Page 47 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

FOUR MONTHS LATER...

T he table was laid in the courtyard of the villa beneath a canopy of vines.

The leaves overhead rustled in the warm coastal breeze on that small Ottoman island.

The sun was dipping beneath the horizon, leaving behind a rose-colored sky, while cicadas murmured softly in the distance.

A decanter of wine sat between the three of them, mostly empty, refracting the light of the dying sun, though Margaret had barely drunk a sip.

Alexander lifted his glass, glancing across the table at the man who had once been his uncle, who was now—in thought at least—his father.

Carlisle sat with an ease that suited him, his face bronzed by the sun.

He was still not entirely forgiven for his deception, but his letters to Somerstead Hall had worn Alexander down over time.

Margaret, in her endless wisdom, had been the one to suggest a trip to The Levant to meet with him in person.

For that suggestion and so much more, Alexander was grateful to her.

“I still maintain,” Carlisle was saying, “that there is no excuse for your deplorable French. You pronounced the captain’s name in such a way that it almost sounded like a curse. No wonder he threatened to send you overboard.”

Seated between them, Margaret stifled a laugh behind her hand.

“You were the one who insisted we did not need an interpreter. And it was never explained to me why the ship captain was from France in the first place. Are not far enough from the Continent to avoid the French?”

“You’ll meet all sorts here. This is the land of learned men.” Carlisle leaned forward and sipped his wine. “You could remain a while, if you liked. A little bit of culture could not go amiss...”

“So you can criticize my language skills some more?” Alexander teased in good humor. He glanced at Margaret, who glowed with happiness. “Two weeks is all you get. We are needed back in England.”

“But I will not be leaving here until you bring me that book,” Margaret said, tapping the table. “For four months, I have been waiting patiently to read about the wonders of Wiltshire. I have a friend who knows a publisher—though perhaps you already have one of your own.”

“Oh, quite, duchess. A long list of them, in fact, is waiting for my manuscript, back in London. I could not possibly decide now, however, which ones to disappoint...”

“That is Carlisle’s way of saying that his book is not done,” Alexander interpreted. He smiled, and it was genuine. “It’s settled, then. Once The Royal Society grows tired of your company, you will return to Salisbury with us.”

Carlisle paused, white brows knit in surprise. “You would have me there?”

“Yes,” Alexander said, feeling Margaret’s hand come to lay on his knee beneath the table. “Somerstead Hall is not quite the same without you, for better or for worse.”

The conversation flowed, as did the wine, until the table was cleared of everything but their glasses.

Carlisle was telling some story of his arrival in Nicosia, and an unfortunate incident involving a goat, and Alexander found himself leaning back in his chair, the tension between his shoulders slowly, miraculously , unwinding.

It had been six months since that day beneath the oak. But there was finally a chance of forgiveness. Alexander was exactly where he needed to be, and so was Carlisle.

And Margaret, he thought, admiring her as the evening turned to night. My Margaret... If Carlisle had not manipulated the truth and made me a duke well before my time, perhaps I would never have come to know her—to love her. I cannot lament this strange life while she is part of it.

Later that night, when the last candle had been extinguished and Carlisle had retired with a good-natured complaint about old bones, Alexander and Margaret walked together toward the beach.

The path down to the sea was lined with olive trees, silver leaves glinting in the moonlight. Margaret walked at his side in silence, a hand tucked lightly into the crook of his arm.

“You were very good with him tonight,” she said, pulling him closer. “You have a more generous heart than you are willing to let on.”

“Is that your official review of me, as your husband?” He smiled when she did.

“It is not generosity that brought us here. It was you. And despite everything, I am thankful. Carlisle has made many mistakes—grave ones—but his care was, as you have tried to show me, unwavering. That I cannot deny. To think of him a father... It feels less absurd by the day.”

She looked up at him, her expression unreadable for a moment.

“What if you thought yourself a father?”

The words undid him more than he had expected. He stopped walking and turned to face her fully. She did not look away.

“I wanted to tell you earlier,” she said. “But I feared it would be poorly timed." She gazed up at the sky. “Now seems right.”

She took his hand and placed it gently on her waist, guiding him to rest it where her dress fell more loosely than before. His eyes searched hers, emotion welling in his throat.

“Margaret...” He blinked away budding tears. “How could you not have told me? You should not be traveling in your condition.”

“I am carrying your child, and the first thing you reward me with is a scolding?” She scowled playfully. “How very like you. Do you think I would have listened anyway? Obedience is not my forte, and you know it.”

He could not speak, could scarcely breathe. But slowly a smile spread across his face, brightening until he was laughing—a soft, disbelieving laugh that carried out to the sea.

Alexander pulled Margaret into his arms, a new future unfolding before them.

Uncertain, yes.

But he had come to find that he liked a bit of uncertainty, so long as she was by his side.

The End?