Page 9 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

" Y ou’re lucky your hair didn’t mat into knots, Miss Pembroke,” the maid said from behind Margaret as she ran a comb through her wet waves. “The amount of dirt that came out of it in the bath... I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Margaret winced as the maid tugged too forcefully on the ivory comb.

From what she had gathered, the young woman was a chambermaid whom the housekeeper had instructed to act as a lady’s maid for Margaret.

She pressed her eyes shut to block out the pain, remembering how gentle her own lady’s maid had been.

Like most of the staff, poor Augusta had been sent away months ago, and she was now working in some house out in Surrey.

If Margaret restored herself – no, when she restored herself – she would go first thing to Surrey and take Augusta back.

Her present attendant, a freckle-faced girl named Beth, was certainly no Augusta. Admittedly, she had brought a stool for Margaret to elevate her ankle on while she finished her toilette – clever and diligent, if not delicate.

“I think I have the pouring rain to thank for saving my hair. It washed most of the mud away... and threatened to strip me of my skin too,” Margaret said, settling in the chair.

She glanced around the room. The yellow wallpaper bordered on gold, a perfect complement to the rest of the furnishings.

“His Grace has no wife, yet this room is outfitted for a queen. Who once resided here? Do you know?”

“Erm...” Beth paused to glance around, and Margaret was glad to give her scalp a break.

“I think it was His Grace’s grandmother, but I can’t be sure.

That was long before my time. But the chemise you’re wearing was from the Duchess of Langley.

The old Duke and Duchess’s chambers are on the other side of the house where His Grace now sleeps.

I’m in charge of changing his linens, you see. ”

She obviously took pride in her work. Margaret imagined that it was no easy task.

“Does he treat you well?” she asked, looking for Beth in the mirror. “He seems to be an exigent master, to say the least.”

“Oh, he is, of course,” Beth replied emphatically, then gasped, remembering herself.

“Although I shouldn’t say anything about His Grace’s personal habits.

It’s only that he likes things a certain way.

But he treats us well and is generous with our pay.

I don’t mind, really. And since he is so rarely here at the manor, it hardly matters. ”

“Why rarely?” Margaret asked. She shouldn’t have been curious about the duke after what he had said, but there was something about him, his history, that intrigued her – maybe because of her affinity for Somerstead Hall. “A house of this size and history requires a constant guardian.”

“Right you are, Miss Pembroke.” Beth set down the brush – thank heavens – to start braiding Margaret’s hair.

She was much gentler now, and Margaret moaned as the weaving pattern of the girl's fingers soothed her. “But usually it is Lord Somerton, His Grace’s uncle, who remains in residence while His Grace lives in London. This is the first time we have had the pleasure of attending His Grace since last summer.”

“He must be a busy man.”

Beth snickered. “Oh, aye.”

Margaret raised a brow at Beth’s tone.

“I was speaking about his work,” Margaret said.

“Oh.” Beth paused, her cheeks coloring. “As... was I.”

“No, you weren’t.” Margaret felt a smile pull at the side of her mouth. “Have you heard things, Beth? Is the duke...? He cannot possibly be that popular. The man is?—”

She cut herself off, worried he would be able to hear her say insufferable from the other end of the house.

Of course, Margaret wasn’t blind. The Duke of Langley was young and handsome, absurdly rich, and cultured.

The list of his qualities was long indeed.

But so was the list of his flaws. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to spend any measure of intimate time with a man like that.

It must have been a rigorous, unfeeling business.

Her skin suddenly tingled at the thought, and she corrected her train of thinking. Helena read too many novels she wasn’t supposed to and told Margaret too much about them. She cleared her throat, but when she looked up, Beth was staring at her with a grin.

“We are both women,” Margaret said coolly, grabbing a ribbon and thrusting it toward Beth. “We know precisely what he is.”

“Precisely,” Beth agreed, giggling quietly.

“A stream of tall dark-haired women,” she continued, looking proudly at her work, draping the braid over Margaret’s shoulder.

“That’s what they say comes in and out of the London house.

We don’t get any of that here at Somerstead Hall – not with Lord Somerton watching. ”

“I see the duke has a type,” Margaret scoffed. “But a veritable stream , you say?”

