Chapter 21
Margaret had been in the library for nearly half an hour when the door opened behind her. She stood upon the small ladder, one hand resting against the shelf as she examined a row of books, and turned at the sound of Pierce's measured footsteps.
He had a particular way of entering a room that made it feel as though he had already decided something was being done incorrectly.
"What are you doing here so late?" he asked, closing the door behind him and looking at the books scattered across the nearby table.
"I am looking for something to read to Hugh," Margaret replied, stepping down from the ladder with a book tucked beneath her arm. "I have run out of books to read him."
Pierce's brows drew together, and Margaret immediately recognized the expression. It was the same one he wore whenever he was preparing to issue an order.
"I have not approved any books," he said, moving towards the table and examining the books as though they were documents of national importance.
Margaret stared at him. "You have not approved of my reading a book to a child?"
"I have not approved the subject matter of the books."
She slowly placed both hands upon her waist. "I do not require your permission to read to a child, Your Grace."
"You require my approval of the subject matter."
"The subject matter?"
"Yes." Pierce lifted one of the books and inspected its cover. "I will not have Hugh exposed to nonsense."
Margaret's eyes narrowed. "He is one year old."
"Precisely."
"He cannot even speak properly."
"He understands more than you think."
"So do I," she replied, snatching the book from his hand. "And I understand that you have become quite impossible."
His mouth twitched. "You say that as though it is new information."
"It is information I have been forced to rediscover every day."
Pierce stepped closer, and Margaret refused to move back. "You are becoming very bold again."
"I never stopped being bold."
"That may be your greatest fault."
"And your greatest fault," she countered, lifting her chin, "is believing every thought that enters your head ought to become a household rule."
For a moment, he simply stared at her. The silence between them seemed to tighten, and Margaret became painfully aware of how near he stood.
She could smell him, something clean and warm beneath the faint trace of his manly scent.
She hated that she noticed such things. She hated even more that some part of her remembered how his hands felt against her skin.
"I make rules because someone must," he said quietly.
"And I break them because someone must," she replied.
His eyes darkened with amusement. "You admit it, then?"
"I am merely balancing the household."
"You are a menace."
"You married me," she said.
"I am beginning to suspect that was an error in judgement."
Margaret's heart gave an inexplicable little leap. She covered it with a smile. "At last, something upon which we agree."
He moved another step closer. "Do not tempt me to reconsider."
"Maybe you should reconsider everything. It might improve your temperament."
"My temperament is perfectly acceptable."
"To a prison warden," she said.
Pierce gave a low laugh, but it disappeared almost immediately as his gaze dropped to her mouth.
Margaret's breath caught. The air seemed suddenly warmer, and for one foolish moment neither of them moved.
She could almost remember the feeling of his lips against hers, and the memory made her pulse race.
Then Pierce leaned slightly towards her. Margaret's courage faltered. His eyes remained fixed upon hers. She could have stepped away.
Instead, she remained perfectly still.
Their faces were only inches apart when a distant clock chimed in the corridor, breaking the spell.
Margaret immediately turned her head, pretending to examine the books. "You were saying something about nonsense?"
Pierce's jaw tightened. "You are insufferable."
"And you are avoiding the question."
"I am trying to prevent myself from doing something equally foolish," he said.
Margaret looked back at him. "Such as?"
His gaze met hers again. "Kissing you."
Her heart pounded so violently she was certain he could hear it. She swallowed and forced herself to sound composed. "That would certainly be foolish."
"Then why," he murmured, "are you still standing there?"
Margaret opened her mouth, but no answer came. She hated that he had asked because she did not know. She did not want to kiss him. She told herself that firmly. She simply did not want to move away either.
Pierce suddenly stepped back.
The loss of his warmth was strangely disappointing.
He gathered himself with visible effort and reached for the library door. "Read whatever you like," he said stiffly. "But I expect you to use some judgement."
Margaret folded her arms. "I always use judgement."
He glanced back at her. "That is debatable."
"So is yours."
His mouth curved faintly, but his eyes remained guarded. "Goodnight, Duchess."
"Goodnight, Your Grace."
He left. Margaret waited until the door closed before releasing the breath she had been holding. She stared at the books on the table, but she no longer had the slightest idea which stories she had been considering.
She touched her fingertips to her lips and immediately dropped her hand.
Ridiculous.
She was married to the most infuriating man in England, and somehow their arguments were becoming more dangerous than their silences.
Does this have to do with what Lady Darren said? Is Hugh’s mother not Lady Augusta?
Margaret gathered the books into a neat stack and shook her head. Tomorrow, she decided, she would avoid him. It was a sensible plan.
Unfortunately, sensible plans had never been particularly successful in her marriage, and she found herself marching toward the door instead.
