Chapter 18
Margaret stood before her mirror as Jenny drew the sash snug at her waist, smoothing the pale blue muslin into place. She hardly knew why she had chosen the pale blue muslin, save that it felt less like armor than the other gowns.
The morning had begun with ritual. Jenny had slipped in with two undermaids at her heels, bearing fresh linen and stockings folded crisp from the press.
Margaret had stood while they eased away her night shift, cool air brushing her skin before new linen whispered down over her shoulders. Then came the stays—drawn closed with quick, practiced fingers, the laces biting into order what her breath longed to leave unbound.
Stockings were rolled, garters tied, and slippers set neatly beneath her feet before the muslin gown was lifted like a cloud and lowered into place.
Her hair, neatly drawn back, betrayed nothing of the restless hours since morning. Jenny smoothed the last fold with a careful hand, eyes flicking to the mirror.
“Too tight, Your Grace?” the maid asked, catching the faint rise and fall of Margaret’s breath.
“No,” Margaret said quickly, though her chest lifted in a shallow breath. “It will do very well.”
The girl stepped back, tilting her head. “It is a gentle color. Soft on the eye.”
“Yes,” Margaret murmured. “Gentle.” She caught her own gaze in the mirror and lifted her chin. Nothing about her expression betrayed the restless hours she had spent pacing the room, turning his words over and over again.
Jenny lingered a moment, fussing with a fold of fabric. “Will you be out this afternoon, Your Grace?”
“For a little while,” Margaret replied, her voice careful. “You need not wait for me.”
Jenny bobbed a curtsy. “Very good, Your Grace.”
She stepped back with the silent grace of long training, but her gaze flicked quickly—almost concerned—over Margaret’s face before she withdrew.
When the door closed, silence settled. Margaret pressed her palms briefly against the cool wood of the dressing table. Only a rehearsal, she reminded herself. Only duty. Then she turned and walked out, her skirts whispering along the corridor toward the unused ballroom.
The unused ballroom smelled faintly of dust and polish when she entered.
Its long windows poured pale afternoon light across the floorboards where Sebastian already stood waiting, coat off, gloves tucked beneath one arm.
He turned as she approached, his expression unreadable, though his bow was impeccably correct.
At the far end of the room, a hired violinist lingered in shadow, bow poised in readiness, the faint scrape of tuning strings breaking the quiet in the room.
“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly before he could speak. “I was… rather sharp this morning. You meant no harm, and I am grateful for your care.”
A faint crease eased from his brow. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Her fingers knotted together, then unclasped. “Even so. Thank you.” She hesitated a beat, then added with a trace of firmness, “But the rule stands, Sebastian. It must.”
For a moment, he only inclined his head, as though he understood too well. “As you wish.” His voice was even, yet something in it carried the weight of disappointment.
Margaret’s gaze flickered to the space between them, the broad stretch of polished floor that seemed, absurdly, to urge them nearer. She drew a steadying breath. “We should begin before I lose my nerve.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Then let us begin at once.” He extended his hand, palm open, waiting.
Her pulse stirred at the gesture, quick and uncertain. Still, she placed her hand in his, the touch light at first though the distance between them seemed to lessen of its own accord.
“Shall we?” he asked again, softer this time.
From the shadowed end of the room, the violinist drew his bow across the strings, the first low notes trembling into the stillness.
She let him draw her forward. His other hand found its place at her waist, steady and warm even through the muslin, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the air closer.
She fixed her eyes on the far window, refusing the sudden awareness of how near he stood.
“You keep looking away,” he murmured.
“I am rehearsing my composure,” she replied, forcing a brightness she did not feel. “It would not do to glare at you in public.”
“I rather thought you excelled at glaring,” he said, the faintest thread of amusement beneath the words.
Her lips twitched despite herself. “And you at provoking it.”
“Someone must keep you sharp.” His thumb brushed, almost imperceptibly, against her hand. “Besides, you’d be bored if I were too agreeable.”
“I should like to test that theory.”
“I should like to prove you wrong.”
Their steps moved into measure, the silence broken only by the soft slide of shoes across the boards. She felt the rhythm settle between them, his presence shaping her movements with practiced ease. It was too easy, she thought, how quickly they fell into unison.
“See?” he said, lowering his voice as their turn drew her closer still. “We can appear united if only for an evening.”
Their steps moved into measure, the silence of the room broken only by the soft slide of shoes across the boards. She felt the rhythm settle between them, his presence shaping her movements with practiced ease. It was too easy, she thought, how quickly they fell into unison.
“See?” he said, lowering his voice as their turn drew her closer still. “We can appear united if only for an evening.”
Margaret swallowed, the words catching. Appear united. That was all it must be. And yet her hand in his tightened, betraying her.
His eyes lingered on her face. “Appearances are all the world asks of us. But it feels…” His breath stirred faintly against her temple. “It feels rather more than that, does it not?”
She drew in a sharp breath. “That is precisely why the rule exists.”
“And yet,” he murmured, “you follow my lead as though you trust me.”