“Yes... And I shall say no more than that, Miss.” She stepped away from the chair. “Do you require anything else from me, or shall I leave you to your bed?”

“Leave me,” Margaret said, staring at her reflection, trying not to picture the duke’s usual choice of company and compare herself unduly to them. “Thank you for your help, Beth.”

The door clicked quietly behind the maid as she departed, leaving Margaret sitting before the mirror in silence.

She sniffed her hair. Beth had used some rosewater to fragrance her, and between the smell of roses and the frilly cotton night chemise, Margaret felt like an entirely different woman.

The rain was a gentle susurration in the distance, the storm having almost ended.

But the night, Margaret feared, would be long indeed, regardless of the weather.

Margaret hissed as a bead of candlewax fell on her thumb.

She narrowly avoided dropping the candleholder, steadying it as she continued her walk.

From the amount the candle had burned during her rest, she estimated she had been trying to sleep for an hour before abandoning her bed.

Her mind buzzed with anxious thoughts, not least of all concerns for Lady Jane and Helena, who must have been worried sick for Margaret and Mr. Plim.

The duke had assured her that he would send a rider as soon as the rain stopped. She paused to look out of the large window beside her in the hall, which sent slashes of silver moonlight across the floor. The clouds had parted, but the rain had yet to cease.

And even though I am grateful that the Duke of Langley saved me, I still don’t trust him. Sending a rider would inevitably connect him to me. How would he know to trust Lady Jane with a secret such as this?

She sucked in a breath and pressed on, unsure whether she was headed the right way.

Given the events of that evening, she doubted she would ever be allowed anywhere near Somerstead Hall again.

Which meant she had to make the most of the night and explore the house to her heart’s content, especially if there was a chance of sleeping.

She owed it to her grandfather, whose genuine passion for the place had delighted her as a child, to fill herself up with memories of the manor before it was too late.

Retracing her steps from years ago, she found herself in the manor’s grand ballroom.

Memories washed over her as she imagined the chandeliers overhead and the dancers on the floor.

Now there was only darkness and the faint light of the moon.

She proceeded to the staircase that led to the upper gallery, her ankle hurting more than before as she climbed the steps.

Almost immediately, Margaret sensed she wasn’t alone. A flicker of candlelight caught her attention.

And then she saw him.

The Duke of Langley was leaning against the balcony, studying one of the paintings.

His face was barely discernible in the light of his candle, shining from the side table nearby.

A floorboard creaked beneath her as Margaret tried to retreat.

He snapped his head quickly toward her, unfolding his arms.

“Miss Pembroke?” he asked, his voice touched with fatigue. “What are you doing?”

“Forgive me,” Margaret said, wondering whether it was better just to turn around, maybe pretend she was a ghost. “I had not thought anyone else would be roaming the manor at that time of night. But of course, I should not have been walking around by myself. I should?—”

“I asked you what you were doing.”

There was genuine suspicion in his tone, and Margaret’s skin prickled at the sound of it.

“I had come to look at the paintings,” she admitted pathetically. “I couldn’t sleep and thought I should busy myself in some way. After all, I did not get the chance to see them all the last time I was here.”

The duke was quiet for a moment, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling in the dim light. Margaret braced herself for another scolding, surprised when he sighed in defeat instead.

“Then study them until you become weary enough to sleep. That is my own present occupation,” he said, seizing his candleholder and stepping toward her.

He wasn’t dressed for bed, still wearing his clean white shirt and trousers. He smelled like soap and smoke, and Margaret held her breath as he passed her, tingles rippling over her scalp, down her neck.

“Was the room not to your satisfaction?” the duke asked, insinuating that she was meant to follow him. “You said you could not sleep.”

“Nothing of the sort. The room is lovely,” Margaret replied, falling into step. “I was concerned about Lady Jane, among other things. I know you have done so much for me already, Your Grace, but?—”

“The boot-boy was sent to Lady Jane at Brockenhedge House the second I returned,” he explained, putting her doubts to rest. “He arrived moments ago, saying his journey had been successful. Your host has been informed of your whereabouts and told not to worry.”