Chapter 27
Margaret stood upon the veranda with one hand gripping the delicate railing, her fingers cold despite the warmth of the evening.
She had removed her sea-goddess mask and held it against her skirts, but the beautiful pearls at her throat seemed suddenly far too conspicuous, as though they announced every foolish feeling she was desperately trying to conceal.
Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked furiously, refusing to allow a single one to fall. She would not cry over Pierce Sterling. She would certainly not cry over a man who could disappear for days, return with mysterious answers, and then expect her to simply smile prettily upon his reappearance.
She drew a shaky breath and looked towards the gardens, where the lanterns cast pools of golden light across the hedges.
She had been foolish to hope that his revelation would make her happy.
He had finally admitted that his investigation had led him south, and instead of feeling pleased that he was speaking about it, she had felt as though someone had quietly pulled the floor from beneath her feet.
Another journey. Another mysterious absence. Another stretch of days in which I will wonder where he is, who he is with, and whether he even thinks of me.
"You should not walk away from me."
The deep voice behind her made Margaret gasp.
She turned sharply, finding Pierce standing several feet away, his black mask still covering part of his face.
Even in the dim light, she could see the stern set of his mouth and the unmistakable irritation in his expression.
"I am your husband," he continued, advancing a measured step, "and it is indecent for you to wander out here alone.
Unless, of course, you are attempting to invite another gentleman to kiss you. "
Margaret's mouth fell open in outrage. "How dare you say such a thing?" she demanded, pressing one hand against her waist. "I would never behave in such a manner."
Pierce raised one dark brow, his expression maddeningly calm. "Would you not?" he asked, folding his arms. "That is precisely how we met, if you have forgotten. You were at my masquerade asking gentlemen to kiss you."
"That was different," she protested, stepping towards him. "I was in a very difficult situation, and you know perfectly well that I was trying to escape Harrowby."
"I know," he replied, his voice lowering, "but you cannot expect me to forget the spectacle merely because you have since become my duchess."
"I expect you to possess enough sense not to throw it in my face whenever you are annoyed with me." Margaret's chin lifted, and despite the tears still threatening her eyes, her temper began to burn brightly enough to chase them away.
"You are behaving like a spoiled child." His eyes narrowed. "You stormed away from a dance."
"And I am not a child," she shot back, refusing to retreat even when he came another step closer. "You are acting like a distant oaf, and you are no gentleman."
Pierce's mouth curved into a slow, humorless smirk. "I never said I was a gentleman."
Margaret stared at him for a moment before giving a short, incredulous laugh. "That much I know now."
The amusement in his eyes vanished. He studied her more carefully, and his voice softened despite the tension between them. "Then tell me why you are behaving this way."
The question struck far too close to the truth. Margaret looked away, pretending fascination with the gardens while her heart twisted painfully beneath her ribs.
How could I possibly tell him? How could I admit that every time he leaves Ravenfield, I feel abandoned? That I hated not knowing where he went? That I had begun to dread the words personal affairs because they left far too much room for my imagination to torture me?
Worst of all, Lady Darren's poisonous insinuation still echoed in her mind. Hugh's mother had been his mistress, the woman had suggested, rather than his respectable late wife. Margaret had dismissed it as malicious gossip, but doubt was a particularly persistent little creature.
She swallowed hard. "How long will you be gone on your next... personal affair?" she asked instead, forcing the words out evenly.
Pierce's expression became guarded. "I cannot say yet."
Margaret stared at him, feeling her patience snap.
Of course he could not say. He never said anything.
He disappeared behind secrets and expected everyone else to stand patiently outside the door until he decided to emerge.
"Then perhaps you ought to make a habit of taking your duchess with you," she said bitterly, turning away.
His brow furrowed. "Margaret."
"No." She shook her head and gathered her skirts. "I have had enough of this evening."
"You are being unreasonable."
"And you are being impossible," she said.
"I have done nothing to offend you."
"That," she replied, whirling around, "is precisely the problem. You never do anything. You tell me nothing, you explain nothing, and then you expect me to smile and behave as though I am perfectly content."
Pierce took a step towards her, his jaw tightening. "You are my wife. You should trust me."
Her heart gave a painful little twist at the words. Wife. The title had once felt like a sentence; now it somehow felt like something she desperately wanted him to mean. "Then," she said quietly, "you should give me something to trust."
For one fleeting moment, his expression changed. Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly that Margaret wondered whether she had imagined it. She could not bear another moment of uncertainty.
"I am leaving," she announced, turning towards the ballroom. "If you will not take me home, I shall find Iris or Camelia and ask one of them to escort me."
"Margaret, wait."
She ignored him.
She marched through the open doors with as much dignity as she could summon, her mask dangling from her fingers and her pearls trembling against her throat.
