Chapter 22
Margaret settled Hugh into his cot and lingered beside him long after his eyelids had fallen shut.
His little fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, his cheeks rosy from the warmth of the nursery, and the sight of him filled her with a tenderness she had never expected to feel for a child who was not her own by blood.
Yet somehow, he has found his way into the deepest corner of my heart.
"Sleep well, darling," she whispered, smoothing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You have exhausted me for the day, and I shall have to blame your father for teaching you such stubbornness."
Behind her, the nanny gave a quiet laugh. "I shall watch over him, Your Grace," the nanny assured her, stepping towards the cot.
Margaret smiled and nodded. "Thank you. He is becoming quite fond of you, which is fortunate, because I should like to retain some energy for dinner."
She gave Hugh one last affectionate glance before leaving the nursery, closing the door gently behind her. The moment she stepped into the corridor, however, her thoughts returned to the matter she had been trying desperately not to consider.
Pierce.
Margaret stopped outside the library and stared at the closed doors as though they had personally offended her.
She remembered his hands at her waist the previous evening, the sudden heat of his kiss, the way her heart had seemed to forget its proper rhythm whenever he came too close.
She could still remember the firmness of his mouth against hers, and the memory sent an entirely unwelcome shiver through her.
"Oh, this is ridiculous," she muttered, pressing her fingertips to her warm cheeks. "He is arrogant, impossible, infuriating, and entirely too pleased with himself. There is no reason whatsoever for me to be thinking about his lips." Or his voice. Or his hands.
Unfortunately, her mind offered several reasons, none of which she wished to hear.
She hurried away from the library and wandered through the house in search of something, anything, that might occupy her thoughts.
Ravenfield House was grand enough to provide distractions for a lifetime, yet she discovered that Pierce had somehow managed to make every corridor remind her of him.
His books filled the library. His portraits decorated the halls.
Even the stern-looking grandfather clock seemed to possess his particular air of disapproval.
Margaret sighed as she passed it. "Do not look at me like that," she told the clock. "I have married the duke. I need not be scolded by his furniture as well."
Then she noticed an empty vase resting upon a console table. Margaret stopped. She stared at it. Then she looked at another.
"Empty."
A third stood near the staircase, equally devoid of flowers. Margaret's mouth fell open in genuine disbelief. "What sort of house has no flowers?" she demanded, and the question was apparently loud enough to summon Mrs. Norris from the adjoining corridor.
"Is something the matter, Your Grace?" the housekeeper asked, approaching with concern.
Margaret pointed accusingly at the vase. "Why are all the vases empty?"
Mrs. Norris followed her gaze and seemed almost puzzled by the question. "His Grace has never seen much purpose in flowers indoors, Your Grace. He prefers the gardens."
Margaret stared at her. "He does not see a need for flowers?"
"No, Your Grace."
"Does he also believe sunshine is an unnecessary extravagance?"
Mrs. Norris pressed her lips together, evidently attempting not to smile. "His Grace is rather practical."
"He is positively tragic," Margaret declared, turning towards the empty vase again. "There is a baby in this house now. Babies require cheerful things. Flowers, sunshine, music, laughter. One cannot expect Hugh to grow up surrounded by empty vases and stern portraits."
Mrs. Norris's eyes brightened. "What would you like me to do?"
Margaret straightened with purpose. "Find the gardeners. I want shears and a basket. I will bring flowers into every room where they will not be destroyed by an inquisitive child, and I want fresh arrangements every few days. If His Grace objects, he may come and argue with me personally."
"I believe he may do exactly that."
"Excellent," Margaret replied. "It will give him something else to be unreasonable about."
By the following morning, Margaret's flower project had become the talk of the household. Fresh daisies and roses appeared in the drawing room, delicate lilies brightened the breakfast room, and bunches of lavender scented the corridors.
Even the library received a modest arrangement, though Margaret privately admitted that the flowers looked rather magnificent against Pierce's dark shelves. She refused to think about him whenever she entered the room, which naturally meant she thought about him immediately.
Her favorite part of the project, however, was Hugh.
She carried him through the halls that morning, pointing out each new arrangement as though he were an important patron of the arts.
