Chapter 19 #2
Margaret started where she stood, her hands clasped too tightly before her.
Sebastian halted at once. For the briefest instant, the air between them held nothing but silence, heavy and trembling.
His gaze moved over her face—the unnatural pallor, the quiver of her hands, the wide, wounded eyes, and she saw the recognition strike him like a blow. He knew. He knew she had heard it all.
That’s right. I heard everything. Every single insult. Every cruel, deliberate word meant for me.
“We are leaving,” he said without preamble. “Tomorrow. You will prepare what you require for a stay in London tonight. I will not have you remain here another day under the same roof as her.”
The declaration struck her almost as fiercely as the insult she had just overheard.
He hesitated, as if realizing he had not yet said enough. His hand lifted, then dropped again uselessly at his side. “And…” His tone faltered, awkward, almost timid for the space of a breath. “And see that Miss Fortune is brought. She comes with us.”
The servants had scarcely begun to lay out the first course when the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscourt’s eyes fastened upon the sleek bundle of fur at Margaret’s feet.
Miss Fortune had installed herself with regal indifference beneath the table, her tail flicking idly against the hem of Margaret’s gown, blissfully unaware that the household would be departing on the morrow.
“Sebastian,” the Dowager said, her voice as crisp as frost, “you cannot mean to allow that creature in the dining room. Remove it at once. Such habits are hardly proper in a house of this standing.”
Margaret’s hand stilled on her napkin, her pulse quickening, but Sebastian did not so much as shift in his chair. He leaned back, languid as though carved from indolence, though the muscle ticking in his jaw betrayed the strain of his restraint.
“No,” he said simply.
The Dowager’s brows arched, her tone sharpening. “It is a cat at the table, Sebastian. This is neither a stable nor a kitchen. Such indulgence reflects poorly on you both.”
“She stays,” Sebastian replied, more firmly now. His gaze cut across the table, hard as flint. “Miss Fortune belongs to Margaret. And Margaret belongs here, duchess of this house. I will not have her comforts dictated—least of all by you.”
The Dowager’s lips thinned, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on the stem of her glass. For a moment, silence reigned louder than any word. Then, with a faint sniff, she looked away, though her displeasure clung to the air like smoke.
Margaret bent to stroke Miss Fortune’s silky head, hiding the tremor of relief in the movement. When she straightened, she lifted her chin, her gaze calm and steady.
The last course had been cleared, yet the table glittered anew with porcelain dishes of syllabub, marzipan, and candied fruit, their sugared perfumes mingling with the richer aroma of roasted pheasant and claret sauce.
Margaret sat very straight, her gaze tracing the polished surface of the table before her. At her feet, Miss Fortune curled against her skirts as though sensing the tension.
Across from her, Honoria observed with a glint of calculated interest, her gaze sharp as a blade dressed in velvet. At the head of the table, Sebastian lounged with studied nonchalance, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed how thinly his patience was worn.
“My dear Margaret,” the Dowager began, her voice syrupy, “I do hope you are finding Ravenscourt to your liking. Country life can feel… rather confining to those accustomed to livelier circles, and of course, the demands of a duchy are hardly light. Even the most seasoned mistress may find herself… overburdened.”
Margaret’s fingers smoothed Miss Fortune’s fur, her smile composed, though her pulse had quickened.
“I find Ravenscourt most agreeable, Your Grace. The country offers a steadiness one cannot always find in London, and as for the duchy’s demands, I believe diligence and order make even the heaviest burdens light. ”
The Dowager’s brows arched ever so slightly, as though Margaret had spoken out of turn by sounding capable.
“Commendable indeed,” she murmured, her tone sweet but her eyes assessing.
“And yet… one wonders whether diligence is enough. A duchess must not only manage accounts and servants but also cultivate grace enough to soothe any disquiet beyond these walls. Society, after all, thrives on perception.”
Margaret’s spoon clinked softly against her saucer. She willed her hand not to tremble, even as her chest tightened at the word perception. So that was the weapon chosen tonight. Not what she did, but what she seemed. Always what she seemed.
Sebastian’s hand halted halfway to his glass. His gaze flicked sharply toward his mother, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “Margaret possesses both,” he said, his voice even but edged with warning.
Margaret inclined her head as though the Dowager had merely offered a compliment, though her heart beat hard against her stays. “Perception is a fickle thing, Your Grace,” she replied softly. “It may be managed best by quiet steadiness, rather than fuss.”
The words left her lips before she could tame them. A tiny rebellion spoken gently enough to pass for politeness. But she felt Sebastian’s glance slide to her, quick and fierce, and heat rose traitorously to her throat.
