Chapter 18 #2
“You should know that I do not cast judgment over your family.”
“In the same way that I would not cast it over you, and yet…”
There was quiet for a moment, the sound from the ballroom a low hum against the crickets outside.
“I went to your house,” she continued. “You were absent. And when you were there, a name was spoken as though I should know it. I was left to wonder what I do not know. I do not require every detail of your day, but I do require assurance that I am not being positioned without understanding the ground beneath me.”
His thumb moved unconsciously against the curve of her waist, as though he had forgotten his hand still rested there.
“I have never meant to place you in uncertainty,” he said, his voice having lowered further. “What remains unsaid will be said.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
She searched his face, looking for evasion. She did not find it.
“That is not what troubles me most,” she said, surprising herself.
“Then tell me.”
“I mind that I care.”
The words hung in the air between them.
“I mind that your absence unsettled me. I mind that I watched the door tonight.”
The honesty left her breath uneven. He did not smile, nor did he look triumphant. His expression shifted into something far more dangerous. His hand rose from her waist then, slowly, deliberately, as though giving her every opportunity to step away. She did not. His fingers brushed her cheek.
“Do you believe you stand alone in that feeling?” he asked, voice roughened at the edges.
“I do not know what you feel,” she answered. “That is my issue.”
His thumb traced lightly along her cheekbone, and she shuddered. It was difficulty to hold firm when she was melting beneath his touch.
“I have never watched a door before,” he said. “I must say, I find it most endearing that you did.”
The night seemed to narrow around them. Her fingers moved before she considered them, curling instinctively into the fabric of his sleeve. The contact grounded her even as it unsteadied her. The music inside swelled into another set. Laughter rose and fell beyond the doors.
His forehead lowered slightly, almost touching hers; close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath.
Neither moved away. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
His hand remained at her face, thumb resting just below her eye.
She could feel the steadiness he tried to maintain. If she lifted her chin a fraction…
He paused, searching her expression for refusal. There was none. The space between them thinned to almost nothing, but then–
Footsteps sounded against the stone just beyond the terrace doors. A pair of guests drifted into view, laughing as they stepped outside for air. Nathaniel’s hand fell away at once. Margaret released his sleeve.
But it was already too late.
She felt it before she saw it– the shift in the air, the sharp stillness that came so suddenly. The terrace doors stood open behind them. Several guests had stepped out seeking air.
They had stopped, frozen. Nathaniel’s hand still rested against her waist. Her body stood close enough to his that any explanation would sound absurd. The intimacy between them was unmistakable, not to mention the clear possession it suggested.
Someone drew in a breath. Whispers ignited with frightening speed, passing from one pair of lips to the next before the doors had even swung wider. A woman’s fan stilled mid-motion. A gentleman stared too long before remembering to look away.
Margaret stepped back as though she had been burned.
The space between her and Nathaniel widened in an instant, though it changed nothing.
The image had already formed in their minds.
The Duke swore under his breath, low and sharp.
His jaw tightened, eyes sweeping the small audience with a look that should have driven them back. It did not. They had what they needed.
The music inside continued, grotesquely cheerful. More guests appeared at the threshold, drawn by the sudden hush. They saw enough; her proximity, his expression, and the distance that had only just been created.
Margaret felt heat surge to her face, then drain away entirely. This would spread. Not the day after, but in that very moment. She heard her name spoken, too soft to catch fully, yet clear in intent. Nathaniel stepped slightly toward her, lowering his voice.
“Margaret–”
She shook her head, panic rising faster than reason.
“No.”
He reached for her again, whether to steady her or shield her she could not tell. She moved beyond his reach.
“I must find my family.”
“Listen to me.”
“There is nothing to listen to.”
Her voice trembled despite her effort. The guests began retreating inward, eager to carry what they had witnessed back into the ballroom.
Laughter resumed in fragments, and Margaret turned and walked swiftly toward the doors.
She refused to run. She would not give them that.
Inside, conversation faltered as she crossed the threshold.
Heads turned, fans lifted, and eyes tracked her every move.
She saw Poppy first. Her sister stood near the edge of the floor, confusion plain upon her face.
“Margaret?”
Emily stood beside her, expression already darkening as she read the room.
“Where is Mama?” Margaret asked.
“With Mrs. Ellsworth,” Emily answered, gaze sharp. “What has happened?”
“We are leaving.”
Poppy blinked.
“But the next dance is–”
“We are leaving,” Margaret repeated, more firmly.
Emily’s eyes flicked past her toward the terrace doors, where Nathaniel now stood framed in candlelight, speaking tersely to a gentleman who had clearly approached him with interest. Understanding dawned.
“What did they see?” Emily asked quietly.
“Enough.”
Lady Fairleigh approached at that moment, her composure intact though her eyes searched Margaret’s face.
“Margaret, what is the matter?”
“We must go home,” Margaret said. “Immediately.”
Lady Fairleigh looked beyond her, toward the direction of the terrace. She saw the glances. Her mouth thinned.
“Very well,” she said.
Poppy looked from one face to another, confusion deepening.
“But I have been having the best time.”
Margaret took her hand. The guilt was thick in her throat, for there was no excusing the fact that she had ruined her sister’s evening.
“Trust me.”
That stilled her. Within minutes they were moving toward the exit, their departure noticed by far more people than their arrival had been. Conversations quieted as they passed. No one spoke openly. They did not need to.
Margaret did not look toward the Duke again, but she felt his gaze follow her. The night air struck her lungs sharply as they stepped outside. The carriage was called for with haste, and Lady Fairleigh maintained her posture until the door closed behind them. Only then did she turn to Margaret.
“What occurred?” she asked, voice controlled.
Margaret stared at her gloved hands.
“We were seen,” she said.
Emily’s jaw tightened. Poppy’s eyes widened.
“Seen how?” Lady Fairleigh pressed.
Margaret swallowed. It was dreadful having to say it in front of her sisters, but she knew it was best that they heard it from her, rather than the rest of the ton.
“Closely.”
Silence fell heavy inside the carriage. Margaret felt only the echo of the moment; the warmth of his hand, the near certainty of a kiss, and the instant it had transformed into something dangerous.
By morning, London would have decided what it believed had happened, and belief was often more powerful than truth.
Regardless of what that truth was, it had ruined her.