Page 41 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

She drew a breath, forcing herself to remember why she was here. This was an arrangement. Nothing more. She would help raise Hugh, enjoy the security of Ravenfield, and remain mistress of her own mind and heart. If she kept her distance from Pierce, she would be perfectly safe.

"I do," she said at last.

The vicar smiled and continued the ceremony, speaking of fidelity and devotion while Margaret tried not to notice that Pierce's thumb had begun moving slowly across the back of her hand.

It means nothing. It is merely a husband's touch. Nothing more.

Yet when the vicar finally pronounced them man and wife, Margaret looked up at Pierce and discovered that he was already watching her.

And suddenly, the distance she had promised herself she would maintain seemed much harder to preserve than she had imagined as he closed in and kissed her.

The warmth spread from head to toe. She felt his strong essence all around her, and though it was simply a peck of a kiss, it felt like it lasted an eternity.

She pulled back from the kiss and looked at him.

I suppose the Duke of Ravenfield is now my husband.

* * *

The wedding breakfast at Ravenfield House was everything Margaret had expected a duke's celebration to be and rather more than she had been prepared to endure. The great dining room had been transformed beneath chandeliers blazing with candlelight, while long arrangements of white roses, greenery, and delicate lilies decorated the tables. Silver gleamed beside crystal glasses, and the finest porcelain had been brought from the cabinets that

Margaret suspected were normally opened only for kings, queens, or exceedingly important emergencies. Around her sat some of the most distinguished families in London, their conversation flowing easily beneath the polished surface of good manners, while servants moved silently between them with champagne, wine, and an extravagant assortment of delicacies.

Margaret sat beside Pierce at the head of the table, still struggling to understand that the title everyone was using belonged to her now. Duchess of Ravenfield.

The words sound as though they belong to someone considerably older and much more capable of managing a household without accidentally wandering into the wrong room.

She glanced towards Pierce, who appeared entirely comfortable in his position, speaking quietly with Nathaniel Vernon, Earl of Brydges, who sat nearby. Nathaniel was unmistakably Pierce's closest friend, and Margaret could see why, unlike many of the solemn gentlemen present, he seemed entirely incapable of treating any occasion with the proper degree of seriousness.

Across the table sat the Richards family, another noble household of considerable standing, while the Samsons occupied several seats nearby. Lady Samson was among them, dressed beautifully and displaying the polished confidence of a young woman accustomed to being noticed. Margaret might not have thought anything of it, except that…

Lady Samson has spent nearly half the breakfast watching Pierce.

At first Margaret ignored her. Then she noticed Lady Samson smiling whenever Pierce spoke. Then she noticed the way her gaze lingered upon him. Then Margaret found herself cutting into a piece of chicken with considerably more force than was necessary.

Camelia noticed.

Her sister leaned closer. "You are murdering that chicken."

"I am not."

"You have stabbed it six times," she said.

Margaret looked down at her plate. "It was a troublesome chicken."

Iris, seated on Camelia's other side, followed Margaret's gaze towards Lady Samson and immediately understood. A wicked smile appeared upon her face. "Ah."

Margaret frowned. "What?"

"Nothing."

"I know that expression."

"What expression?" Iris shrugged.

"The one you wear when you have discovered something amusing at my expense."

Camelia laughed softly. "Lady Samson does appear rather interested in the duke."