Chapter 23 #2
His mind went instead to dark eyes, loose dark hair, and a woman who possessed the astonishing ability to argue with him until he forgot why he had been angry in the first place.
Margaret had somehow become the measure against which every other woman seemed to fall short, and Pierce found the realization both inconvenient and deeply unsettling.
He exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand over his jaw.
"What have you done to me, Duchess?" he muttered, though there was no one present to hear him.
The carriage rolled through the streets, carrying him home, and Pierce realized with some astonishment that he was looking forward to seeing her.
Not merely because she was his wife, nor because she was the mother of Hugh, nor because she had become an increasingly fascinating complication in his carefully ordered life. He wanted Margaret herself.
That is the dangerous part.
For the first time in years, debauchery held no appeal.
He did not want another woman’s attention, another flirtation, another meaningless night.
He wanted to walk through his own front door and find his wife there.
He wanted to hear her laugh, provoke her into another argument, watch her with Hugh, and earn one of those rare smiles she gave him when she forgot she was supposed to be annoyed with him.
And furthermore…
I want her in my bed.
Pierce frowned at the thought.
This was precisely the sort of development he had spent his entire life avoiding.
He had once believed attachment was a weakness. Now he was beginning to suspect that Margaret had quietly become one of the few things in the world he could not imagine willingly surrendering.
And he was not entirely certain whether that frightened him more than it pleased him.
I am getting too close. I must leave Ravenfield for a while. I have made my decision.
* * *
Margaret sat alone in the drawing room with a glass of port balanced delicately between her fingers, listening to the grandfather clock count out the minutes.
Hugh had gone to bed some time ago, and she had been assured that he was settled comfortably, which left only one matter to occupy her thoughts: Pierce was due to return, and they were supposed to dine together.
She told herself she was merely waiting because it was the polite thing to do. It certainly had nothing to do with the peculiar flutter in her stomach at the thought of seeing him again.
When a sudden commotion sounded in the hall, Margaret nearly spilled her drink. She sprang to her feet and hurried towards the looking glass above the mantel, then immediately wondered what possessed her to behave like a nervous debutante.
She pinched color into her cheeks, smoothed the front of her gown, and hurriedly arranged a loose strand of hair that had escaped its pins.
"Good heavens, Margaret," she muttered to her reflection, narrowing her eyes at herself. "You are a duchess, not a girl waiting for her first beau."
A door closed somewhere in the hall, followed by another, and then came silence. Margaret stared towards the drawing-room entrance, her brow furrowing.
Surely that had been Pierce returning. Why has he not joined me?
She waited another moment before whispering, "Was that not the Duke?" The question received no answer, naturally, because the furniture of Ravenfield House had yet to develop the habit of conversing with her.
The door opened a moment later, and Mrs. Norris entered with an apologetic expression that Margaret immediately distrusted.
"Your Grace, His Grace has asked me to inform you that he shall be taking supper in his study this evening," the housekeeper said carefully, clasping her hands before her. "He has also requested that you dine in the dining room as usual."
Margaret felt the disappointment before she could stop it, and she hated herself for allowing it to show.
She lowered her eyes to her glass and forced her voice to remain pleasant. "Thank you for the message, Mrs. Norris."
The housekeeper curtsied and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her. Margaret remained perfectly still for several seconds, staring at the doorway as though Pierce might materialize there out of guilt alone.
He did not.
"Oh, very well," she murmured, placing her glass upon the table with considerably more force than necessary. "How perfectly charming of him."
She began pacing across the room, her slippers whispering over the carpet as her irritation grew with every circuit. He had not merely chosen to dine elsewhere; he had sent Mrs. Norris to deliver the message like some distant monarch informing his subjects of a change in royal policy.
"He cannot even tell me himself," she grumbled, waving one hand dramatically. "Apparently the Duchess of Ravenfield is not worthy of a conversation about supper."
By the fourth turn across the room, she had worked herself into a magnificent fury.
The sensible part of her mind suggested that Pierce might genuinely be busy, but Margaret had no intention of listening to that sensible part.
It had been far too reasonable lately. She had spent days trying not to provoke him, trying to respect the alterations he had made to his household rules, and trying not to think about the fact that he had kissed her and then walked away as though doing so had meant nothing.
"And now he avoids me," she declared to the empty room. "Excellent. Perfectly reasonable. Why marry a woman if one intends never to speak to her?"
The next thing she knew, she was marching through the corridor with such determination that a passing footman flattened himself against the wall to let her pass. Margaret barely noticed him. She reached Pierce’s study, pushed open the door without knocking, and strode inside.
Pierce sat behind his desk surrounded by papers, his expression dark enough to frighten lesser women. Margaret was not a lesser woman. She did not even bother with a greeting.
"Why are you avoiding me?" she demanded, planting herself before his desk. "You could not even tell me yourself that you intended to dine alone?"
Pierce slowly lifted his gaze from the document before him. "Good evening to you as well, Duchess."
"Do not mock me."
"I was not aware that speaking civilly constituted mockery." He leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable. "I have work to complete, Margaret. I had no desire to interrupt you merely to announce that I would be working."
"You could have told me."
"I have now."
"Through Mrs. Norris."
"Yes."
Margaret folded her arms. "You are impossible."
"So I have been informed, very often," he said.
"And deliberately irritating."
"Occasionally."
"And cold."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you finished?"
"No." She stepped closer to the desk. "You have been avoiding me ever since…" She stopped herself before saying the word kiss. "Ever since our last conversation."
Pierce's jaw tightened. "I have been busy."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to leave me to my work."
"Well, that is unfortunate, because I am standing here instead."
Something flickered in his eyes. Margaret recognized it immediately. It was the same dangerous spark she had seen before, the one that made her heart beat faster despite her determination to remain angry.
Pierce rose.
Margaret's confidence faltered, but she refused to step backwards. "What are you doing?"
"Attempting," he said quietly, moving around the desk, "to determine whether you came here to argue or simply to remind me that you enjoy doing so."
"I came because you were being rude."
"I see."
"You have a very irritating habit of making everything sound as though it is my fault."
"And you have a remarkable habit of making everything my fault."
They were standing far too close now. Margaret could feel the warmth of him, could smell that familiar masculine scent that had become disastrously easy for her to recognize. She lifted her chin. "If you stopped avoiding me, we would not have this problem."
Pierce's gaze dropped briefly to her lips. "Possibly."
Margaret's breath caught. "Then stop."
He looked into her eyes again, and for one suspended moment neither of them moved. Then Pierce reached for her waist and kissed her.
The anger disappeared almost instantly, replaced by the familiar rush of warmth that made Margaret forget every clever argument she had prepared. His kiss was brief but intense, enough to leave her breathless when he finally pulled away.
Margaret stared at him. "You are infuriating."
"I know."
"And that was completely unnecessary."
"I know that as well."
Before she could recover enough to argue further, Pierce stepped away, his expression once again guarded. "Goodnight, Duchess."
He turned and walked out of the study.
Margaret stood alone in the middle of the room, staring after him in disbelief.
"Goodnight?" she whispered, touching her fingertips to her lips. "He kisses me and then says goodnight?"
She shook her head slowly. "That man is going to drive me mad.”