Chapter 18
Pierce remained beside Margaret in the quiet warmth of the bedchamber, one arm resting comfortably around her as the fire burned low in the grate. The intimacy of the moment felt strangely peaceful, so different from the heated arguments that seemed to define most of their conversations.
Margaret rested her head against his shoulder, and for several minutes neither spoke, until she shifted nervously and glanced up at him.
"May I ask you something?" she murmured, her fingers absently tracing a fold in the coverlet.
Pierce looked down at her. "You have never required permission before."
Her lips curved. "Why can you not always be as likeable as you are when we are like this?"
A quiet chuckle escaped him. "I am always unlikeable, Duchess. You simply enjoy yourself too much during our intimate moments to notice."
Margaret's cheeks warmed, but she smiled. "I suppose I do enjoy myself."
Pierce's amusement deepened. "I knew it."
He looked down at her for a moment, struck by how different she seemed when she was relaxed. The sharp wit remained, but there was a softness beneath it that he had begun to recognize.
"Goddess Flora," he murmured, and Margaret immediately rolled her eyes.
"Must you?" she asked, though there was laughter in her voice.
"I have been wondering something," he continued, ignoring her complaint. "Why Flora? Was there a particular reason you chose that costume for my masquerade?"
Margaret considered the question before answering. "Margaret means daisy in French," she explained, smoothing a wrinkle in the sheet. "My mother adored flowers. She thought flowers represented different qualities in women, so she gave all three of us names associated with them."
Pierce's brow lifted. "And you chose Flora because of her?"
"Partly," Margaret admitted, her expression becoming wistful. "I think I wanted to feel close to her that night."
Pierce's expression changed almost imperceptibly. He had heard very little about Margaret's mother, and suddenly he wanted to know more.
"How old were you when you lost her?" he asked, his voice quieter.
Margaret looked towards the fire. "Thirteen."
The answer was simple, but Pierce could hear the weight behind it. "That is very young."
Margaret nodded. "It was difficult, but Iris and Camelia were wonderful. They did everything they could to fill the space she left behind. They were not Mother, of course, but they cared for me and protected me when they might easily have been thinking only of themselves."
Pierce watched the fondness in her expression and felt something unfamiliar tug at him. He understood suddenly why she seemed so naturally drawn to Hugh.
She knows what it means to lose the person who was supposed to make the world feel safe.
Margaret was quiet for a moment before turning towards him. "What about your mother?" she asked.
Pierce's body stiffened slightly. He had expected the question eventually, but not tonight, not while the room was so peaceful.
"I was too young to remember her," he answered.
Margaret's expression softened. "You do not remember her at all?"
"No." He stared at the fire. "She died when I was very young."
Margaret studied him, and then, with astonishing simplicity, said, "Then it is no wonder you are so rigid."
Pierce looked at her sharply, but she did not appear frightened by his expression.
"You never had a woman's gentle presence in your life to show you that it is all right to reveal your softer side," she continued, her voice gentle rather than accusing. "You were raised to be an heir, to perform your duty and never show weakness. You simply never learned how to be anything else."
Pierce said nothing. No one had ever spoken to him like that.
People had called him cold, severe, arrogant, ruthless and, on more than one occasion, cruel.
He had accepted most of those descriptions because they were easier to carry than sympathy.
But Margaret had looked at him and somehow found something beneath all of it, something he had spent years convincing himself did not exist. She had not called him good, nor had she excused his faults, she had merely suggested that there was another explanation for the man he had become.
It unsettled him more deeply than an accusation ever could.
"You seem remarkably certain that I possess a softer side," he finally said, his voice deliberately dry.
Margaret smiled sleepily. "I have seen it."
"When?" he asked, genuinely curious. Her eyes were already closing. "With Hugh," she murmured. "And sometimes with me."
Before Pierce could formulate an answer, her breathing had changed.
He looked down and realized she had fallen asleep against him.
For some reason, he did not move her. He simply remained there, watching her face in the flickering firelight, studying the loose strands of dark hair across her cheek and the peaceful expression that replaced her usual determination.
He had intended to stay only a few minutes, yet the minutes stretched into something longer.
