Chapter 7 #2
Harrowby scoffed. "That is exile."
"Yes." Pierce's expression did not change. "Your choices are exile or prison. I thought presenting them plainly might save us both time."
Harrowby glared at him. "You believe yourself very powerful, do you not?"
"I am a duke," Pierce replied. "It would be rather inconvenient if I were not."
For several seconds, Harrowby said nothing. Pierce watched the conflict move across his face, amusement replaced by resentment, resentment by calculation.
At last, with a bitter expression, Harrowby dropped into the chair and seized the quill. "You will regret this."
"Possibly," Pierce said. "But I doubt it."
Harrowby dipped the quill into the ink and signed the deed with a hand that shook with fury.
Pierce waited until the final stroke was complete before taking the document.
He examined the signature carefully. The relief was quiet but profound.
One obstacle between Margaret and her freedom had finally disappeared.
Harrowby rose, but he paused before reaching the door. "Do you believe you are better than me because you are a duke?" he asked, turning back.
Pierce looked at him. "No."
Harrowby seemed almost disappointed by the answer.
"You have already decided what Margaret thinks of me," Pierce continued. "So perhaps you would like to share it."
A bitter smile crossed Harrowby's face. "To her, you are merely another villain. She hates men. She will never warm your bed willingly."
Pierce's jaw tightened, though he refused to allow the remark to show its effect.
The image of Margaret flashed through his mind, spirited, furious, flushed, standing in the library and insisting that she would flee the moment anyone attempted to take away her freedom.
She was nothing like the meek bride Harrowby seemed to imagine.
Abandonment. Her threats are clear.
"I have felt like a villain for quite some time," Pierce said quietly. "You are hardly telling me anything new."
Harrowby gave a humourless laugh. "Then perhaps you deserve each other."
"I suspect," Pierce replied, "that Margaret deserves considerably better than either of us."
Harrowby stared at him, apparently unable to determine whether Pierce was mocking him. Finally, he gave an irritated bow and left the room.
The door closed behind him.
Pierce remained still for several moments, staring at the place where the man had stood. He should have felt triumphant. Instead, he felt only tired. There had been too much darkness surrounding Margaret already, too many men deciding what was best for her without asking what she wanted.
He had no intention of becoming another one.
At least, that was what he told himself as he looked down at the signed deed.
Now Harrowby was gone. Margaret was free.
Pierce remained irritated long after Harrowby had departed. The man's smug face had lingered in his mind like an unpleasant stain, and Pierce had little patience for people who mistook entitlement for principle.
He made his way upstairs to the nursery, deciding that Hugh was the only person in the house who might improve his mood without asking questions.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Norris greeted him.
Pierce approached the child. "Dress him. I am taking him into the gardens."
Mrs. Norris glanced towards the wardrobe, then back at him with an expression that Pierce did not particularly like. "There is a small difficulty, Your Grace."
"What difficulty?"
"He has nothing suitable to wear."
Pierce frowned. "What do you mean?"
Mrs. Norris opened the wardrobe doors. Inside hung the few garments Hugh had arrived in, all of them simple child gowns that had clearly been chosen for necessity rather than fashion. Pierce stared at them as though they had personally offended him. "Those are all he has?"
"I am afraid so."
He looked down at his son, who was kicking happily beneath his blankets, entirely unaware of the catastrophe occurring around him.
Pierce felt a wave of mortification. He had inherited one of the largest estates in England, possessed servants for nearly every conceivable task, and could acquire almost anything money could purchase within a few hours.
Yet his son did not possess a proper outfit.
"See?" Pierce said grimly. "I am not fit to be a father. I have already failed him. How could I forget something as simply as clothing?"
Mrs. Norris opened her mouth, but Pierce was already turning towards the door. "Send a note to the seamstress at once. Have her come here immediately. Tell her I will pay double for a rush charge. And move the interviews for the nanny to tomorrow morning."
"Yes, Your Grace," Mrs Norris replied, apparently deciding that this was not the moment to argue. She hurried from the nursery, and Pierce heard her calling for a footman before she had even reached the corridor.
Pierce looked down at Hugh. "Apparently your father is incapable of anticipating basic requirements."
Hugh responded by smiling.
Pierce sighed. "Do not encourage me."
A few minutes later, unable to wait any longer, Pierce lifted his son and carried him downstairs.
He wrapped Hugh securely in a soft blanket, ignoring the possibility that someone might object to the arrangement.
The gardens were quiet in the afternoon, and the moment they stepped outside, a mild breeze moved through the trees.
"There you go," Pierce murmured, adjusting the blanket around the child's shoulders. "A little sunshine."
Hugh looked towards the light and made a delighted sound.
Pierce watched him with unexpected tenderness. He had spent his entire life ensuring that everything under his control was ordered, prepared, and accounted for. Yet he had overlooked something as simple as clothing. It was a ridiculous failure, but the guilt it produced felt disproportionate.
I had not known Hugh existed until days ago. I had not known what he liked, what frightened him, what comforted him.
There was so much Pierce did not know.
For the first time, he understood that being Hugh's father was not something he could simply organize into existence. It was something he would have to learn.
Pierce looked down at his son and tightened the blanket gently.
"I shall do better," he promised quietly. "I give you my word