Chapter 21
Margaret had never known a room to be so alive and yet so oppressively still.
The breakfast parlor in Sebastian’s London townhouse seemed to hum with color and noise, with sunlight pouring recklessly across the damask curtains, setting the embroidered vines aflame while the ticking of the ormolu clock above the mantel kept impatient count of every moment she sat across from him.
Even the silver dishes gave off a faint, mischievous glimmer, as if conspiring to betray her discomfort.
He had chosen a seat opposite her, deliberately—or perhaps not deliberately at all, which was somehow worse.
His sleeve brushed the edge of the table as he reached for the toast rack, his movements perfectly untroubled.
Margaret lowered her eyes at once to the neat pattern her spoon was making in her chocolate, lest she be caught staring.
Margaret forced herself to attend to the marmalade jar, lifting the lid as though her entire happiness depended upon its neat replacement.
“More toast?” His voice was casual, infuriatingly so.
“No, thank you,” she managed, hoping it sounded cooler than she felt.
The silence stretched once more, broken only by the soft scrape of his knife across bread.
When she reached for the toast rack at the same instant he did, their hands met squarely across the silver. Margaret froze. His fingers were warm, steady, entirely unhurried in withdrawing.
“Forgive me,” she said quickly, drawing back as though the dish had scorched her.
His mouth curved, though only faintly. “You must not apologize for wanting toast, Miss Margaret.”
The ridiculousness of it made her lips twitch, but she buried the smile in her chocolate, the cup trembling faintly against its saucer.
Her lips twitched, sparking a warmth she could not quite smother. “Perhaps,” she murmured, eyes lowered, “but one ought not be greedy.”
“Greedy?” His tone was even, but she thought she glimpsed a glint beneath it.
She busied herself with her cup, her smile hidden in the steam. “Yes. To reach for more than one ought… it tempts censure, does it not?”
The words no sooner slipped out than she wished them unsaid. Heat shot to her cheeks, mortifying in its swiftness. What was she about, to speak so, as though she were a practiced coquette rather than a woman who could barely meet his gaze without unraveling?
She pressed the rim of the cup to her lips to disguise the foolish rush of color, cursing herself silently. Oh… Margaret. Greedy, indeed. If he guessed at her meaning, she might never survive the shame.
The door opened, and a footman entered with a small silver tray, upon which a neat stack of letters lay.
He presented it first to the Duke with a bow.
Sebastian accepted the post with a murmur of thanks, sliding one finger under the pile as if it weighed no more than air.
Margaret, who had not the smallest letter addressed to her, found her chocolate suddenly very absorbing.
The crisp tearing of paper broke the silence. Sebastian scanned the page, then gave a short breath that was almost a laugh. “My aunt. She entreats me to call on her because…” He tapped the letter with one finger. “Her pug has grown melancholy since the rain.”
Margaret looked up despite herself. “She wishes you to cure him?”
“She suggests my company might revive his spirits.” His tone was perfectly grave, though there was a light in his eyes.
The laugh escaped her before she could stop it, quick and irrepressible. And when she glanced across the table, his gaze was already upon her, steady, lingering a heartbeat too long. She dropped her eyes at once, retreating to the safe, swirling depths of her cup.
Margaret’s thoughts clutched at an escape. Cecily. Cecily had a way of making everything tolerable, of smoothing the frayed edges of the world. She set down her spoon carefully. “I was thinking I might walk with Cecily in the park today. If it is not disagreeable to you.”
He looked up from his letter, one brow lifting. “Disagreeable? Not in the least. I should be glad for you to have the company.”
Something eased inside her at once, a soft uncoiling she had not expected. She felt it too keenly, this relief at his approval, and bent her eyes to her plate again before it could betray her.
“Then I shall send her a note at once,” she said.
“You may find it unnecessary.” He folded the letter with a flick of his wrist, neatly and assuredly. “I must go into town this morning. If you wish, I will have you and Cecily set down at the park on my way.”
The offer startled her into glancing up. His gaze was steady, intent enough to make her breath catch for the briefest instant. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her cup, as though the porcelain might anchor her. “That would be… very convenient. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” His voice was even, but his mouth curved at the edge, just slightly. It sent a warmth through her, sudden and treacherous. She pressed her lips to her cup to hide the betraying smile that threatened.