There was something deeply disarming about seeing Margaret without her sharp tongue or challenging gaze.
She looked softer and entirely trusting.
Eventually, Pierce carefully eased himself away and rose from the bed. His attention fell upon the collection of boxes near the dressing table, and curiosity got the better of him.
How many frocks could she possibly buy in one day?
He crossed the room and lifted the lid of the nearest one. Inside were tiny garments, little socks, a soft knitted bonnet and several other things clearly intended for Hugh.
Pierce stared at them, then found himself smiling. Margaret had been shopping for his son. Not because he had ordered her to, but because she had thought of the boy herself. The smile lasted only a moment before he frowned at his own reaction.
"What the devil am I doing?" he muttered, closing the box carefully.
I did not marry Margaret for affection. I had not invited her into my life because I wanted companionship.
The arrangement had been simple from the beginning: she needed freedom, he needed a duchess, and Hugh needed a mother.
Yet lately, every simple rule seemed to become complicated whenever Margaret was involved.
He had meant to break her rules because she broke his, to teach her that neither of them could expect to have everything precisely as they wished.
That is all. It has to be all.
Pierce glanced back at the sleeping woman before quietly leaving the room.
He closed the door behind him and stood in the corridor, his jaw tightening as though sheer force of will could restore the distance he had intended to keep between them.
Margaret had already begun changing the household, changing Hugh, and, much to his irritation, changing him.
He walked away with a dark expression, determined to put an end to such foolish thoughts.
Before the thoughts become something I can no longer control.
* * *
The next morning, Margaret awoke to discover that the perfectly brushed hair Pierce had so carefully arranged the night before was now an unruly tangle around her shoulders.
The memory of their deliciously intimate evening returned with startling clarity, bringing warmth to her cheeks before she realized the space beside her was empty.
"Pierce?"
Pierce was gone. She stared at the rumpled sheets for a moment, then forced herself from the bed and began dressing, determined to ignore the strange little ache of emptiness inside her.
"It is better this way," she told herself firmly. "It is safer.”
She got dressed and started on her day. Half an hour later, she found Pierce already waiting in Hugh's nursery, looking as though he had been awake for hours and had never once entertained the possibility of dishevelment.
Margaret paused at the doorway, her cheeks warming at the sight of him before she quickly composed herself.
"Good morning," she said, smoothing her sleeve as she entered.
Pierce glanced towards her. "Good morning, Duchess."
She looked at the sleeping child. "Did you sleep well?"
"Adequately." His answer was so solemn that Margaret nearly smiled.
"How encouraging."
Pierce's eyebrow lifted. "You appear remarkably cheerful this morning."
"I am attempting to be," she replied, moving towards Hugh's crib. "It seems preferable to glowering."
His mouth twitched. "I do not glower."
Margaret looked pointedly at him. "Of course not."
Pierce cleared his throat and gestured towards Hugh. "You were going to demonstrate your method."
Margaret nodded, though she was suddenly aware of his close attention. She lifted Hugh gently and settled him against her shoulder before beginning the familiar little routine that usually soothed him.
She murmured softly, rocked him, and then carried him towards the table where his breakfast waited.
"There we are, darling," she coaxed, offering him a small spoonful. "Just a little, and then you may decide whether you wish to throw the rest at your father."
Pierce gave her a dark look. "I would prefer you did not encourage him."
Margaret smiled. "Then he must learn that throwing food is a privilege reserved for dukes."
But Hugh refused the spoon, turning his face away and beginning to fuss.
Margaret frowned, trying again, yet nothing seemed to work. Then she glanced around the nursery and noticed the heavy curtains drawn tightly across the windows.
"Wait," she murmured, suddenly remembering. "The sunlight."
Pierce watched her curiously as she crossed the room and pulled the curtains apart, but the morning was unusually grey, and very little light entered.
Margaret frowned. "He needs to be outside."
Pierce immediately shook his head. "Margaret, the schedule…"
She turned towards him and held his gaze. "Trust me."
He hesitated, his expression severe, but finally sighed. "Five minutes."
Margaret smiled. "That will do."
* * *