She could feel his gaze following her, but she refused to turn around.
If Pierce wished to chase her, he could do so.
If he did not, then she would have her answer.
* * *
Margaret marched through the entrance of Ravenfield with every intention of making it perfectly clear that she was furious.
She swept past the footmen without acknowledging them, removed her gloves with sharp little tugs, and handed them to a startled servant before continuing towards the staircase.
Her cheeks were still warm from the argument at Samson House, and the pearls Pierce had given her seemed to mock her with every delicate movement.
They had been a beautiful gift, chosen with care and thought, and yet tonight she had spent most of the evening wondering whether the man who had placed them around her neck was already preparing to leave her again.
She had barely reached the center of the entrance hall when Pierce caught up with her. His fingers closed around her hand, stopping her retreat, and she spun towards him with a glare that would have frightened a less formidable man.
"What is your trouble?" he asked, his voice low as he studied her face.
Margaret stared at him, suddenly overwhelmed by everything she had been trying to swallow all evening.
She had told herself she was merely annoyed, that she disliked being kept uninformed, that she was tired after the ball, but none of those explanations touched the truth.
She was frightened, and she was tired of being frightened alone.
"How have our roles somehow become reversed?
" she demanded, pulling her hand free only to gesture helplessly between them.
"You were the one asking me not to flee, yet you have been the one with one foot out the door all this time.
" Her voice trembled despite her determination to keep it steady.
"And now you are actually leaving again. "
The admission seemed to echo through the enormous hall, and Margaret hated how vulnerable she suddenly felt. She had promised herself she would never become the sort of wife who clung to her husband, yet here she was, practically begging him to understand why his absences frightened her.
Pierce regarded her with a mixture of irritation and bewilderment. "You are exaggerating," he said, his thumb brushing absently across his palm where her hand had been. "I will not be gone forever."
Margaret stared at him. "How do you know that?" she asked quietly.
Pierce's expression shifted, and then, to her astonishment, a smirk appeared. "Are you worried that something might happen to me?" he asked, clearly amused by the revelation.
Margaret's eyes narrowed. "It is not funny." She could hardly believe he was smiling when her heart felt as though it were being squeezed inside her chest.
"No," Pierce replied, stepping closer, "what is truly not funny is the way you are driving me mad." His voice had changed, losing the teasing quality. He looked at her as though she were a puzzle he had spent months attempting to solve and had finally realized was impossible.
"I see you everywhere. I catch your scent everywhere. No matter where I go in this house, you are there with these blasted flowers you placed, and I can do nothing to quiet the desire you stir in me."
Margaret stopped breathing for a moment.
She had expected anger. She had expected another lecture about propriety, perhaps even that maddening calm dismissal he used whenever emotions became inconvenient. She had not expected this.
Pierce Sterling, the man who guarded his feelings as fiercely as he guarded his secrets, was standing before her and admitting that she haunted him.
Margaret's heart began beating so violently that she was certain he could hear it.
All the jealousy, fear, and uncertainty she had carried since he returned from his journey seemed to collapse beneath the weight of those words.
"I thought..." Her voice faltered, and she lowered her gaze because suddenly she could not bear the intensity of his eyes. "I thought you were growing tired of me."
The confession was barely louder than a whisper, but Pierce heard it.
His expression softened, and for once there was no impatience in his face, no cold authority, no duke standing behind a carefully constructed wall.
There was simply a man looking at his wife as though she had said something impossible.
"Tired?" he repeated, almost incredulously. He stepped nearer and lifted her chin gently until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "How could I ever..." His voice trailed off, and his eyes moved over her face. "Look at you."
The simplicity of those words nearly undid her. Margaret felt tears prick her eyes again, but they were no longer tears of anger. They were tears of relief, of longing, of the unbearable sweetness of finally hearing what she had been too frightened to ask.
Then Pierce pulled her into his arms.
Margaret gasped as his embrace closed around her, strong and warm and certain.
The next moment his mouth found hers, and every thought she had been attempting to arrange into sensible order vanished.
She clutched the front of his coat, feeling the hard strength beneath it as he kissed her with a passion that made her knees weaken.
She had missed him. Good heavens, how she had missed him.
She had missed his touch, his warmth, his presence beside her at night, and even his infuriating habit of making her want to argue simply because arguing with him meant having his attention.
Her fingers tightened against his coat as she returned the kiss, rising instinctively towards him.
Pierce's arms drew her closer, and Margaret felt the familiar dizzying sensation of being completely surrounded by him.
There was no ball, no Lady Darren, no mysterious journey south, and no poisonous whisper about another woman.
There was only Pierce, kissing her as though he had spent the entire evening fighting the same longing she had been trying to conceal.