Chapter 19
Sebastian had scarcely crossed the threshold of his study when the echo of Margaret’s near touch still stole his breath.
Her scent, the warmth of her hand at his shoulder, lingered like a ghost upon his skin.
Fool that he was, he could still hear the faint swell of music, could still imagine what might have happened had he leaned that fraction closer—had the world not intruded.
And intrude it did. The crunch of carriage wheels on gravel drew him to the window, and at once his mind splintered: his mother, here, now of all moments. His mother, who would meet Margaret with cool appraisal sharpened into cruelty. His mother, whose standards no woman could ever satisfy.
He dragged a hand across his mouth, as if to wipe away what had nearly been, as if to brace himself for what must come. It was Margaret he thought of now. How would Margaret fare beneath that gaze? The question pressed on him like a weight.
The door to the library opened before he had quite collected himself. “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscourt,” the butler intoned.
And there she stood—wrapped in sable, chin raised, surveying the room as though Duncaster Estate were her rightful throne.
“Mother,” he said, forcing civility into his tone, though distraction still tugged at him. “This is… a surprise.”
“I imagine it is.” Honoria removed her gloves with efficient little tugs, eyes sweeping over the library as if she inspected the place for dust. “I decided I would come down for a few days. London is insufferable at present.”
“You might have written,” he said evenly, though his jaw tightened.
She lifted a brow. “And give you time to marshal your defenses? No, my dear. Best to arrive as one is, without the ceremony of letters. They only encourage evasion.”
He folded his hands behind his back. “Courtesy, I had always thought, was the business of letters.”
Her mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Courtesy, yes. Truth, no. If I had written, you would have conjured some pressing matter to occupy you here—crops, tenants, a sudden fever among the horses, perhaps. You have a fine imagination when it comes to excuses.”
His gaze sharpened. “You think me so bent on avoiding you?”
“I know you,” Honoria returned coolly. “Better to appear without notice. Saves you the effort of lying.”
His teeth clenched, but he said nothing.
She drifted closer to the fire, adjusting the fall of her cloak with precise, restless fingers. “The city is in a fever over the coming ball. I daresay it will be the most attended of the season. Of course, I cannot possibly endure it.”
“And why not?” His tone was clipped, a warning edge beneath the civility.
She arched one brow, drawing out the pause as if savoring his impatience. “Why? Because I have no taste for being gawped at like a specimen in a jar. Do you imagine I wish to be cornered by every smug countess and grasping matron, all demanding to know about your… choice?”
Sebastian’s shoulders stiffened. “My choice?”
Her lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained cold. “Yes. Your sudden, inexplicable marriage. They will be waiting to whisper behind their fans. They already are. I cannot walk into a salon without hearing some sly remark, some pitying glance—as if you had leaped from a cliff into the sea.”
He let out a low breath. “Let them whisper.”
“Easy enough for you to say,” she retorted, a flare of scorn in her voice. “You may bury yourself here at Ravenscourt, sulking among your books, while I must bear the brunt in every drawing room. It is I who must face their smirks and condolences. Do you know the words being passed about?”
“I do not care to, Mother.” His voice was flat, but his hand tightened at his side.
“Then I will enlighten you,” Honoria said, her eyes glittering.
“They say you were bewitched into it, that the girl ensnared you with tricks and soft tears. That she is not fit for the title. That she is…” Her pause was deliberate and severe, the word sharpened with relish.
“That she is mad. The mad girl of Ravenscourt.”
His teeth clenched, but she was not finished.
“Do not look at me so,” she went on, her voice pitched louder now, carrying beyond the chamber, a brittle laugh following.
“I did not invent it. I merely repeat what half of London already believes. You may stamp your foot and glower, but gossip has longer legs than any man. And if you imagine, Sebastian, that I shall endure smirks and pitying glances on her account, you are much deceived.”
He said nothing, though the silence was taut as a drawn bow.
Her chin lifted higher. Her tone, sharper and more strident, rang against the walls.
“For heaven’s sake, you could have chosen sensibly.
A woman of family, of sense, of at the very least…
sanity. But instead, you bring home a… foundling, Sebastian.
