Chapter 19
Margaret had scarcely finished her morning tea when the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced visitors to Ravenfield Manor.
She hurried into the drawing room with an eagerness she could not quite disguise, and the moment the doors opened, she found herself smiling at the sight of Iris and Camelia.
"You have come!" she exclaimed, crossing the room to embrace them both.
Iris kissed her cheek and held her at arm’s length, inspecting her from head to toe. "Of course we have. We have come to rescue you, though you look suspiciously settled for a woman who has been married only a week."
Camelia laughed as she embraced Margaret next, while the young lady behind her waited politely. "And I have brought Lady Pamela Harrton. Raph's niece."
Pamela curtsied gracefully, her nineteen-year-old face bright with curiosity. "It is a pleasure, Your Grace."
Margaret smiled warmly and took her hand. "Please, nothing has changed. Call me Margaret."
Pamela laughed. They settled into comfortable conversation.
"The weather has been absolutely delightful these past few days, hardly a shower," Iris said.
"Indeed, the sunshine has been a blessing," Margaret said.
"So much so that the promenade has become quite the scene as of late. Why, you know, the other day Lord Harper was walking along the banks of the lake and a large dog pounced on him so cheerfully that Harper lost his balance and fell in," Camelia said.
The ladies laughed.
"It has been the gossip at every dinner I have attended," Camelia continued.
They continued discussing the journey, the weather and the latest ridiculous rumor circulating through the ton, though Margaret's thoughts kept returning to one subject.
She could hardly wait to show them, Hugh." You must all meet someone," she announced suddenly, her expression brightening. "Mrs. Norris!" she called towards the doorway. "Would you please ask the nanny to bring Hugh down?"
The women barely had time to exchange amused glances before the nanny entered with Hugh in her arms.
Margaret's entire expression softened at once. "There is my darling boy," she said, rising as though drawn towards him by instinct.
Hugh recognized her immediately and gave a delighted little squeal, reaching towards her.
Margaret took him carefully and kissed his cheek. "Look at you. You have visitors today."
Iris immediately leaned over to admire him. "Oh, Margaret, he is adorable."
Camelia touched one of his tiny hands and laughed when he curled his fingers around hers. "Look at those lovely eyes."
Pamela gazed at him with open delight. "He is beautiful."
Margaret looked down at Hugh and felt an absurd rush of pride. He was no longer merely Pierce's son in her mind. He had somehow become hers too.
The women spent several minutes fussing over him, with Pamela declaring that his little waistcoat was the finest thing she had ever seen and Camelia insisting that his cheeks were positively irresistible.
Margaret laughed as Hugh attempted to grab Iris's necklace. "He is becoming rather mischievous," she said, rescuing the chain from his determined fingers.
Iris smiled. "He has clearly inherited that from you." Margaret gave her a scandalized look. "I have no idea what you mean."
"Neither does anyone else," Camelia replied, laughing.
Eventually the nanny reclaimed Hugh and carried him back towards the nursery, leaving Margaret watching until he disappeared from sight.
The moment the door closed, Iris clasped her hands together. "Excellent. Now that we have completed our inspection and see that you are quite settled, we are stealing you for the day."
Margaret blinked. "Stealing me?"
"Precisely," Camelia said, leaning back with a satisfied smile. "We have arranged an outing, and you are coming with us."
Margaret hesitated. "I ought to tell my husband first."
The room became strangely quiet. Iris and Camelia exchanged a look, while Pamela's eyebrows rose with such obvious interest that Margaret immediately regretted speaking.
Camelia tilted her head. "It has not been very long since the wedding, and you are already careful not to displease your husband?"
Margaret felt heat rise into her cheeks. "That is not what I said."
Iris leaned forward, studying her suspiciously. "Is this truly our Margaret?" she asked, pressing a hand dramatically to her heart. "The same Margaret who once climbed out of a drawing-room window because Father told her she was forbidden to attend a picnic?"
"I was seventeen," Margaret protested. "And the window was perfectly safe."
"You landed in the hydrangeas," Iris reminded her.
"A minor detail," Margaret replied.
Pamela had been watching the exchange with growing amusement, and now she folded her hands neatly in her lap. "I believe there are only two possible explanations," she announced.
