Chapter 11
Later, Margaret stood in the quiet corridor with her father, watching wedding guests drift around the house.
The noise of the wedding breakfast had softened behind the closed doors, leaving only the occasional burst of laughter and the distant clink of silver being gathered by the servants.
For the first time all day, Margaret had a moment to breathe, and with that breath came the uncomfortable realization that she would not be returning to Lempster House that evening.
She looked at Bernard and tried to smile. "Well, I suppose this is goodbye, Papa, since I shall not be living in our home anymore."
Bernard's expression immediately softened, and he reached for her hands, enclosing them between his own.
"Marriage will never change the fact that you are my little girl," he said quietly, his voice carrying the tenderness that had always made Margaret feel safe.
"You may become a duchess, command servants, own half of London, and terrify an entire household merely by raising an eyebrow, but you shall always be my Margaret. "
She laughed despite the ache gathering in her throat, and he brushed his thumb gently over her knuckles before continuing, "And no matter where you live, I shall always make certain you are safe.
If you need me, you send for me. I do not care whether you are at Ravenfield, Scotland, or the other side of the world. "
"You would come?" Margaret asked, blinking rapidly.
"I would come," Bernard promised without hesitation. "I might complain about the journey, naturally, but I would come."
A tear slipped down Margaret's cheek before she could stop it, and she laughed softly as she wiped it away. "You are a very good father."
"I have tried to be," Bernard replied, looking almost embarrassed by the praise. "Though I have made mistakes."
Margaret stepped forward and embraced him, resting her cheek against his shoulder as she had done when she was a child. "You saved me when you could," she whispered. "That is what matters."
Bernard wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. "I love you, my dear. Never doubt that."
"I never have. I will always protect you."
The moment might have remained private had a deep voice not interrupted them from behind. "As my duchess, Lady Margaret will always be protected."
Margaret turned and found Pierce standing a few paces away, his expression composed but his eyes unexpectedly serious.
She had grown accustomed to his imposing presence, yet there were moments when he seemed even more formidable than usual, particularly when he spoke in that calm, authoritative tone that suggested the world had very little choice but to obey him.
Bernard released his daughter slowly and faced the duke.
"I shall hold you to that word, Your Grace," Bernard said, extending his hand.
Pierce took it firmly. "You may."
The two men shook hands, and Margaret watched them with a strange mixture of amusement and affection. Her father looked as though he were handing over the keys to a fortress rather than his daughter, while Pierce looked as though he had just accepted responsibility for guarding it.
"I believe," Pierce said, releasing Bernard's hand, "that my new duchess and I must speak to several people before they leave."
Margaret sighed. "Must I?"
Pierce offered his arm. "You are a duchess now. Apparently, you must do many things."
She placed her hand upon his arm. "I am beginning to regret accepting the position."
"You accepted it willingly," he said.
"I was under considerable emotional pressure," she said with her chin held high.
"Was that your excuse?" he arched a brow.
"It shall be, until I think of a better one." She playfully smiled.
Pierce's mouth twitched, and he led her towards the drawing room. As they walked, he leaned slightly towards her, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.
"Of course, I cannot guarantee that you will remain protected if you choose to flee," Pierce said.
Margaret turned her head just enough to look at him. "Then do not give me a reason to flee."
His eyes flickered towards hers, and for a moment neither spoke. Margaret felt the familiar flutter in her stomach and immediately blamed the champagne.
"You are making demands already," he murmured.
"I am making sensible requests."
"You have been married to me for less than an hour," he said.
"And already you are discovering how difficult I am."
"I had noticed the night at my party," he said.
Margaret smiled sweetly. "Good."
They entered the drawing room together, and Pierce immediately guided her towards a group of elegantly dressed guests. Margaret recognized them as the Darren family, though she had never met them personally.
Lady Darren was a tall, severe woman with an expression that suggested she had been born disappointed by everyone around her.
