Page 32 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

I t had long turned to evening, and Alexander’s study glowed with firelight.

Half-consumed logs crackled in the hearth.

Outside, the wind howled over the grounds.

He sighed at the repeated distractions, trying in vain to concentrate on his correspondence to London.

Another howl, and he ripped off his signet ring, placing it beside his pocket watch on the desk.

Stretching his fingers, he reached for his quill again just as someone appeared at the door.

“Whatever it is, whomever it concerns,” he said, “it can wait.”

“What if it concerns a kiss?” came Margaret’s voice.

Alexander lifted his eyes from the parchment. He was immediately caught off guard by her appearance. Margaret stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind her. The hem of her cloak was dusted with dirt and grit, her hair slightly loose from its combs. Her cheeks were pink from the cold outside.

“Have you been walking at a time like this?”

“I took a stroll after dinner, yes. The weather was not terrible when I first set out, and the moon was almost full. I hurried back once the rain started.” She unclasped her cloak and let it hang around her shoulders. “Am I interrupting anything important?”

“You are... But I will excuse the interruption if you explain yourself immediately.”

He couldn’t deny the way his heart had skipped a beat at her question.

He hadn’t forgotten their wedding day. There had been no time to revisit her request since.

He watched her sway into the room, sweep the cloak off her shoulders completely, and throw it over an armchair.

It seemed unlike Margaret to be so forward, even if a dark part of him wanted to oblige her every improper whim.

His quill returned to its holder, and Alexander leaned back in his chair.

“You will not like what I have come to say,” she suggested.

“I doubt that very much.”

She paused, smiling for the first time in what felt like days.

That morning, she had seemed genuinely hurt by his outing with Isadore, and he was glad she had unburdened herself.

He had already sent a letter to her mother inviting the viscountess and Miss Eliza to stay.

It would not improve relations with Carlisle, but it might make Isadore uncomfortable; however, for Margaret, he would do whatever it took to set her mind at ease.

The fire cast golden shadows across her face. When she turned, the light shifted, and her expression changed. “I saw Miss Bell this morning,” she said, “with Mr. Hawthorne.”

He shifted his weight on the chair, confused. “Should that surprise me?”

“I do not know. They were at the edge of the river, alone.” A pause, and he tensed. “I saw him kiss her, or she kissed him. I’m not entirely certain. But it did not look as though either of them regretted it.”

“You’re certain it was them?”

“I wouldn’t come to you with rumors.”

"No, you would not.”

Alexander rose to his feet, thinking. He had noticed Bastian and Isadore growing closer, but he had assumed their friendship was entirely innocent.

Bastian was his closest friend, and he was aware of the sensitive situation with Isadore.

A romance, on top of everything else, seemed ill-considered on both their parts.

He braced a hand against the desk and sighed.

“Perhaps I should not have told you.”

“Is this why you went walking?”

“Partly. I was trying to decide whether I should say anything. Was I mistaken?”

“No. It's better you did.” He paused, eyeing his signet ring. “I do not know what to make of this. Bastian swore to us that he is true to Miss Dawson-Duff.”

“Love is a strange thing,” Margaret said, folding her arms tightly across her waist. “Perhaps Miss Bell is an incomparable in his eyes. They seem to have grown remarkably close, remarkably quickly. And there is a chance he thought this would make you happy—a match between him and your sister.”

“When so much is yet uncertain?” Alexander asked grimly. “It was a foolish thing to do, and I expected Bastian to know better. And Isadore... I suppose it only proves how little I know her.”

Margaret’s gaze followed him as he circled the desk.

“She has not been raised the daughter of a duke. Perhaps she feels that the rules of propriety which govern our acquaintances do not yet concern her. But Mr. Hawthorne does not strike me as the sort of gentleman to abuse a woman’s vulnerability, or naivety. ..”

“No, never.”

“Then it must be love.”

Alexander answered with silence, then, “I must speak to him.”

He walked toward the door. Margaret moved quickly, stopping him before he could open it.

She placed her hand on his chest, pushing him back gently, sliding between him and the door to lock the door handle in place.

If she had been anyone else, he would have been outraged.

But this was Margaret, and he knew her intentions were only pure.

“You should not go now,” she said, shaking her head.

