Page 14 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

Iris sat beside her and reached for her hand. "And there is something else."

Margaret looked at her.

"No sensible man would spend the time and money to rescue a woman to whom he has no family connection simply out of charity," Iris said gently. "Pierce Sterling has a reason for doing this."

Margaret stared down at their joined hands. Her heart sank.

Iris is right.

Pierce had said he would see her tomorrow. And now Margaret desperately wanted to know what he intended to demand in return.

She got ready for bed but found that she could not sleep. She had changed positions so many times that the sheets had become hopelessly tangled around her legs, yet every time she closed her eyes, the same question returned with renewed insistence.

What will the Duke of Ravenfield ask of me?

It was no use. Her thoughts wandered inevitably back to the masquerade. She remembered the moment he had stepped towards her, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed upon hers. Most of all, she remembered the warmth of his breath when he leaned close, and his lips brushed her neck, and a sudden heat rushed through her.

Margaret pressed her fingers against her cheek, horrified to discover how warm it had become.

"Why did I want him to kiss me?"

She had gone to the masquerade intending to manufacture a scandal, but the instant Pierce had come near her, her carefully constructed plan had become something entirely different. She had wanted his attention. Worse, she had wanted him to continue.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the canopy above her bed. "This is ridiculous," she whispered, though there was no one present to hear her. Pierce Sterling was a stranger, a dangerously mysterious man with a reputation she had only begun to understand, and yet her body seemed determined to remember every detail of their brief encounter. She could still imagine his hand beneath her chin, the quiet authority in his voice, and the astonishing sensation of being looked at as though he truly saw her.

Margaret pulled the pillow over her face.

"Tomorrow he will come. And I have the sinking suspicion that whatever arrangement he intends to propose, surviving the conversation will require considerably more composure than I currently possess."

CHAPTER 5

The following afternoon, Pierce arrived at Lempster House with the certainty of a man who had already made his decision. His carriage stopped before the grand entrance, and moments later he was announced to the household.

He entered the parlour to find Lady Margaret with her father, and he inclined his head with the proper courtesy expected of a duke.

"My lord. Lady Margaret," he greeted, his voice calm as his gaze settled upon her.

Margaret returned the greeting, though the expression she gave him suggested she was suspicious of his arrival.

"I confess I am rather interested to discover what you have to say," Margaret remarked, folding her hands before her.

Pierce detected the slight impatience beneath her politeness and nearly smiled.

"You told me you would see me today, and I have spent a considerable amount of time wondering why."

He removed his gloves slowly. "I shall tell you," he replied, "but first I must speak with your father."

Margaret's eyebrows rose. "Why?"

"Because it concerns a matter upon which I believe I should first have his understanding."

She gave a small gasp of indignation. "Whatever you have to say to him, you can say to me."

Pierce glanced towards Bernard, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. There was something almost amusing about watching Margaret attempt to order a duke about in her father's drawing room.

Pierce found himself studying her more closely than he ought. There was something about Margaret's expression that perpetually intrigued him, perhaps because she seemed incapable of concealing what she thought for more than a few seconds.

Her dark eyes were expressive, her mouth often poised upon the edge of some clever remark, and the dimples in her cheeks appeared whenever she was amused or annoyed. He remembered her Flora costume from the masquerade, and the memory returned with surprising clarity. It had suited her remarkably well. There was something soft about her, like a flower, but beneath that softness lay something strong and unbendable, almost regal, like a goddess who had merely been waiting for someone foolish enough to challenge her.