Page 10 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

A weight lifted from Margaret’s shoulders. “How relieved that makes me... Lady Jane has been nothing but excellent to me for as long as I can remember. She was no doubt preparing to ride into the storm herself to try and locate me.”

“What little I know of the Lady Jane suggests you are right. But come. You wanted to see the paintings.” He increased his pace, pointing toward a piece of artwork on their left.

He lit a sconce with his candle, allowing them both a better view of the painting.

“This one dates to the thirteenth century, the earliest in the collection.”

It was an impossible task to focus on the painting with the duke standing so close to her in the dark.

The ballroom below them was silent, and what small noises their bodies made as they navigated the space echoed all around.

She had never been so aware of another presence before, absorbing nothing about the artwork of Somerstead Hall but everything about the duke—the rhythm of his breath, the shapes of him, the timbre of his voice.

“This collection is fascinating,” Margaret murmured, pretending to study the art. “And it is so meticulously organized. I have found everything about Somerstead Hall to be flawless so far. The decor, your pleasant staff – completely above reproach.”

“That is how I prefer it. Disorder is exhausting, do you not find?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Once, I would have said that a little chaos is good for the soul. But there has been so much tumult in my life recently that I am inclined to agree with you instead.” They drifted to the next painting, depicting the north-facing gardens.

She smiled, examining the finer details. “My sister would like this one.”

“I had not known you had a sister.”

“Eliza is very young still... only ten years old. She is much unlike me.”

“Quiet, then?”

Margaret struggled not to smile. “Yes, very quiet. She has an exceptionally creative mind, however, and is always reading and painting. Her favorite subjects are flowers and fairies, though it is rare that she can find a fairy to sit for a portrait, so she mostly contents herself with flowers. She has entire sketchbooks full of peonies and roses.”

She stepped back from the painting, her heart heavy with the thought of Eliza. She began walking to the next piece, but this time, the duke didn’t follow her.

“Hers is a cruel start to life,” he said.

Heart skipping a beat, Margaret turned to look at him. He seemed genuinely moved, staring into space. He knew a great deal about difficult childhoods, Margaret wagered.

“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking into a whisper.

“She had a few happy years, and I intend to procure her a great many more.” She paused.

“Children are resilient creatures, aren’t they?

But that doesn’t mean they don’t feel things deeply and won’t remember what happened to them.

I fear she will suffer all her life from the strain of these few short months.

The abandonment, the rejection... First her father left, and then her beloved governess.

She has watched her mother and sister be ejected from society.

.. It is my duty to preserve what love and hope in her remains. ”

“And you have a plan?” he asked, ambling toward the balcony, where he stopped.

“The idea of a plan.” Margaret watched him, wondering why he was interested.

He had debated leaving her to die not hours ago.

“There is a man who would wed me, against all odds. He is titled, and I believe him to be respectable in so far as it matters. He has promised to overlook my father’s indiscretions and provide for my family forevermore. ”

“A fine outcome for you.”

“Hm. Except he is much older than I am and something of a hermit. But on paper, in the grand scheme of things, I agree I could not find much better than him.” The duke fell quiet again, and Margaret questioned why. “You have no designs of marriage yourself?”

He laughed softly, angling his body toward her as he leaned on the balcony. He was a sight for sore eyes, a strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. “Miss Pembroke, you will scare your betrothed away if you insist on interrogating men thusly.”

“Well, you are not my betrothed, for one. And you and I will doubtless never cross paths again, for another,” she said in challenge. “You inquired about my life. Why should I not inquire after yours?”

He looked like he had many good reasons to provide her, but chose to remain silent instead.

Margaret couldn’t believe he was even talking to her like this.

He seemed like a completely different man from earlier, neither warm nor open.

But curious and enjoying himself, even though she doubted he would ever admit it.

She was enjoying herself too.

“I shall marry one day,” he replied. “But I am a solitary creature at heart and am delaying the obtention of a wife until such a day as I should desire one.”

Solitary creature? Margaret held back a laugh. That's far from what Beth implied.

“I suppose His Grace does have the benefit of allowing desire to rule his decisions,” Margaret suggested. “And time, of course. You could justly wait until you were the same age as my suitor before getting wed. A good thirty, forty years.”

He looked exasperated. “In the carriage, you called me rigid. Yet that does not align with your newest evaluation of me. The woman scarcely knows her own mind,” he said as an aside. “Am I a creature of desire or rigidity?”

Margaret blushed. Was he teasing her? It was not possible.

“You may employ rigidity and desire in different aspects of your life,” Margaret said, shrugging one-shouldered, trying to remain aloof. “Running your house like a despot, and yet managing your personal life like...”

“Go on,” he dared.

She shook her head, leaving him without an answer.

The duke smiled, the flame from their candles flickering in tandem as a soft breeze swept in. They had stepped closer during their conversation, side by side on the balcony.

There it was again: soap and smoke. Margaret felt suddenly exposed in her thin chemise, and yet somehow, she didn’t care what he saw or thought of her.

In a month, she would likely be married to Baron Faversham, and men like the Duke of Langley would be a thing of the past. Inspiring anger and attraction in her.

Making her feel hot and then cold. Wanting to rip the head from his shoulders one moment, and then. ..

Well, and then he leaned in to kiss her.