He thinks he can hide the truth from me? I'll show him.
* * *
Pierce stormed down the corridor with his jaw clenched, and his hands curled into fists at his sides, furious with himself for allowing Margaret to unsettle him so completely.
He had walked away from the library because remaining there another moment was too much of a test for his restraint, yet every step he took only made the memory of her standing before him more vivid.
The warmth of her, the challenge in her dark eyes, the brief moment when their faces had drawn close enough for him to imagine the taste of her lips; it was all still there, tormenting him.
He had spent years mastering himself, and now one stubborn woman with a talent for argument had reduced his celebrated restraint to something perilously thin.
"Your Grace!"
He stopped at the sound of her voice and slowly turned, surprised to see Margaret hurrying towards him from the library. She gathered her skirts as she walked, her expression determined and her eyes bright with irritation.
Pierce stared at her for a moment, wondering whether she had followed him merely to continue their argument, and some unreasonable part of him hoped she had.
"What is it now?" he asked, his voice deliberately cool as she approached.
Margaret stopped several feet away and placed her hands upon her hips, looking entirely too composed for a woman who had just chased her husband down a corridor.
"You are not going to run away from me," she declared, lifting her chin.
Pierce raised an eyebrow. "You are making demands of me?"
"Yes," she replied without hesitation, and the certainty in her answer almost made him smile. "I have questions that you never allow me to ask."
He folded his arms across his chest and studied her. "Very well. Ask them."
Margaret's confidence faltered for the briefest instant before she gathered herself again. "I want to know about Augusta," she said more quietly. "Your late wife. What happened to her?"
The question struck him harder than he expected.
Pierce's gaze shifted towards the tall windows lining the corridor, though there was nothing beyond the glass but the darkness of the evening.
Augusta had become a ghost in his life long ago, but ghosts had a troublesome habit of appearing whenever one least wanted them.
He had never truly known whether he was the man she had feared, the husband she had been unable to bear, or simply a foolish man who had failed to see what was happening beneath his own roof.
"I do not know," he admitted at last, his voice low.
Margaret watched him carefully. "You do not know?"
"No." Pierce's arms tightened across his chest. "I know only that she left. I know she was troubled, and I know that I did not understand the extent of it until it was too late."
His mouth tightened as old guilt settled heavily upon him. He had spent years telling himself that he had done his duty, that he had provided everything a duchess could require, that his household had been orderly and respectable.
Yet what good was order when the woman living within it was falling apart? What use were rules when I failed to notice the person those rules were meant to protect?
"If I had been more observant," he continued, forcing the words from himself, "if I had been less bound by ceremony and duty, then I would not have driven her to the point where she believed she had to flee. Maybe she would still be alive."
Margaret's expression changed. The irritation left her face, replaced by something Pierce could not easily name.
Pity. Is it?
He disliked the thought of her pitying him. He expected judgement. He had almost grown comfortable with being judged. It was easier than being forgiven.
She stepped closer and reached for his arm. Her fingers settled gently against his sleeve, and the simple gesture nearly undid him.
"You did not cause her condition," she said softly.
Pierce looked down at her hand. "You cannot know that."
"I know enough," Margaret replied, her voice calm. "You could not cure something simply by being a better husband."
Her words slipped beneath his defenses with astonishing ease. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Everyone else seemed determined either to condemn him or excuse him, but Margaret had somehow found a third possibility; she could see his failures without deciding they made him irredeemable.
It frightened him.
He looked into her eyes, and suddenly he was aware of everything he had been trying not to notice.
The softness of her lips. The warmth beneath his hand when he imagined touching her.
The faint scent of flowers that seemed to cling to her wherever she went.
He had told himself that their attraction was merely physical, a troublesome inconvenience that would eventually fade, but standing there with her hand upon his arm, he knew he had been lying to himself.
"Margaret," he warned quietly.
She looked up at him. "What?"
He did not answer. He simply reached for her waist.
Her breath caught as he drew her closer, and for one suspended moment Pierce hesitated. He could have stepped away. He should have stepped away. Instead, every ounce of restraint he had summoned since their wedding seemed to vanish, and he bent his head and kissed her.
The kiss was brief but fierce, carrying all the frustration he had been unable to put into words.
Margaret's fingers tightened around his sleeve, and that tiny response sent another wave of want through him.
He wanted to remain there. He wanted to pull her closer and forget every rule, every duty, every sensible thought that had ever governed his life.
Instead, he released her.
Margaret stared at him, startled and breathless, but Pierce could not bear to see what his own actions had done. He stepped back, his expression hardening as he rebuilt the walls he had allowed her to breach.
"Goodnight, Duchess," he said roughly.
Before she could answer, he turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing through the corridor.
He did not look back. He desperately wanted to.