God only knows what taint runs in her blood.
The girl is touched by madness in her family, mark me. If you persist, you will ruin us all.”
Honoria’s voice rang clear, sharpened with disbelief.
“And now, you expect me to bow and call her duchess, you dare expect me to receive her, to call her daughter, to suffer that name on my lips when she is and always shall be nothing more than the mad girl of Everly! It is intolerable.”
Something inside him broke loose. He took one step forward, his voice cracking through the air like thunder.
“She is not mad.”
The Dowager Duchess stilled, startled by the sudden blaze of it.
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice was cool, incredulous, as though daring him to repeat himself.
“You heard me, Mother. She is my wife,” he pressed on, breath hard, chest rising with it. “The Duchess of Ravenscourt. And if I hear you—or anyone—utter such poison again, I will not hold my peace as I do now.” His eyes burned into hers, hot and merciless. “You will never speak of her so. Never.”
The Duchess faltered beneath the ferocity of his gaze, her chin lifting but her shoulders betraying the smallest tremor.
But he moved closer, his voice low and terrible, each syllable carved with deliberate force.
“She has more courage in her little finger than half the world that mocks her. She has borne trials that would have broken women ten times as strong, yet still, she stands with grace. She is mine, and I will not suffer one breath of insult against her—not from the ton nor least of all from you.”
The Duchess drew herself up, her lips pale and tight, but she did not answer.
Sebastian’s breath still came hard, his jaw set like iron. For one suspended moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Then he gave a short, cutting bow—more insult than courtesy.
“I have said all that needed to be said.” His voice was low now, but it carried the same dangerous edge. “Pray remember it.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel. His boots struck the polished floor with a measured, deliberate force as he strode out, the door swinging shut behind him with a decisive thud.
Margaret, still a little breathless from the near kiss, told herself it was only proper that she should seek out the Duchess as well. To offer her welcome would please Sebastian; it was the right thing to do.
She had followed the faint sound of voices down the corridor, then she paused at the threshold of the small adjoining room. The Duchess’ tones carried easily—smooth, commanding, and pitched just high enough to be heard by anyone who might pass.
“…a foundling, Sebastian. God only knows what taint runs in her blood. The girl is touched by madness in her family, mark me. If you persist, you will ruin us all.”
Margaret, pressed against the paneled wall of the adjoining morning room, flinched as though struck herself.
Margaret went cold. She had not meant to overhear—yet the words struck with the force of a slap. For one dreadful instant, she thought she must have misheard. But then came Sebastian’s answer, low but unyielding, reverberating like iron struck against iron.
“… the Duchess of Ravenscourt. And if I hear you—or anyone—utter such poison again, I will not hold my peace as I do now.”
The blood rushed to Margaret’s face. She felt as though every servant in the hall must know, every person in the house must be laughing at her expense. She pressed a hand against the doorframe to steady herself, shame and gratitude warring so violently within her that she could scarcely breathe.
Every word had carried through the half-open door.
His mother had not troubled to lower her voice; indeed, she had likely raised it so the whole house might hear.
Margaret’s cheeks burned hot, mortification coursing through her.
To have been the subject of such venom and to hear Sebastian’s furious defense left her shaken, uncertain whether to weep or flee.
How foolish she had been, thinking her presence might delight his mother, that she might earn some small welcome. Instead, she had been made a spectacle, her name tossed about like a scandal sheet, her worth dissected in rooms not her own.
She gathered her skirts and fled, scarcely knowing how her feet carried her. Down the passage, up the stairs, her only thought was escape.
In the refuge of her chamber, she closed the door with trembling hands and leaned against it, her heart battering her ribs.
Her heart beat painfully fast, a mingling of shame and sorrow she could not unravel. She pressed her palms to her eyes, wishing she might vanish into the floor. She had never felt so exposed, so raw. The words clung to her skin as though they had been branded there. Foundling… Mad.
The door opened without warning. Sebastian strode in, still taut with the storm of his temper. His cravat was slightly disordered, his color high, and there was a dangerous light about him that made her pulse leap.