Chapter 9
Pierce had long ago discovered that sleep was an unreliable companion, particularly when his mind had been given a problem it could not immediately solve.
Tonight, the problem is Margaret.
The irony was not lost upon him that he created this problem.
He sat behind the broad mahogany desk in his study, the lamps burning low while correspondence lay scattered before him, though he had been reading the same paragraph for nearly ten minutes without absorbing a word.
Tomorrow I will marry her. Tomorrow the woman who had first appeared before me dressed as Flora would become the Duchess of Ravenfield, and I still could not decide whether the prospect pleases me or threatens the careful order of my existence.
A knock sounded at the door.
Pierce looked up. "Enter."
His butler stepped inside and bowed. "Your Grace, I beg your pardon, but there is an unexpected lady visitor."
At this hour? Pierce's first thought was that one of his former mistresses had chosen an inconvenient moment to remember him. He had no patience for such interruptions tonight.
"A lady?" he asked, his brows drawing together. "Did she give her name?"
"She did, Your Grace. Lady Margaret Wilmore."
Pierce went still.
For one brief moment, an entirely different possibility occurred to him.
Perhaps she had come to tell him that now Harrowby's claim had been destroyed, she no longer intended to marry him.
He could hardly blame her if that was the case.
In a world filled with people who avoided their duties whenever they became inconvenient, why should Margaret be different?
He had expected resistance from her from the beginning, and perhaps this was merely the final act of rebellion.
"Send her in," he said.
The butler withdrew, and moments later Margaret entered the study.
She wore a dark cloak over her dress, her hood pushed back to reveal dark hair and those striking eyes that always seemed to carry more fire than she realized.
She looked determined, though there was a trace of uncertainty beneath it, and Pierce found himself staring longer than propriety permitted.
"We need to talk," she announced, closing the door behind her.
Pierce leaned back in his chair. "So I gather."
He remembered another night, another woman wearing a mask and walking boldly into a room full of gentlemen.
She had asked for a kiss, declaring that the more scandalous it was, the better.
He had thought her reckless then. Now, looking at Margaret standing in his study in the middle of the night, he realized that recklessness might simply be one of the qualities he found most difficult to resist. His gaze moved down her creamy neck to her décolletage where her plump breasts pressed against the low neckline of her dress.
Desire stirred within him. This moment had nothing to do with duty.
I want her. Right here. Right now on my desk.
The knowledge was inconveniently clear as he thought about hiking up her dress and getting between her thighs.
Pierce rose and crossed the room in order to distract himself, watching as Margaret's expression became slightly more guarded.
I know she believes me capable of being a villain. Perhaps I ought to make use of that reputation. If she already thinks me dangerous, there's little reason to disappoint her.
He moved behind her and whispered in ear, lingering above her shoulder. "Have you come to get yourself ruined again?" he asked, his voice deliberately low.
She gasped. "What?"
He moved to her other shoulder and continued. His voice thick with lust. "Perhaps you have decided that one threatened marriage was not enough."
Margaret's eyes widened. "I have not."
"Pity. I could ruin you quite efficiently, you know. And still marry you tomorrow," he said.
"Your Grace…" was all she could say. He watched as her chest heaved up and down as her breath grew.
He smirked and circled around her. He stood directly before her. "Is that why you've come? To sample the good before you commit to buying them?"
Before she could respond, he placed his hands lightly around her waist. Margaret inhaled sharply.
Pierce felt the reaction beneath his palms and had to summon considerable restraint. She was warm beneath the fabric of her dress, and the proximity between them made every sensible thought considerably more difficult. Her cheeks flushed, precisely as he had hoped they would.
"You are… you are being inappropriate," she whispered.
"I am? You shouldn’t at my door unchaperoned at this late hour. I am only reading the signs you are giving me, Lady Margaret."
"No. I did not mean to… that is… I," she fumbled her words. He gave her a gloating grin. "You are enjoying this," she narrowed her eyes at him.
"Immensely," he allowed his gaze to travel from her lips to her breasts in the most obvious fashion.
Margaret seemed to have forgotten whatever speech she had rehearsed during the carriage ride. Her eyes moved from his eyes to his mouth and back again, and Pierce caught the movement immediately. His pulse quickened.