Margaret glanced up, startled, her composure faltering for the span of a heartbeat. “I trust the steps, not the man.”
His mouth curved. “Then perhaps I should be grateful the steps are steady enough to carry me with them.”
Margaret tilted her head toward the far end of the room. “Hardly. We both know it is the poor violinist saving us.”
Sebastian chuckled under his breath. “He’ll take all the credit, no doubt.”
“Then perhaps we ought to thank him when we’ve finished.”
“Only if he swears never to tell how close I came to missing the turn.”
They circled again, his palm guiding her lightly, expertly, as though the shape of the dance had been written into his bones.
Margaret tried to focus on the count of steps, on the bright rectangles of sunlight falling across the floor.
Yet she could not ignore the sensation of being known—not by reputation but by the press of his hand and the steadiness of his frame.
“You lead as though you’ve done this too often,” she said, her voice a little unsteady.
“Too often?” His mouth curved. “Or not often enough?”
“You tell me,” she challenged, lifting her chin.
He bent slightly as they passed in a closer turn, his breath brushing her ear. “I have never rehearsed quite like this.”
Her stomach gave a treacherous flutter. She stiffened, glaring at the far window again. “Then you ought to remember it is only a rehearsal.”
“I am not likely to forget,” he said quietly.
The music that did not exist seemed to pulse between them, the beat of shoes against wood serving in its place.
They crossed and turned, again and again, until Margaret’s breath came quicker, her pulse echoing with the rhythm.
His hand at her waist never faltered, his gaze fixed with unnerving steadiness when it caught hers.
At last, she broke it, staring down at her hand resting against his shoulder. “This is duty,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Duty, yes,” he agreed, though his thumb brushed—just once, perhaps by accident—against the back of her hand. “It is remarkable what duty demands.”
Her breath caught at the faint stroke of his thumb, a touch so slight it might have been nothing at all—yet her skin burned beneath the glove as if he had seared her there. She told herself not to look up, not to meet his eyes again, but her gaze betrayed her, lifting in spite of her resolve.
His eyes were waiting. Dark, intent, searching hers in a way that made her chest tighten. The steps carried them forward, closer, until she could feel the whisper of his breath against her temple.
“You are trembling,” he said softly.
Margaret’s lips parted. “From the exertion,” she answered too quickly.
“Of course,” he murmured, though his hand at her waist tightened just enough to draw her nearer.
The measure slowed, faltered—no longer the crisp pattern of a rehearsal but something heavier, thicker, as though the dance itself had changed its nature. Margaret’s pulse pounded in her throat.
“This is dangerous,” she whispered, hardly aware she had spoken aloud.
His mouth curved, though the look in his eyes was not amused. “Then why do you not let go?”
Her hand tightened on his shoulder instead, answering for her. The air between them felt perilously thin.
Margaret caught the faint spice of his cologne, undercut with the warmth of skin and starch of linen.
The scent seemed to wrap around her, unmooring her from sense.
At that instant, the violin rose in a sudden swell, the bow biting deeper against the strings as if the music itself echoed the strain between them.
Without thinking, she let her eyes flutter shut, as if surrendering to it.
Sebastian’s gaze caught hers, steady, unreadable, but burning in the stillness. He inclined his head, and she felt his breath stir the stray curl near her temple. The smallest turn, the barest lean, and his mouth would be at hers.
“Careful, Margaret,” he murmured, so low she almost thought she’d imagined it.
The words were warning, yet his voice betrayed a rough edge, like a man already half-undone. Her pulse leaped. She ought to answer—she ought to laugh, retreat, say something scathing to break this, but her body betrayed her, tilting imperceptibly nearer.
His hand flexed at his side. She swore she felt the air bend toward him, felt the moment coiling tighter, inevitable. The thought of his lips, of the forbidden warmth of him, blotted out sense until nothing remained but want.
His hand lifted—hesitant at first, then sure—and the back of his fingers brushed the line of her jaw. A touch so light it might have been imagined, yet it seared, sending a shiver down her spine.
The charged silence deepened, every heartbeat a drum in her ears, until she could feel his mouth hovering, almost… almost… against hers.
Then, the door burst open.
“Your Graces!” The footman halted, blanching at the sight before him, eyes darting anywhere but their faces. His voice cracked as he stumbled through the words. “Forgive me—Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, has arrived.”
The words slammed into the room. Margaret startled back, color flooding her cheeks, horrified at how easily she had leaned into him. She folded her hands sharply before her, as if they might hide her treachery.
Sebastian straightened at once, every inch the Duke again, but the muscle in his jaw betrayed him. He took the letter from the servant with measured composure. Only when the man had gone did he turn back to her.
Silence settled once more. He looked at her then, his expression carved of restraint, and only a slight flicker in his eyes betrayed all that had nearly passed between them.
“My mother will expect me,” he said at last, voice low and controlled.
Margaret managed a nod, though her pulse still thundered. And then he was gone, the echo of his presence lingering, the taste of an unspoken moment trembling in the air between them.