, and gathered her gently into his arms.
At first, she resisted, thrashing, her body taut with fear. But slowly, beneath his steady hold, her trembling began to ease. Her breathing faltered, then found a calmer rhythm, each breath soft against his chest. The damp of her tears clung to his skin, and still, he did not move.
A faint murmur slipped from her lips, broken and trembling. “Please… do not leave me… please…” The words pierced the quiet like a blade, soft though they were, as if torn from some hidden wound.
Sebastian’s chest tightened, his breath catching. That she should beg so helplessly, even in sleep—it undid him.
“Hush,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. “I will not leave you. I’m here. You are safe.” His hand moved instinctively, smoothing the damp strands of hair from her face, his thumb grazing her cheek with a touch so gentle, it startled even him.
A sigh left her, softer this time, her body yielding against him as though she believed him—even in dreams.
Sebastian lay still, scarcely daring to breathe himself, lest the spell break. She was safe now… or seemed so, her small form curved trustingly against him, her warmth seeping into his very bones.
She stirred faintly, another soft sigh escaping her lips, her breath feathering against his chest.
Something shifted within him, subtle yet irrevocable. It struck him with all the force of a blow and yet none of its pain—a sudden swell, a strange ache in his chest that both unsettled and steadied him.
What is this?
He tried to name it, to thrust it into some familiar shape.
Desire? No—there was no fire in his blood, no restless urge.
Possession? Hardly—he felt no triumph, no claim, only an overwhelming wish to shield her from every shadow that sought her.
It was raw, unpracticed, as if his very heart had stumbled upon foreign ground.
He had held women before—countless if truth be told—but never like this. Never with such care, with such reverence. There was no hunger here, no pursuit, no game of conquest. Only a fierce tenderness, a devotion he had not known himself capable of.
A loose curl brushed his arm, and with a hand that trembled, he smoothed it gently back from her damp cheek. Her lashes lay dark upon her skin, delicately curled, glistening faintly where tears had traced their path.
As he pressed his cheek against her hair, the scent of her—soft, faintly floral, like summer rain lingering upon earth—filled his senses. The ache deepened.
Is this what love feels like?
The thought unsettled him, stark in its simplicity. He had scoffed at love, dismissed it as folly, a chain to ensnare the unwary. Yet here, in the quiet of night, with her breath steadying against him and her hand resting lightly over his own, he felt undone.
And though he told himself it could not be, that he must not allow it, the truth lingered all the same, raw and unyielding. He had never wished for anything more than to remain exactly as he was, yet her trembling eased, her weight against his chest, his arms the only shelter she needed.
It was the warmth that woke her first. It was not the timid chill of dawn air slipping past the shutters but something heavier and definitely alive pressing against her side. She stirred, frowning, unwilling to leave the soft cocoon of slumber.
In her half-dreaming state, she smiled faintly. “Is that you, Miss Fortune?” she murmured, her hand shifting as though to draw the creature nearer.
Then a brighter warmth touched her face. The sun filtered in golden threads through the curtains, and her lashes fluttered open.
For an instant, the world was blurred, hazy with the remnants of dreams. But then she became aware of the weight at her back, the faint rise and fall of another breath, the quiet presence of a body beside her.
It was no cat.
Her own breath caught. Slowly, dread sharpening into clarity, she turned her head.
Sebastian lay stretched upon the pillow, half-turned toward her, his dark hair tousled across his brow.
His shirt hung open, exposing the fine hairs, the steady rise of his chest, and the strong lines of his shoulders.
He looked impossibly at ease, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be lying in her bed, in her room.
Margaret froze, every nerve in her body taut. A rush of heat shot through her as well as confusion, disbelief, and something unnamed that made her pulse stumble. She jerked upright, clutching the blanket to her chest, her heart thundering.
“What—what happened?” Her voice came out sharp, edged with panic.
“Why are you here? Tell me we did not—” Her words tumbled in a rush, breathless and high-pitched. “What did I do? What did you do? How did we—How long have you been here?”