“Questioning him out of anger will only make things worse. If theirs is a fledgling romance, we do not want to intervene without considering the consequences. And if it isn’t, if I have misinterpreted what I saw, then I do not want to make things awkward between them by speaking out of turn. ”

“But something must be said, Margaret. If she is ruined, or he is heartbroken?—”

“Then allow me to investigate in your stead,” she said after a heaved breath. “They will see me as the neutral party, but the same cannot be said for you.”

“You would speak to Isadore on my behalf?”

“I would. I think that would be much more prudent.”

They lapsed into silence as her hand lingered on his chest. He was standing so close that he could see a droplet of rain on her lashes and feel her body pressing against his. He could have kissed her then, wanted to more than anything, but it wouldn’t have been right, not until she asked him again.

She dropped her hand, saying nothing, and he stepped back, creating space between them. He nodded, agreeing for her to act as she saw fit.

“Then I trust you to intervene at your discretion.”

“Thank you.”

“You really should have your maids take your cloak,” he said after a moment, rubbing his face.

She pointed toward the garment on the armchair. “It’s drying there, isn’t it? It wasn’t very wet to begin with.”

Alexander tried not to laugh, but it escaped him anyway. “I am merely concerned for your health,” he said.

“Mostly trying to change the subject.”

Margaret conceded her defeat, taking her cloak from where she had left it and carrying it with her to the door. She lingered a moment, and he debated asking her to stay. But it was late, and he really did have letters to write.

“No more midnight promenades,” he ordered, watching her smile as she left.

He returned to his desk and reclaimed his quill. He stared down at the half-composed letter he had been writing, unable to focus for an entirely different reason now. He thought of Margaret, and his heart clenched.

Suddenly, a sound caught his attention. Alexander glanced over his desk, across the room. Someone had slipped something beneath his door.

He went to retrieve it, wondering if this was Margaret playing a game. But it could not have been Margaret, would not have made sense...

Because the object that had arrived was a letter addressed to her, already unsealed.

Early afternoon was a much better time for outings, Margaret had to admit.

The sun broke across the Wiltshire countryside, sending a pale golden light over the rye fields past the river.

Margaret tightened the strap of her riding glove as she walked toward the stables, her breath misting in the chill.

The yard smelled of hay and old wood. A young stable boy was mucking stalls, speaking with the head groom.

He bowed for Margaret as she came within view, headed for the mare chosen for her, Selene, who snorted as Margaret approached.

Isadore stood waiting at the edge of the stables, her borrowed riding habit buttoned high to the throat, dark hair tucked neatly beneath her hat. She tugged on the reins of the horse she had selected, trying to calm it.

“Yours has a much fiercer spirit than mine,” Margaret said, taking Selene from the groom and walking her toward Isadore. “My horse seems practically sleepy by comparison.”

“I have ridden Thalia a few times, but she has never been so agitated before.” Isadore looked up at the horse’s dark muzzle. “Makes me a little nervous, if I’m honest.”

“If you like, we could swap,” Margaret suggested, already handing Isadore Selene’s reins. “My riding experience is not as great as some ladies...”

“But definitely more extensive than mine.” Isadore smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Margaret gestured for them to set off, trying to pull Thalia into submission as they walked away from the stables. The horse barely wanted to move. Margaret groaned, asking Isadore to wait. She pulled herself into the saddle with practiced ease, and Thalia complied at last.

“Indomitable beast,” Margaret leaned down to whisper playfully into Thalia’s ear.

She looked back, and Isadore trotted toward her.

“They all have such pompous names, don’t you think?

Lord Somerton must have been responsible for naming them.

I can’t imagine His Grace choosing Calliope and Arion for his own stables. ”

“I don’t know him enough to say,” Isadore admitted. “Mr. Graham’s dog is named Badger, which is not much better.”

“Badger? A more palatable name than Arion, perhaps, but not by much.” Margaret laughed, directing Thalia through the wooden gate that led off the estate. “You arrived earlier than I did. Were you waiting for me long?”

“No more than a quarter of an hour, must have been.” Isadore stared straight ahead. Riding suited her—made her seem more like a duke’s sister than ever before, almost regal. “I did not sleep particularly well last night.”