The Dowager’s smile cooled, her gaze narrowing as though weighing the girl before her.
“Steadiness is admirable,” she said, her tone silk over steel, “but it cannot erase origins. One cannot help but note that not all ladies are raised from childhood to bear the weight of a duchess’s crown.
Habits, ways of thinking… they cling, even when one would wish them gone. ”
A chill coursed through Margaret, though her face betrayed nothing. Her hand stilled over Miss Fortune, who shifted against her skirts as if in protest.
Sebastian set his glass down with deliberate force, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “If you suggest Margaret is unequal to her station, you are mistaken. She carries it with a grace I have rarely seen, and I will not hear her diminished in her own house.”
The Dowager’s lips tightened—not quite a frown, but the smile no longer reached her eyes.
“My intent is not to diminish, Sebastian,” she said smoothly, though the rebuke lay beneath the words.
“But to caution. Many a young wife has been undone not by malice but by the smallest misstep. A whisper in the wrong ear, a gesture misread… such things travel quickly through drawing rooms.”
Margaret’s chin lifted a fraction, her voice steady though her pulse raced. “Then I shall give them nothing to whisper about, Your Grace.”
The Dowager’s smile sharpened, as though she had been waiting for precisely such a reply. She leaned back, the candlelight glinting off the diamond at her throat. “Ah, but that is the difficulty, is it not? When the whispers concern not what one does but what one is.”
She tapped one finger sharply on her glass. “Yet I have heard whispers already. That grief left its mark… that your long nights alone bred fancies, tremors, even fits. Harmless, perhaps, in a country girl. But in a duchess?”
Every nerve in Margaret screamed to deny it, to cry out that it was false, but she sat frozen, her hand trapped against the napkin in her lap, as if one movement might confirm the charge.
Honoria let the pause linger, her voice softening to a mockery of pity. “Such delicacy begins to look like fragility. And fragility, my dear, is so often mistaken for madness.”
“That is enough.” Sebastian’s voice cracked like a whip across the table, steel-hard.
But Honoria did not so much as flinch. Her gaze slid to Sebastian, cool and deliberate.
“You know, my son, such things are rarely confined to one generation. A tendency of the mind, they call it—running through blood as surely as any inheritance. How cruel it would be if such instability… passed on.”
Sebastian’s jaw went rigid, his knuckles whitening around the stem of his glass.
The Dowager’s smile curved wider, satisfied at the flicker of storm in his eyes.
“But pray God it is only rumor,” she murmured, her tone feather-light with steel.
“The Ravenscourt name has survived much, but it is not endlessly forgiving. One more whisper, one more… stain, and even the strongest reputations can crumble. No household, no duchy, can bear repeated scandal.”
Sebastian half-rose from his chair, his fury unmistakable.
Sebastian’s eyes darkened, his voice clipped with restrained fury. “There will be no scandal. I will answer for my household, and I require no reminders.” The words dropped into the air like a stone into still water, rippling through the silence.
The Dowager’s gaze lingered on him, then shifted back to Margaret; her smile returned but hollow as porcelain. “I am certain you will, Sebastian. I speak only as one who has seen what careless choices may cost. The duchy cannot—must not—weather another storm.”
Margaret’s breath caught, her composure stretched taut as she forced her smile to remain. The warning was unmistakable, as though the Dowager had placed a burden upon her shoulders in full view of the candlelit room.
“An agreeable supper,” Honoria declared, her voice carrying no warmth, though the words could not be faulted.
A servant entered with quiet precision, signaling the close of the meal. The footmen moved swiftly to clear the last of the glasses, their motions as practiced as a minuet. The Dowager Duchess dabbed delicately at her lips with her napkin, regal in her deliberation, preparing to speak again.
But Sebastian did not give her the chance.
He pushed back his chair with a sharp scrape that startled the nearest footman. “We are done here,” he said, rising with a finality that left no room for argument. His cold steel eyes fixed upon his mother, daring her to gainsay him.
Margaret blinked hard, but a tear slid treacherously down her cheek all the same. Miss Fortune stirred against her skirts as if sensing the moment.
Sebastian bent, offering Margaret his arm, his voice pitched low for her alone. “Come.”
She let him draw her up, grateful for the strength in his hand as her own wavered. His arm came firm about her shoulders, steadying her as he led her toward the door. The hush of the dining room followed them, heavy as thunder waiting to break, but Sebastian did not look back.
Miss Fortune padded after them, tail high.