"Look at those, darling," she said, holding him securely against her as he reached towards a cluster of roses. "Those are roses. Very pretty, but you must not pull them. They have thorns, and I should hate for you to discover that lesson personally."
Hugh made an excited little sound and waved his hands.
Margaret laughed. "Yes, I know. Your opinion has been noted."
She took him into the garden afterwards, where the morning sun poured over the lawns.
Hugh's face brightened almost immediately, and Margaret settled beneath a tree with him resting comfortably against her.
"There you are," she murmured, kissing his temple. "Sunshine, flowers, and fresh air. I know how to arrange a proper morning."
She had married Pierce for practical reasons.
He had needed a mother for Hugh, and she had needed freedom from Harrowby.
That was all. Their arrangement had been sensible, mutually beneficial and, above all, temporary in spirit, even if the marriage itself was permanent.
She ought to be grateful for his help, respectful of his position and entirely indifferent to the broad shoulders beneath his immaculate coats.
Instead, she had developed the absurd habit of noticing his shoulders.
And his hands. And his voice.
Especially his voice when he lowered it and spoke as though the rest of the world had disappeared.
Margaret sighed and watched Hugh pat enthusiastically at a rose bush from the safety of her arms. "You must not grow up to be like your father," she told him solemnly. "One overbearing man in this household is quite enough."
Hugh answered with a delighted babble.
"Precisely," she said, nodding gravely. "I knew you would understand."
Yet even as she teased the child, an uncomfortable thought crept into her mind.
Pierce is not quite as heartless as I had first believed.
I have seen glimpses of something beneath his stern exterior: the way he holds Hugh when he thought no one was watching, the regret in his expression when he realized how much of his son's childhood he had missed, the unexpected tenderness in his voice when speaking to me.
He could be infuriating, certainly. He could be controlling, arrogant, and so rigid that she sometimes wanted to throw one of his precious rule books into the fire.
But cruel? Why did Augusta flee if he were not cruel at all?
She was no longer certain. That uncertainty was far more intriguing than dislike.
Because if Pierce truly were a villain, Margaret could have protected herself quite easily.
She could have kept her heart guarded, performed her duties, and maintained a respectable distance.
But if there was kindness hidden beneath all that severity, if there was loneliness beneath his pride, then she found herself wanting to know him.
And wanting to know Pierce was precisely the sort of foolishness that led women into trouble.
She remembered their conversation. For once, he had not seemed like the Duke of Ravenfield. He had simply seemed like a man who had spent his entire life being told what he ought to be and had forgotten that he was allowed to be something else.
She looked down at Hugh, who had become distracted by a butterfly drifting across the lawn. "You are the reason I must remain sensible," she whispered, brushing a kiss against his soft hair. "Your father is entirely too distracting."
Hugh squealed and reached for the butterfly.
Margaret laughed. "Yes, I know. Apparently you disagree."
She carried him back towards the house, determined to occupy herself with something useful. Yet as she passed beneath the tall windows, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass and stopped.
She looked different. Not physically. That was not it. There was something in her expression that had not been there before she came to Ravenfield.
Something softer. Something hopeful.
Margaret frowned at herself. "No," she whispered firmly. "Absolutely not."
She was not falling for Pierce. She barely knew the man. Besides, he was impossible.
She did not notice the figure standing at an upper window.
* * *
Pierce had returned earlier than expected and had stopped when he saw them below.
From a distance, he watched Margaret carry Hugh from flower to flower, speaking to him with endless patience and amusement.
He watched his son reach for her face and heard Margaret laugh when Hugh caught a strand of her hair.
Pierce remained there longer than he intended.
Margaret knew nothing of it. She simply smiled at Hugh and held him closer, utterly unaware that the man who had once believed flowers useless was beginning to wonder whether the entire house had been missing something until she arrived.
He moved away from the window and walked down the corridor, determined to push her out of his mind.
Then he stopped. "Daisies?"
The flowers in the vase had seemed to come out of nowhere. He had never seen a reason to put flowers in the vases. Now they seemed to be on every corner.
"This woman," he sighed.