At the sound, Sebastian shifted beside her. His lashes fluttered open, his brow furrowing as he blinked against the shaft of sunlight cutting across the bed. He pushed himself slowly onto one elbow, disoriented, his shirt still gaping open across his chest.
“Nothing happened,” he said at last, his voice rough with sleep yet calm, almost weary.
“Nothing?” her voice rose, trembling now. “You broke the rule, Sebastian. You swore you would not—” Her words faltered, but her fury returned in a rush. “How dare you touch me without leave!”
His head snapped toward her, eyes flashing. “Touch you?” His voice, though still low, carried steel. “Margaret, you were sobbing in terror. Would you rather I stood idle and let you suffer?”
“I would rather you kept your word!” she cried, clutching the blanket to her throat as though it might shield her. “You think yourself noble for playing the savior, but it was not your place!”
Sebastian drew a sharp breath, then leaned closer, his jaw tight. “Not my place? You were thrashing like one possessed. You called out as though the very devil had you by the throat. Do you imagine I could ignore that?”
Her cheeks burned, humiliation twisting with anger. “You should have! Better that than this—” Her hand swept between them, between the warmth of the bed they had shared. “You’ve made me—compromised.” Her voice cracked on the word, but her glare held fast.
His eyes softened for a flicker, then hardened again. “Compromised? Margaret, I did not take advantage of you.”
“You broke your vow,” she whispered, the words like poison in her mouth. “And I will not forgive it.”
The silence that followed was jagged, broken only by the sound of her uneven breath.
At last, he rose, tugging his shirt into place though he left it hanging open, his movements taut with restrained anger.
“You think what you will,” he said, his tone clipped.
“But believe this, I would sooner break every vow I’ve ever made than watch you suffer when I might bring you peace. ”
Margaret turned her face away, clutching the blanket tighter. His shirt hung open, his dark hair tumbled from sleep, and the sight of him sitting so near… too near… made her pulse unsteady. “You should have stayed in your chamber,” she snapped. “I did not ask for your help.”
“You needed it,” he countered, his tone sharpening as he glared down at her.
“I need nothing from you.” The words came harsher than she intended, driven by the sting of her own vulnerability. Margaret turned her face away, tears stinging her eyes, not from gratitude but from the torment of being seen so weak. “Leave me,” she said hoarsely. “Leave me at once.”
He hesitated, the words still hanging between them, then inclined his head stiffly. “As you wish.” His voice softened, as if almost despite himself. “Forgive me, Margaret. I never meant to harm you.”
He had just reached the door when it swung open. Jenny stumbled in, balancing a tray of breakfast. “Oh!” she gasped, nearly dropping it. “Your Grace—I beg your pardon!”
Her wide eyes darted from Sebastian, disheveled and bare-chested, to Margaret, flushed and clutching the blanket high. The clatter of porcelain trembled in the air.
“I… I can return later if you are… occupied,” Jenny stammered, taking a half-step back.
Margaret’s throat worked, but no sound came. The room felt suffocating.
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said evenly, not glancing at Margaret. “I was already leaving.”
And with that, he brushed past the maid, his broad shoulders disappearing into the corridor.
He moved past Jenny but paused on the threshold. Turning back, his voice softened. “I am sorry, Margaret. Again. I’ll be waiting in the unused ballroom this afternoon. We must rehearse—for London.”
The reminder of their bargain settled heavily between them. Margaret’s fingers curled tighter around the blanket. “Of course,” she said, her tone grave. For our first appearance.
“I shall be there,” she finished quietly.
He inclined his head once more and stepped into the corridor, his broad shoulders vanishing from sight.
Their first appearance. The words sounded oddly heavy in her mind, heavier than they ought to be. Margaret sank back against the pillows, pulse refusing to steady.
It was only the first of many small performances—the bargain they had struck, the part she must play. Soon, they would part and live separate lives, and yet in London, before so many eyes, they must appear united.
For her reputation’s sake, for the silencing of whispers. He still thought it his duty to shield her, to guard what no one could truly guard.
She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks, as though she might cool them. “Duty,” she whispered to herself. “Only duty. Nothing more. Nothing… nothing I ought to feel.”