Chapter 14
Margaret entered the dining room with the careful composure of a woman who had spent the last quarter of an hour reminding herself that she was a duchess and therefore ought not to behave like a disgruntled child.
Unfortunately, the moment she saw Pierce standing beside her chair, that composure became considerably less reliable.
He looked as attractive as ever in his evening attire, his black hair neatly arranged and his mismatched eyes fixed upon her with that unsettling intensity that always made her feel as though he saw more than she wished to reveal.
"I am here as requested. I trust you are enjoying ordering people about," she said as she approached, her tone deliberately cool.
Pierce pulled out her chair and regarded her with the faintest hint of amusement.
"Immensely. It is one of the chief pleasures of being a duke.
" He gestured for her to sit, and Margaret lowered herself into the chair, painfully aware of how close he stood behind her.
"I had no other means of getting you to appear before me," he added as he took his own seat. "You have been avoiding me."
Margaret folded her hands upon the table and lifted her chin. "Perhaps I had a perfectly good reason."
His brow rose. "I am certain you believed you did."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You see? That tone alone makes me wish I had remained upstairs."
Pierce's mouth twitched, but he did not rise to the bait. "You were angry."
"I was furious," Margaret corrected, reaching for her glass. "You accused me of endangering Hugh when I had done nothing but feed him."
"You were alone with him after I specifically told you not to be."
"And he ate every bite of his luncheon." She gave him a pointed look. "Every bite."
Pierce reached for his wine with maddening calm. "I am aware."
Margaret's eyebrows lifted. "Then perhaps you might explain why you have spent two days behaving as though I had committed some dreadful crime."
"I did not say you had committed a crime," Pierce replied. "You behaved recklessly."
Margaret stared at him. "You have an astonishing ability to make the words thank you for feeding my son sound like an accusation."
He looked up at her, and there was something almost warm in his expression. "Very well. Thank you for feeding my son."
She waited. "And?" she prompted.
"And you were right about Hugh responding to you."
Margaret blinked. She had expected an argument, not an admission.
"So you were wrong about your rules?" she asked, unable to resist.
Pierce's expression immediately hardened. "Do not overreach yourself."
Margaret smiled despite herself. "How difficult it must be for you to admit that another person has discovered something you overlooked."
"It was a single incident," he said firmly. "One successful meal does not make you an expert."
"Is it truly so painful to say, ‘Margaret, I was wrong’?" she asked sweetly.
"I was not wrong about you not yet knowing how to care for Hugh. I was wrong about the method."
Her smile faded into surprise. "That," she said softly, "is almost an apology."
"Do not become accustomed to it," he replied.
Margaret laughed under her breath. "Heaven forbid."
The servants entered and served the first course of soup and bread.
She picked up her spoon, but the tension between them had changed. Beneath their argument was something neither seemed willing to name, something warm and restless that had existed since the masquerade and had only grown more troublesome since their marriage.
She could remember his mouth against hers with humiliating clarity, and she hated that the memory returned whenever he stood too close. She hated even more that she did not truly wish it away.
Pierce leaned back slightly, studying her. "You are smiling."
"I am not."
"You are."
Margaret tried to suppress it. "I am amused by your extraordinary humility."
"You are amused because you enjoy arguing with me."
She looked directly into his eyes. "Perhaps I do."
Something shifted in his expression, and Margaret's heart gave an inconvenient leap.
She rose from her chair under the pretence of reaching for the wine, but Pierce stood at almost the same moment. They ended up facing one another beside the table, far closer than either had intended.
Margaret's breath caught when she realized just how tall he was, how easily he seemed to fill the space between them.
"You are doing it again," she murmured.
"Doing what?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "Standing too close."
Pierce's gaze moved briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. "You could step away."
Margaret swallowed. "So could you."
Neither moved. The silence between them seemed louder than any conversation they had shared that evening. Margaret could feel the warmth of him, could smell the faint, clean scent of soap, and her pulse seemed determined to betray every sensible thought she possessed.
"You are very stubborn," he murmured.
"So are you."
"I am worse."
"I had noticed," she said.