Margaret looked at her warily. "That sounds ominous."
Pamela smiled. "Either the Duke is terribly cruel and strict, and you are frightened to do anything without his permission…" She paused deliberately, glancing between Margaret's sisters. "Or you actually like one another, and you care what he thinks of you."
Margaret's stomach fluttered. "That is ridiculous."
Unfortunately, her blush betrayed her before she could produce anything more convincing.
Iris's mouth fell open. Camelia stared at her for one astonished second before grabbing Iris's hand. "Did you see that?" she whispered, though there was no need to whisper. "She blushed!"
Iris looked ready to leap from her chair. "She likes him!"
"I do not!" Margaret insisted, though her voice had risen several notes. "He is insufferable."
Pamela clapped both hands over her mouth to contain her laughter. "Oh, she absolutely does."
Margaret covered her face, wishing the carpet would open beneath her. "You are all being absurd."
Camelia moved closer and seized her hand. "Tell us everything."
"There is nothing to tell."
"Margaret," Iris said, narrowing her eyes, "you have never been capable of hiding anything from us. You once confessed to stealing a jar of raspberry preserves because you felt guilty for three days."
Margaret lowered her hands and glared at her. "That was entirely different."
"How?" Pamela asked innocently.
Margaret could think of no answer. Her sisters were looking at her with delighted anticipation, and Pamela seemed thoroughly entertained by the spectacle.
She tried to compose herself, but memories of Pierce's dark eyes, his teasing voice, and the quiet moments they had shared made another wave of warmth creep into her cheeks.
She hated that they could see it. She hated even more that she could not deny it entirely.
Is it obvious that I have behaved wantonly with him? I am mortified.
"All right," she muttered, smoothing her skirt. " I do not dislike him as much as I expected," she finally said.
The three women erupted into delighted exclamations. Margaret laughed despite herself, shaking her head as she tried to silence them. "You are all impossible."
Iris slipped an arm around her shoulders. "And you, dear sister, are in very serious danger."
Margaret frowned. "Of what?"
Camelia grinned. "Of becoming fond of your husband, even though it was nothing but a mere arrangement."
Margaret's smile faded for the briefest moment as she considered the possibility, and that thought frightened her far more than she cared to admit.
* * *
Margaret was relieved to be out of Ravenfield Manor before Pierce could appear and ask where she was going. She had no wish to explain that she had been abducted by her sisters, particularly when she had technically volunteered for the crime.
By the time their carriage reached the fashionable establishment near Hyde Park, Margaret had begun to relax.
The establishment was elegant without being overly grand, designed for ladies of society who wished to take meals away from the formality of their own dining rooms. Pale wallpaper, polished tables, gilt-framed mirrors and delicate china gave the room an air of quiet refinement, while the tall windows admitted the soft morning light.
Several ladies sat in small groups, their bonnets and gloves arranged neatly beside them as they conversed over tea.
Margaret found herself smiling as she removed her gloves, enjoying the simple pleasure of being somewhere Pierce's rules did not immediately dictate where she ought to sit, what she ought to do or precisely how long she ought to do it.
"I still cannot believe you are the Duchess of Ravenfield," Camelia declared as she unfolded her napkin, studying Margaret with exaggerated seriousness.
Margaret laughed as she reached for the teapot. "I still am not used to the title."
A servant soon appeared with their breakfast, arranging everything with practiced precision. There were delicate slices of cold ham and roast beef, little sausages browned to perfection, soft-boiled eggs nestled in porcelain cups and warm rolls served with butter.
Alongside them came fresh fruit, preserves, honey and thin slices of toast, while a silver pot of fragrant tea sat next to it. There were also small cakes and delicate pastries filled with jam, enough variety to satisfy the appetite of a duchess or, in Margaret's opinion, an entire regiment.
Pamela immediately reached for a warm roll and sighed with pleasure. "At least society has managed one thing correctly."
Margaret glanced at her. "Food?"
"Indeed," Pamela corrected, spreading butter across the roll. "Men have ruined nearly everything else."
Margaret smiled, but her thoughts drifted despite herself. She had been away from Ravenfield for scarcely an hour, yet part of her already wondered what Pierce was doing.
