Chapter 25
She folded her hands before her, determined not to stare at him as though she had been waiting all evening for him to appear, and asked, "What have you come up to tell me, then?" Her voice sounded calmer than she felt, and she silently congratulated herself for that small victory.
Pierce regarded her for a moment before answering, his gaze travelling over her face with an intensity that made her wonder whether he had forgotten his own question.
"I came up to extend an invitation," he said.
She raised one eyebrow, fighting the urge to smile. "What sort of invitation?" she asked, stepping nearer to the dressing table as though the distance might somehow protect her from the effect of his voice.
It was absurd that she could now hear a particular note in his speech and immediately feel warmth spreading through her, especially when she had spent so much of their marriage insisting that she would not be affected by him.
"We have been invited to a masquerade ball," Pierce explained, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.
"We have now been married long enough to move beyond a honeymoon period, so it is only proper that we make more social appearances together.
I thought you might enjoy attending this ball. "
Margaret blinked at him, astonished by the sheer seriousness with which he delivered the invitation.
She was sorely tempted to remind him that the last masquerade ball she had attended had ended with her deliberately trying to ruin herself by kissing him in public, only for him to drag her away before she could accomplish it.
The memory made her cheeks warm, and she nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of their first meeting, but one glance at his formal expression made the words die upon her lips.
Perhaps he did not remember it with quite the same amusement.
"Very well," she said, smoothing the front of her gown with unnecessary care. "I accept."
Pierce’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, though Margaret was beginning to become an expert at noticing the smallest changes in him.
"Good," he replied, giving a brief nod. "The Samsons will be delighted."
Margaret’s pleasant expression faltered. "Samsons?" she repeated.
Pierce seemed not to notice the sudden suspicion in her eyes. "Yes. They are the ones giving the ball."
Of course they were. I remember Lady Samson, and the way the young woman had looked at Pierce during our wedding breakfast, as though the duke were the most fascinating man in the room and I were merely an unfortunate obstacle standing between them.
She forced her expression into something resembling indifference, although jealousy curled unpleasantly in her stomach. "How lovely," she managed, looking down at the ribbon on her dressing table rather than at him.
She could hardly tell Pierce that she had not forgotten the way Lady Samson had stared at him, nor could she reasonably complain about a young lady admiring her own husband when half the female population of London seemed determined to do precisely that.
Besides, Pierce had chosen Margaret, had married her, and had returned to her room after travelling south, which ought to have been enough to quiet such foolish thoughts.
Unfortunately, her heart had never been especially interested in behaving sensibly.
Pierce turned towards the door, and Margaret was surprised by the small disappointment that followed.
She had spent days missing him more than she cared to admit, and now that he was finally standing before her, he was leaving almost as quickly as he had arrived.
She watched him reach for the handle before he paused.
"I almost forgot something," he said, glancing over his shoulder. Margaret frowned as he reached inside his coat and produced a small box.
"What is that?" she asked, her curiosity immediately overcoming her attempt at indifference.
Pierce crossed the room and placed the box in her hand. "Since you so defiantly went shopping for Hugh despite my objections," he said, the faintest hint of amusement appearing in his expression, "I thought I should return the favor with a small gift of my own."
Margaret stared at him, suddenly touched by the fact that he had remembered her reckless shopping expedition at all. She opened the box and found a beautiful pearl necklace nestled inside, each pearl luminous against the dark velvet.
"Turn around," Pierce instructed quietly, and Margaret obeyed, although her heart had begun beating far too quickly.
She felt him step behind her, and every nerve in her body seemed to become aware of him at once.
His fingers gently moved her hair aside, exposing the back of her neck, and when his breath brushed her skin, Margaret nearly forgot how to breathe.
Surely he could not possibly know what such a simple gesture did to her.
She closed her eyes for a moment, anticipating the warmth of his lips, the touch of his hands, some small surrender to the longing that had been tormenting her since he had walked away from her the last time.
Instead, she felt something cool settle against her skin, followed by the soft brush of his fingers as he fastened the necklace.
Margaret opened her eyes and looked at her reflection. The pearls rested delicately against her throat, elegant and beautiful, and somehow far more intimate than any extravagant jewel could have been.
Pierce’s voice came quietly from behind her. "Your name carries a double meaning. In Greek, Margaret means pearl. It seemed an appropriate gift."
Margaret touched one of the pearls with trembling fingertips, far more affected by his thoughtfulness than she wished to be.
"Wear it to the masquerade this weekend," he added, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
For a moment she could think of nothing clever to say, which was an extraordinary humiliation for a woman who had made an art of cleverness.
She wanted to turn around and tell him that she had missed him, that she had thought of him every night, that she had wanted his arms around her more often than she cared to admit.
Instead, she swallowed those dangerous confessions and whispered, "Thank you. It is beautiful."
Pierce held her gaze for another moment, his expression softening in a way that made her heart ache, before he released her hair and walked towards the door.
Margaret remained perfectly still until it closed behind him.
Then she lifted the necklace in her fingers and stared at the pearls, wondering how a man who claimed to be so unlikeable could possibly know exactly how to make her feel cherished.
She touched the necklace again, remembering his breath against her neck, and sighed heavily.
The masquerade was still several days away, yet Margaret already suspected the greatest danger that evening would not be Lady Samson’s interest in her husband, nor the masks, nor the gossip of the ton.
It would be Pierce Sterling himself, standing close enough to make her forget every sensible resolution she had ever made.
* * *
Pierce had never understood why society insisted upon making pleasure such an exhausting affair.
By the time he and Margaret entered Samson House, the ballroom was already overflowing with masked guests, glittering jewels, elaborate costumes, and enough perfume to suffocate a man before he reached the first set of dancers.
Music drifted from the musicians' gallery while servants moved through the crowd with trays of brandy and wine, and every available corner seemed occupied by someone determined to be seen enjoying himself.
Pierce surveyed the room with a growing sense of resignation, though his attention returned almost immediately to the woman beside him.
Margaret had chosen a costume worthy of the occasion, dressed as some sort of sea goddess in flowing blue-green silk that shimmered like water whenever she moved, with delicate strands of pale fabric falling around her arms and shoulders.
The pearl necklace he had given her rested against her throat, catching the candlelight with every breath she took, and Pierce found himself wondering whether he had ever seen anything so beautiful.
"You look very well in your costume," he told her, allowing his gaze to linger for a moment longer than propriety permitted.
Margaret turned towards him with a pleased smile, her eyes bright beneath the edge of her mask. "Thank you," she replied, touching one of the pearls almost self-consciously. "You look very well yourself, particularly in that black mask, even if it is rather simple."
Pierce shrugged. "I prefer simplicity for my own attire."
Margaret gave him an amused look, as though she had expected precisely that answer. "Of course you do," she murmured, and Pierce suspected she was thinking of the endless parade of rules governing his household, his clothing, his meals, and practically every other aspect of his existence.
His amusement faded as he looked across the ballroom again.
There were too many people, too much noise, too much movement, and far too many opportunities for something to go wrong.
He had not missed this. Since becoming responsible for Hugh, and more importantly since discovering how easily a person could disappear from his life without explanation, crowded rooms had begun to feel less like entertainment and more like an exercise in vigilance.
He watched every entrance without appearing to do so, noted the servants moving between the guests, and found himself wondering how many strangers were observing them in return.
Margaret shifted closer to him and tilted her head. "What is the matter?" she asked, her fingers brushing his sleeve.
Pierce looked down at her and admitted, "I have not missed the crowds."