His mouth curved slightly, and the sight nearly undid her. Margaret lifted her chin in defiance, though she was no longer certain whether she was challenging him or herself.
"If you are waiting for me to retreat, Your Grace, you shall be disappointed."
"I was not waiting," Pierce said, his eyes fixed upon hers. "I was wondering whether you would."
For one suspended moment, Margaret thought he might kiss her. She could almost feel the memory of their previous kiss returning, and every instinct urged her to close the tiny distance between them.
Instead, the servants entered with the second course. Pierce drew a slow breath and sat back down.
Margaret immediately missed the warmth.
"That," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady, "was probably sensible."
"Almost certainly," he replied.
She sat down and looked at him suspiciously. "You sound disappointed."
Pierce picked up his wineglass, his expression once again unreadable. "I did not say that."
"No," Margaret murmured, "You merely looked it."
For once, Pierce had no clever answer. And Margaret found that silence far more dangerous than any argument
* * *
That night, Margaret could not sleep. She had tried everything sensible, including reading, closing her eyes, counting the hours until morning, and telling herself that a duchess ought to possess enough dignity not to lie awake thinking about her husband.
None of it worked. Ever since she had met Pierce, there had been something inside her that felt unfinished, some restless dissatisfaction she could neither name nor understand, and she had decided that the simplest explanation was…
I dislike him very much. He's stubborn. He's arrogant, and he has an infuriating habit of looking at me as though he knows precisely what I am thinking.
With a huff of annoyance, Margaret abandoned her bed and slipped into the corridor in her dressing gown, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders as she wandered through the unfamiliar house.
A glass of warm milk will help me sleep. I hope.
Ravenfield still did not feel like home; every corridor seemed too grand, every portrait too watchful, and every shadow reminded her that she was now living in a place belonging to a man she scarcely understood.
As she passed another corridor, she noticed a thin line of golden light beneath a door that was half ajar.
She hesitated when she recognized it as Pierce's study, then took one step closer before deciding she ought to leave him to his privacy.
"If you intend to linger there, you may as well come inside," Pierce called from within, startling her so thoroughly that she nearly jumped.
She pushed the door open and found him seated behind his desk, a glass of brandy beside one hand and several letters spread before him.
"I was not lingering," Margaret protested as she entered, closing the door behind her.
Pierce lifted his gaze from the page and studied her with an expression that was far too knowing. "You were standing outside my door," he replied, reaching for his glass. "That qualifies as lingering."
Margaret folded her arms. "I was deciding whether you were worth disturbing."
His mouth curved faintly. "You should know by now that I would have heard you eventually."
She frowned. "I was perfectly quiet."
"You were," he agreed, taking a slow sip. "But I could recognize your scent."
The words should have been entirely innocent, yet they sent a strange shiver down Margaret's spine. She suddenly became painfully conscious of the fact that they were alone in a darkened room, with only the fire and a few lamps illuminating Pierce's broad figure behind the desk.
Then she saw it. His gaze moved from her face down her body, and she remembered that she was in her very thin night dress and the shawl had fallen down her shoulders, revealing to much.
She pulled the shawl tighter and cleared her throat.
"That is a rather unsettling thing to say," she managed, moving farther into the room.
"I thought you preferred absolute honesty?" he said.
"I do."
His mismatched eyes lingered on her. "That was honest."
Margaret was not convinced. She touched the edge of a chair and tried to compose herself and shift the subject. "What are those letters?"
Pierce's expression changed at once, becoming guarded. "It is not your burden."
Margaret's brows rose. "I am your wife. Surely I am permitted to know what keeps my husband awake at this hour."
"Not everything that concerns me needs to concern you."
She glanced at the papers again. "Are they about Hugh?"
The question silenced him for a moment before he gave a reluctant nod.
Margaret's curiosity sharpened. "How long has Hugh been here?"
Pierce leaned back in his chair, his fingers tightening around the glass. "Not long. A few weeks"
Her eyes widened. "Then where was he before that?"
Pierce looked towards the fire, and something in his expression made Margaret's teasing disappear.
"I do not know."
She stared at him. "You do not know?"