Is he in his study? Is he with Hugh? Has he noticed I am gone?
She frowned at herself and reached for the strawberry preserves. She had promised herself that this outing would be about her sisters and nothing else. Unfortunately, her husband had become remarkably difficult to remove from her thoughts.
Camelia caught her expression and narrowed her eyes. "You are thinking about him."
"I am thinking about this lovely meal."
"You are looking at that strawberry as though it has offended the Duke."
Margaret bit into it. "It has."
Pamela giggled. "Is he really as formidable as everyone says?"
Margaret hesitated. The answer was complicated.
Pierce was certainly stern, commanding and infuriating, but she had discovered another side of him too.
There was the man who held Hugh with unexpected tenderness, the man who had listened to her, teased her, and looked at her in a way that made sensible thoughts remarkably difficult.
"He is…" she began carefully, "very particular."
Iris smiled knowingly. "That is the polite version."
"He is sometimes impossible," Margaret admitted.
"And yet you blushed when we suggested you liked him," Camelia reminded her.
Margaret reached for her tea. "The room was warm."
Before Margaret could invent another excuse, Pamela suddenly sighed and placed her roll upon her plate. "Speaking of impossible men, I have been thoroughly annoyed by the Duke of Knoxford."
Iris looked interested. "Marcus Vale?"
Pamela nodded vigorously. "That very man."
Margaret had heard the name before. Marcus Vale was Blaise's twenty-three-year-old nephew, and if Iris's husband had ever mentioned him, it had rarely been with the tone one used when describing a model young gentleman.
"What has he done now?" Iris asked, lifting her cup.
"He exists," Pamela replied with great seriousness.
Margaret laughed. "That hardly seems grounds for annoyance."
"With Marcus, it is an excellent beginning."
Iris shook her head affectionately. "My husband has said he hears Marcus is a handful."
"A handful?" Pamela repeated, looking offended by the understatement. "He is a whole basket."
Camelia laughed behind her teacup. "What did he do?"
"He followed me through the ballroom at Lady Whitmore's assembly and insisted that I was avoiding him."
"Were you?" Margaret asked.
"Of course."
The three women laughed, and Margaret felt the last of her nervousness disappear. This was what she had missed, her sisters' teasing, Pamela's dramatic complaints and the freedom to laugh without wondering whether she was behaving as a duchess ought.
Yet beneath her amusement remained the strange knowledge that she had another home now.
Ravenfield. Pierce. Hugh.
She touched her teacup thoughtfully, surprised by the warmth that filled her at the thought of the little boy's smile.
The servants began clearing the table, removing the silver dishes and gathering the delicate china with quiet efficiency.
Margaret watched them for a moment, strangely conscious that she had never imagined herself sitting at such a table discussing her household as though she had been mistress of it for years.
She had spoken about Hugh, about Pierce, about Ravenfield Manor, and even about the peculiar habits of the servants without once considering how strange it was.
She had become so accustomed to thinking of herself as a visitor that she had failed to recognize the truth until this very moment, she was the Duchess of Ravenfield now.
Whatever she thought of her husband, whatever uncertainties remained between them, she belonged to that household now. The thought should have frightened her more than it did, but instead she felt an odd little flutter of pride.
"You have gone quiet," Iris said, drawing her from her thoughts with a gentle tap against her wrist.
Margaret blinked and looked up. "Have I?"
"You have," Camelia agreed, studying her suspiciously. "You were smiling at absolutely nothing."
"I was not smiling."
"You were," Pamela insisted, taking another sip of tea. "It was a very peculiar smile, too."
Margaret straightened her shoulders. "There is nothing peculiar about my smile."
Iris leaned closer, lowering her voice as though preparing to interrogate a criminal. "What troubles you?"
"Nothing," Margaret replied too quickly.
Her sisters exchanged a look. Margaret knew that look. They had perfected it during childhood, and it had always meant that they knew she was hiding something. She smiled sweetly. "Truly. Nothing at all."
But even as she said it, her thoughts returned to Ravenfield Manor and the little boy waiting there, and to the infuriating duke who had somehow begun to feel less like a stranger.