Page 110 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

How could I possibly tell him? How could I admit that every time he leaves Ravenfield, I feel abandoned? That I hated not knowing where he went? That I had begun to dread the words personal affairs because they left far too much room for my imagination to torture me?

Worst of all, Lady Darren's poisonous insinuation still echoed in her mind. Hugh's mother had been his mistress, the woman had suggested, rather than his respectable late wife. Margaret had dismissed it as malicious gossip, but doubt was a particularly persistent little creature.

She swallowed hard. "How long will you be gone on your next... personal affair?" she asked instead, forcing the words out evenly.

Pierce's expression became guarded. "I cannot say yet."

Margaret stared at him, feeling her patience snap. Of course he could not say. He never said anything. He disappeared behind secrets and expected everyone else to stand patiently outside the door until he decided to emerge. "Then perhaps you ought to make a habit of taking your duchess with you," she said bitterly, turning away.

His brow furrowed. "Margaret."

"No." She shook her head and gathered her skirts. "I have had enough of this evening."

"You are being unreasonable."

"And you are being impossible," she said.

"I have done nothing to offend you."

"That," she replied, whirling around, "is precisely the problem. You never do anything. You tell me nothing, you explain nothing, and then you expect me to smile and behave as though I am perfectly content."

Pierce took a step towards her, his jaw tightening. "You are my wife. You should trust me."

Her heart gave a painful little twist at the words. Wife. The title had once felt like a sentence; now it somehow felt like something she desperately wanted him to mean. "Then," she said quietly, "you should give me something to trust."

For one fleeting moment, his expression changed. Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly that Margaret wondered whether she had imagined it. She could not bear another moment of uncertainty.

"I am leaving," she announced, turning towards the ballroom. "If you will not take me home, I shall find Iris or Camelia and ask one of them to escort me."

"Margaret, wait."

She ignored him.

She marched through the open doors with as much dignity as she could summon, her mask dangling from her fingers and her pearls trembling against her throat. She could feel his gaze following her, but she refused to turn around. If Pierce wished to chase her, he could do so. If he did not, then she would have her answer.

* * *

Margaret marched through the entrance of Ravenfield with every intention of making it perfectly clear that she was furious. She swept past the footmen without acknowledging them, removed her gloves with sharp little tugs, and handed them to a startled servant before continuing towards the staircase. Her cheeks were still warm from the argument at Samson House, and the pearls Pierce had given her seemed to mock her with every delicate movement. They had been a beautiful gift, chosen with care and thought, and yet tonight she had spent most of the evening wondering whether the man who had placed them around her neck was already preparing to leave her again.

She had barely reached the center of the entrance hall when Pierce caught up with her. His fingers closed around her hand, stopping her retreat, and she spun towards him with a glare that would have frightened a less formidable man.

"What is your trouble?" he asked, his voice low as he studied her face.

Margaret stared at him, suddenly overwhelmed by everything she had been trying to swallow all evening. She had told herself she was merely annoyed, that she disliked being kept uninformed, that she was tired after the ball, but none of those explanations touched the truth. She was frightened, and she was tired of being frightened alone.

"How have our roles somehow become reversed?" she demanded, pulling her hand free only to gesture helplessly between them. "You were the one asking me not to flee, yet you have been the one with one foot out the door all this time." Her voice trembled despite her determination to keep it steady. "And now you are actually leaving again."

The admission seemed to echo through the enormous hall, and Margaret hated how vulnerable she suddenly felt. She had promised herself she would never become the sort of wife who clung to her husband, yet here she was, practically begging him to understand why his absences frightened her.

Pierce regarded her with a mixture of irritation and bewilderment. "You are exaggerating," he said, his thumb brushing absently across his palm where her hand had been. "I will not be gone forever."

Margaret stared at him. "How do you know that?" she asked quietly.

Pierce's expression shifted, and then, to her astonishment, a smirk appeared. "Are you worried that something might happen to me?" he asked, clearly amused by the revelation.

Margaret's eyes narrowed. "It is not funny." She could hardly believe he was smiling when her heart felt as though it were being squeezed inside her chest.

"No," Pierce replied, stepping closer, "what is truly not funny is the way you are driving me mad." His voice had changed, losing the teasing quality. He looked at her as though she were a puzzle he had spent months attempting to solve and had finally realized was impossible.