Margaret lowered her cup, setting it carefully upon its saucer lest her hand betray the tremor she felt.
She reached for her napkin then, intending to lay it neatly aside, but the linen slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the carpet. She half-rose, flustered, only to find him already standing.
“I have it,” he said, and before she could protest, he bent to retrieve the square of white. His fingers brushed hers as he placed it back into her hand, warm against the tremor that betrayed her. The contact lasted no longer than a heartbeat, but it startled through her like a pulse.
Her gratitude lodged in her throat. She managed only a faint, “Thank you,” her voice thinner than she intended.
His expression gave nothing away, and he resumed his seat as though nothing at all had happened.
But Margaret, pulse skittering, could not bring herself to touch her chocolate again.
“Your sleeve,” he said suddenly.
Her head jerked up. “My…?”
He inclined his chin toward her wrist. She looked down and saw the faintest smudge of chocolate at the lace cuff, a tiny blot against the white. Mortification surged hot across her cheeks.
Before she could hide it, he reached for the linen napkin again, leaned across, and with slow precision dabbed the stain away. His touch was careful, almost formal, yet the nearness of him, the steadiness of his hand, sent the air rushing from her chest.
“There,” he said quietly, withdrawing at once.
Margaret’s breath tangled. She managed a nod, clutching the rescued sleeve against her bodice like a shield. “You are… very obliging.”
A curve touched his mouth. “I try.”
Across the table, he was already turning to another letter, his profile calm, untroubled, as if nothing at all had passed between them.
Yet she carried the warmth of it—his glance, his faint smile—like a hidden ember beneath her stays.
This is foolish, she told herself firmly, foolish and dangerous.
And still, the thought of seeing Cecily later in the day suddenly seemed a necessity, for only Cecily could be trusted to make sense of this bewildering unrest within her.
She rose, smoothing her skirts with composed hands. “If you will excuse me, Your Gra—Sebastian, I shall see to my note.”
He inclined his head without looking up, and Margaret left the breakfast parlor, her pulse still beating faster than it ought.
Margaret turned, spine straight, every step measured. But once the door closed behind her, her composure shattered like spun glass.
“Fool,” she whispered fiercely, pressing her hands to her heated face. “Hopeless, witless fool. What must he think of me? Stammering like a schoolgirl, simpering over toast, blushing at the mere touch of a napkin?”
She paced the corridor, skirts rustling, her pulse hammering with every remembered glance, every flicker of his smile. “Sebastian,” she repeated under her breath, the sound of it damning. “As though the man’s name were some charm to be whispered over tea leaves.”
She gripped the banister for steadiness, whispering through clenched teeth, “I will not be one of those silly creatures, fluttering and foolish, waiting to be noticed. I will not.” And yet even as she said it, the warmth of his nearness clung like a brand, and her lips betrayed her with the faintest curve.
The morning light set the gravel paths shimmering as St. James’s Park stirred to life.
Along the Mall, carriages rattled loudly, the ring of hooves carrying through the trees, while within the walks, parasols unfurled like blossoms, silk and muslin drifting in a slow, elegant fashion.
The air was busy with chatter, the sweep of gowns, and the sharp bark of a restless dog, until it seemed all of London had chosen that very morning to be outside.
Margaret fell into step beside Cecily, her arm linked with her cousin’s, grateful for the familiar ease of her company after the awkward formality of breakfast. Cecily’s eyes darted everywhere, quick as a sparrow’s, never missing the smallest detail.
She could feel, even without looking, the way eyes lingered as they passed—first curious, then sly, as whispers leaped from one bonnet to another.
Cecily, of course, noticed. Her chin lifted a fraction higher, as though daring anyone to say aloud what they only muttered behind her hands. “They might at least have the decency to be subtle,” she murmured.
Margaret gave the faintest smile, as if nothing touched her. “London has never been celebrated for subtlety.”
Before Cecily could retort, a carriage rolled by, its occupant crowned with three enormous ostrich plumes that wobbled precariously in the morning air. Cecily seized the chance for mischief.
“Only look at her,” Cecily whispered, tilting her chin toward the lady gliding past in the carriage. “That bonnet is a crime against nature. Three whole plumes, and each threatening to take flight.”