Beside her stood her husband and two daughters, all dressed in the latest fashions and wearing the sort of expressions Margaret associated with people who believed they were doing the room a favor merely by occupying it.
"Lady Darren," Pierce said smoothly, "allow me to introduce my wife, the Duchess of Ravenfield."
Lady Darren's eyes travelled slowly over Margaret's gown before returning to her face. "Yes," she said coolly. "I had heard."
Margaret waited. Lady Darren did not smile. Neither did Margaret.
"How fortunate," Margaret replied pleasantly. "It would have been terribly embarrassing to arrive at my own wedding without anyone knowing who I was."
One of the younger Darren daughters covered a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Pierce looked away, but Margaret caught the faint amusement in his eyes.
Lady Darren's mouth tightened. "I meant that I had heard you were from the Lempster family."
"And now you have heard correctly," Margaret said, smiling.
Pierce's hand settled lightly over hers where it rested upon his arm. The gesture was subtle, but Margaret felt its warmth immediately.
Lady Darren continued examining her with undisguised scrutiny. "I confess, Your Grace, I expected someone rather different."
Margaret tilted her head. "Taller?"
"More…"
"Dull?" Margaret offered.
Lady Darren's eyes widened. Pierce coughed. Margaret smiled innocently.
"I was going to say refined," Lady Darren replied stiffly.
"Ah." Margaret nodded thoughtfully. "Then I am afraid you shall have to give me time."
Pierce's fingers tightened slightly around hers, and Margaret suspected he was struggling not to laugh.
For the first time since arriving at Ravenfield, Margaret found herself wondering whether becoming a duchess might not be quite as dreadful as she had feared. If nothing else, she had discovered that Pierce was perfectly capable of appreciating a little rebellion.
And Margaret had every intention of giving him plenty of it
* * *
I have chosen wisely. She can hold her own under such scrutiny.
Pierce remained beside Margaret as the conversation with the Darrens continued, though his attention had gradually shifted away from Lady Darren's stiff expressions and towards his new wife.
He would not admit it to Margaret, but he had led her to Lady Darren to see how Margaret would react to her cold nature. It was a test of a Duchess' strengths.
Margaret possessed a remarkable ability to remain perfectly composed while simultaneously dismantling an insult with such graceful wit that the offender often did not realize what had happened until several moments later.
She answered questions intelligently, spoke with confidence, and never once allowed Lady Darren's haughty manner to make her retreat into silence.
Pierce found himself admiring her more with every passing minute.
She is articulate, clever, and entirely too spirited for her own good, yet she possesses enough social awareness to know precisely how far she can push before she crosses a line.
When Lady Darren finally moved on to speak with another guest, Pierce leaned slightly towards Margaret. "You appear to have survived."
Margaret looked up at him. "Was that meant to be difficult?"
"For most people, yes, but not you," he said.
She smiled. "Perhaps the Darrens were simply not as terrifying as everyone claims."
Pierce glanced after the family. "My dear, Lady Darren once made a baron apologize for the color of his waistcoat."
Margaret's eyes widened. "What color was it?"
"Yellow."
"Then perhaps the baron deserved it," she laughed.
Pierce stared at her for a moment before a reluctant smile touched his mouth. "You are bold."
"I have been told that before," she said.
He could not help admiring her. Margaret did not need him to rescue her from every uncomfortable conversation.
She could hold her own against the sharpest tongues in society, and there was something deeply satisfying about watching her do it.
Maybe that was what had first drawn him to the woman behind the Flora mask.
She had entered a room filled with men who would have intimidated most young ladies and demanded exactly what she wanted.
Now she stood among the vultures of the ton and refused to be devoured.
Pierce eventually moved through the room, accepting congratulations and exchanging polite words with acquaintances he barely remembered inviting.
The wedding breakfast continued around them in a haze of conversation, laughter, champagne, and carefully concealed curiosity.
Everyone wanted to know about his new duchess.
