Page 102 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

"Again?" she asked when he immediately destroyed it. "You are very demanding for such a small gentleman."

His delighted laughter answered her, and the sound warmed something deep within her.

Later, she opened a children's book and settled Hugh against her while she read, pausing every few moments to point towards the garden and show him the flowers. He listened in his own distracted fashion, occasionally patting the page or attempting to chew the corner. Margaret smiled down at him, feeling an unexpected peace settle over her. Whatever Pierce's reasons for leaving, whatever secrets he was chasing, and whatever place she held in his heart, Hugh was here.

She brushed her thumb over the child's soft cheek and sighed quietly. She could not have Pierce's heart. She never would. But she had this little boy, and somehow that felt like a precious gift she had not known she needed.

"All right, little one," she whispered, turning another page as Hugh rested contentedly against her. "Your father may chase ghosts. We shall stay here in the sunshine."

For the moment, Margaret decided, that would have to be enough

But what if the rumors are true? What if he is with her? The mysterious woman who is Hugh’s true mother?

* * *

"I will not allow this to occupy my thoughts at all times. There is much to do around the house," she mumbled to herself.

Margaret sat before the looking glass, drawing the brush slowly through her hair as she prepared for the day. She had become almost absurdly aware of the passing hours since Pierce had left Ravenfield, and no amount of pretending otherwise could disguise the fact that his absence had unsettled her.

Has he truly gone south in pursuit of answers concerning Hugh, or had Mrs. Norris's vague phrase about personal affairs concealed something far more unpleasant? A mistress is a ridiculous suspicion, particularly when Pierce has given me no reason to believe he keeps one, yet why does my imagination persist in supplying one because of Lady Darren’s words?

Perhaps some beautiful woman waited for him at an elegant country house, welcoming him with the sort of warmth Margaret had no business wanting to give him herself. She frowned at her reflection and drew the brush through her hair with unnecessary force, silently ordering herself to stop being foolish.

"How many strokes do you require to brush your hair?" a deep voice asked from behind her.

Margaret froze so completely that the brush nearly slipped from her fingers. She knew that voice, and hearing it now, inside her bedchamber, sent a rush of warmth through her that was thoroughly inconvenient. She rose at once and turned towards him, her eyes widening when she found Pierce standing in the doorway as though his sudden appearance were the most ordinary thing in the world.

"You have returned," she managed, staring at him as though he had materialized from one of her more troublesome dreams.

"I said that I would," Pierce replied, closing the door behind him with quiet deliberation.

His expression was composed, almost stern, but there was something in his eyes that made Margaret's heart stumble.

Of course he has returned; he had said he would, and there is no reason to look at him as though I have been waiting desperately for this very moment.

"Of course," she echoed, lowering her gaze towards the brush as she tried to recover her dignity.

Silence settled between them, thick with everything neither seemed willing to say. It had been only several days, yet Margaret suddenly realized how much she had missed the sound of his voice, the commanding presence of him, and even the maddening way he seemed capable of making her lose every sensible thought in her head.

For one humiliating instant, she felt like a debutante seeing her first handsome gentleman across a ballroom. She wanted to cross the room, throw her arms around him and confess that she had missed him terribly, but she could not possibly know whether he had missed her in return.

Better to be cool.

She lifted her chin, forcing her familiar wit back into place. "How were your travels?" she asked, adopting a tone of polite indifference that fooled absolutely no one, least of all herself.

"Productive," Pierce answered, his gaze remaining fixed upon her.

"Did you manage your personal affairs?" Margaret asked, carefully watching his expression.

"Indeed I did," he replied, giving her nothing more.

She bit the inside of her cheek. If she asked him whether his personal affairs involved another woman, she would sound jealous, and Margaret Wilmore Sterling was many things, but she was not about to make a spectacle of herself. Instead, she picked up her hair ribbon and studied him through the looking glass as she fixed it in her hair.

"Where did your travels take you?" she asked, making the question sound almost casual.

"South."

"That is remarkably descriptive."