Chapter 14 #2
He shook his head slowly. "He was brought to me. I was told he was my son. I have spent the time since trying to establish where he came from, who cared for him, and what truly happened to his mother."
Margaret looked at the letters scattered across the desk. "And you thought these might tell you something."
"I hoped they might," he admitted. "I have people searching. I have questioned servants, investigated travelers, traced names, and followed every lead I could find."
He gave a humorless smile. "So far, the trail has been remarkably determined to lead nowhere."
Margaret moved closer to the desk and looked at him more carefully. The late hour had softened something in Pierce. It could have been the brandy, exhaustion, or simply that the burden he carried had simply become too heavy for him to conceal.
"No wonder Hugh cries," she said quietly. "Everything is still new to him. His surroundings, the servants, the people who care for him. Maybe even his own memories frighten him. He is used to the people that have been raising him, only to be torn from them."
Pierce's gaze returned to her. "He does cry frequently. I admit the thought he understands he's in an unfamiliar place never crossed my mind."
"He needs patience rather than rules."
His brow rose. "You have mentioned that before."
"And you have ignored it before."
A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "The dinner was meant to be an olive branch for my rigid behavior."
Margaret looked at him with disbelief. "Was it?"
"I thought it was." He lifted his glass. "Apparently, we are not meant to get along."
She laughed softly. "With your attitude, we certainly cannot."
Pierce's eyebrows rose. "My attitude?"
"Yes, yours." Margaret gestured towards him. "You speak as though every conversation is an order waiting to be obeyed."
"And you speak as though every order is a personal invitation to disobey."
"Well, maybe that is because you make obedience so dreadfully unattractive," she said.
Pierce actually laughed, a low sound that seemed strangely unfamiliar in the solemn study.
Margaret stared at him, surprised by how much she liked the sound. "You could be gentler," she added, quieter now.
His amusement faded as he studied her. "Gentleness… has never been encouraged in this house. "
Margaret remembered Mrs. Norris's words and felt a pang of sympathy. "It should have been."
Pierce looked down at his glass. "Maybe."
For several seconds neither spoke, and Margaret realized that this was the first time he had offered her even the smallest vulnerability beneath the armor he wore.
"You should be asleep," she said.
"You should take your own advice," Pierce said. "Margaret."
She turned. "Yes?"
His gaze lingered on her. His eyes roamed over her body. She felt the fabric clinging to her skin, aware of how little was between her skin and his presence. For one breathless moment she wondered whether he might say something that would change everything between them.
Is he going to kiss me? Will he ravish me right here?
Instead, he merely said, "Would you like a drink to help you sleep?"
She smiled faintly. "Yes, Pierce."
She watched him cross the room. Margaret pressed one hand against her chest and frowned at her racing heart. Maybe she had been wrong. Perhaps the thing inside her that felt unfinished had nothing to do with dislike at all, and that possibility was considerably more frightening
He reached for the decanter and poured a measure into a glass before crossing the room towards her.
The firelight caught the hard lines of his face as he approached, softening them only slightly, and Margaret found herself staring before she could stop herself.
He was undeniably handsome in a rugged, rather intimidating fashion, with broad shoulders, black hair, and those impossible eyes that seemed even more striking in the dimness of the study.
His cravat was untied and hung loose from his neck.
Pierce held out the glass. "You look as though you have discovered something interesting," he remarked, his mouth curving with amusement. "See something you like?"
Margaret nearly choked on her own breath. "Of course not," she replied quickly, taking the glass from him. "I was merely thinking that…that the fire needs tending."
His eyebrow rose. "The fire?"
"Yes. It looks rather neglected, and there is a chill in here."
With that, she saw his eyes shift to her breasts. She knew that, without question, her nipples were protruding from the thin fabric. A blush rose on her cheeks.
"I see." His expression suggested he knew exactly what he meant by that.
He walked past her and put another log on the fire before settling himself upon the large chaise lounge near the hearth.
After a moment, he glanced towards the empty space beside him. "Are you going to stand there all evening?"
Margaret hesitated before crossing the room and sitting next to him. The chaise was large enough to keep a respectable distance between them, though somehow she remained acutely aware of him. Pierce leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the seat, and took another sip of his brandy.
"You are very quiet," he observed.
"I am drinking."
"You manage to argue while drinking perfectly well."
Margaret glanced sideways at him. "I am tired."
"Tired but unable to sleep," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her for a moment too long.
She looked down at her glass, suddenly fascinated by it. Being alone with Pierce was becoming increasingly exciting because she was beginning to discover how much she enjoyed being near him.
And that is a far more troublesome problem than being unable to sleep. So why do I not return to my room?