Everyone wanted to know how the marriage had happened so quickly.
Pierce had no intention of satisfying their curiosity, and whenever someone approached too closely with an intrusive question, one look from him generally sent them searching for someone less intimidating.
He eventually found Nathaniel near the fireplace, holding a glass of brandy and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"There you are," Nathaniel said, clapping Pierce on the shoulder. "I was beginning to wonder whether marriage had transformed you into a respectable man."
Pierce gave him a dry look. "It has not."
Nathaniel laughed. "Good. I should hate to lose my oldest companion to domestic virtue."
"There is no danger of that," Pierce replied, accepting a glass from a passing servant. "This marriage has a purpose."
"A purpose?"
"Hugh," Pierce said simply. "That is all that matters. He needs a mother, and Margaret is willing to take that role. Nothing has changed beyond that."
Nathaniel studied him over the rim of his glass. "Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Then I assume you shall continue getting your other needs met elsewhere?"
Pierce's expression hardened slightly. "My other needs are irrelevant."
Nathaniel's grin widened. "Are they? Because Lady Samson appears to disagree."
Pierce followed his friend's gaze across the room and found Lady Samson standing beside her mother, delicately fluttering a coy fan before her face. The moment their eyes met, she lowered the fan just enough to reveal a smile that had undoubtedly been practiced in a mirror.
Pierce felt nothing. "I'm not interested," he said.
Nathaniel raised a brow. "Not even slightly?"
"No."
Then Pierce's attention shifted. Margaret stood across the room speaking with Camelia, but her eyes were not on her sister.
They were fixed upon Lady Samson, and there was something distinctly narrowed about them.
Her expression was composed, but Pierce knew enough about her already to recognize the signs.
Her jaw was slightly tense, and the fingers curled around her glass had tightened.
Jealousy?
The realization struck him with unexpected force.
Nathaniel straightened his coat and surveyed the crowded room with renewed purpose. "Now, if you will excuse me, there are several women in attendance whom I would like to become acquainted with."
"I thought you already knew half of them."
"I know their names," Nathaniel replied. "That is not quite the same thing."
With that, he disappeared into the crowd with the confidence of a man who considered every eligible woman in London a personal challenge.
Pierce watched him go, shaking his head before his attention returned to Margaret. She was laughing at something Camelia had said, and the tension in her expression had disappeared. Yet Pierce could not stop thinking about the look he had seen moments earlier.
Why had she been jealous?
Their marriage was an arrangement. She knew it. He had told her plainly that he did not seek love, and she had insisted that she would never love him either. They had agreed that Hugh would be the center of their connection, nothing more.
So why had she watched Lady Samson as though the other woman had threatened something that belonged to her?
Pierce took a slow drink of brandy, his gaze lingering on Margaret. Perhaps she was simply protective of her position as duchess. Maybe she disliked Lady Samson.
Or is she truly jealous? That cannot be, because no one has ever felt that way when it concerns me.
Margaret glanced towards him, then she immediately looked away.
Pierce approached Margaret with a composure that concealed his mission to get some answers on the matter. "You appear… thoughtful, Duchess."
"I was wondering," Margaret replied sweetly, "whether Lady Samson is a close friend."
Pierce's mouth twitched. "I am acquainted with the family, naturally. You were watching me?" he asked with feigned innocence.
Margaret lifted her brows. "I was not."
"You were," he said.
"I was looking in that direction, that is all," she replied.
"For nearly five minutes."
"I enjoy windows," she said.
Her wit made him laugh aloud, which caught him off guard. Pierce stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice.
"You should be careful, Margaret. Someone might think you were jealous."
Her cheeks flushed instantly. "I am not jealous."
"Of course not, you simply like windows."
"And if I were jealous," she added, lifting her chin, "it would be none of your concern."
Pierce's smile deepened. "On the contrary, Duchess. I find it exceedingly puzzling."