Does she want me as well?
The realization was intoxicating. Yet Margaret suddenly cleared her throat and stepped backwards, breaking the contact between them.
"We agreed," she said, trying to recover her composure, "that such things would not be part of our marriage."
Pierce lowered his hands. "We agreed to many things."
"And that was one of them, do you not remember?" she huffed.
"I remember," he sighed and leaned back against his desk. He crossed his legs at the ankle and folded his arms.
"Then behave accordingly," she said.
He regarded her for several seconds. "Do you remember that you are coming to my house at midnight? Do you remember you offered to commit scandal at my ball?"
Her cheeks deepened in color. "That is not the same thing."
"No?" His mouth curved slightly. "You might wish to explain the distinction."
Margaret glared at him. "I came because there is something important I need to discuss."
"Very well, I am listening," he said.
She hesitated.
Pierce noticed that her gaze lingered upon his lips again before she forced herself to look away.
His restraint was beginning to feel like a physical burden.
His hands tightened into fists in the folds of his arms to stop them from reaching out for her again.
He had spent years convincing himself that desire was something he could indulge without consequence, but Margaret made that philosophy dangerously inadequate.
She was not one of the women he had once sought merely to distract himself from grief.
She was the woman who would be his wife in the morning.
And he wanted her. Far more than was sensible. Far more than he intended.
Margaret drew a breath. "I came to see Hugh."
Pierce's expression changed at once. All thoughts of desire fled his body in a rush.
"Hugh?" he stood up straight.
"I realized that if I am to become his mother tomorrow, I should meet him properly tonight."
For a moment, the heat between them was replaced by something quieter. Pierce studied her face, searching for any indication that she had come merely from obligation.
"You came all this way," he said slowly, "in the middle of the night, because you wanted to meet my son?"
Margaret nodded. Pierce felt something unexpectedly warm move through his chest.
"Yes," she said.
"Yes," he said at last. "Then I believe you have chosen an excellent reason to visit."
"Indeed I have. I came because I wanted to meet the baby who will soon become my son and in truth it should have been arranged far sooner."
Something in Pierce's expression softened before he could prevent it, and the corner of his mouth lifted as he replied, "You are a walking contradiction, Goddess Flora. Bold enough to provoke an entire room of gentlemen, yet gentle enough to worry about a little boy you have never met."
Margaret shrugged, though he noticed the faint color in her cheeks. "This was our agreement. I gave you my word."
Pierce found himself genuinely impressed by the simplicity of her answer.
It has apparently never occurred to her that, now Harrowby's contract has been destroyed, she could simply walk away from me and reclaim her freedom.
Most women would seize such an opportunity, particularly when the alternative is marrying a stranger as intimidating as myself, yet Margaret has come to Ravenfield in the middle of the night because she has decided she ought to meet the child who would soon become hers.
It was a remarkable gesture, and for one dangerous moment Pierce felt the inclination to lower his guard.
He crushed it almost immediately.
People reveal their true colors with time, and I have learned that lesson too thoroughly to forget it simply because a spirited woman with dark eyes has touched my heart for one second.
"Very well," he said, moving towards the door and gesturing for her to follow. "Come along, Goddess."
Margaret fell into step beside him as they proceeded through the quiet corridors of Ravenfield House, and Pierce became acutely aware of the soft sound of her footsteps behind him.
The house was silent at that hour, the servants having retired to their quarters, while the lamps cast warm pools of light across the dark Georgian panelling.
He glanced back and found Margaret examining her surroundings with undisguised curiosity.
"Are you disappointed?" he asked, slowing his pace.
"About what?" she asked, looking at him.
"I had assumed a woman who arrived at a gentleman's house after midnight might be expecting something more exciting." His tone was deliberately provocative, and he was rewarded when her lips twitched.
"You seem terribly concerned with what I expect from you," Margaret replied.
"I prefer to know what my future wife expects."
"You have not married me yet," she said.
"Tomorrow."
She gave him a suspicious look. "You sound entirely too pleased about that."
"I am not certain whether pleased is the word."
"Liar," she said, and Pierce laughed quietly.