Page 9 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

"You must leave now," he said, his expression once again unreadable.

Margaret stared at him through the delicate mask, bewildered by the abrupt change in him. "Before anyone sees you," he continued, lowering his hand, "you must return home."

His tone was firm, almost cold, though she could still feel the warmth of his breath against her neck.

"A married woman is far more protected than a ruined one, whether she likes it or not," he added, watching her carefully. "You may believe ruin is your escape, but society will not be kind to you afterwards. Everyone must carry their own burden."

Margaret pulled away from him, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, desire, and fury.

"You are cruel," she accused, pressing one hand against her throat as though she could somehow erase the memory of his touch. "You say you understand me, yet you refuse to help me when you know precisely why I am desperate."

Pierce remained silent, and his silence infuriated her further.

"I have no other way," she insisted, her voice breaking slightly beneath the strain. "Do you understand? I have one week, then I shall be trapped."

"I understand feeling trapped," he replied quietly.

"No, you do not," Margaret said, shaking her head. "If you did, you would not send me away."

Pierce's expression tightened, but he did not stop her when she turned towards the door. Margaret could feel his eyes upon her as she crossed the room, and every step became an argument between pride and the humiliating desire to turn around. She wanted him to call her back, to change his mind, to offer the very thing she had asked for, yet he remained silent. By the time she reached the corridor, her heart was pounding with frustration.

She hurried from Ravenfield Manor without looking back, convinced that she had wasted her only chance. The wedding was only days away, Harrowby was waiting, and every sensible escape seemed to have disappeared before her. Margaret climbed into her carriage with trembling hands and stared blindly through the window as London passed outside.

I thought myself bold enough to defy anyone, yet tonight I have discovered something far more dangerous than Geoffrey Harrowby's contract. The Duke of Ravenfield has awakened a longing I never knew existed, only to leave me facing my fate alone.

* * *

Pierce remained in the smoking room long after Margaret had gone, staring at the closed door as though he might somehow summon her back by force of will alone. His body had betrayed the composure he had fought to maintain, his pulse still quick from the brief intimacy between them and an undeniable heat stirring beneath his clothing.

Every instinct urged him to follow her and grant the desperate request she had made, and for one reckless moment, he nearly did. He had spent the past year drowning his grief in a debaucherous haze, with Nathaniel at his side as they drank, gambled, and sought the company of women who asked no difficult questions.

Why should tonight be different? Lady Margaret had practically thrown herself at me, and the darker parts of me whispered that I ought to oblige since she needed to be rescued.

He took one step towards the door, then stopped. His hand almost reached the handle, and his mind supplied a dozen reasons why he should open it, find her carriage, and take her back before she disappeared into the night.

He turned and poured himself a stiff glass of brandy and returned his thoughts to the mission at hand.

"I must find out who wrote that letter and why. I won't find them hiding in here."

He stepped out of the room into the corridor. Then a sound drifted toward him. Pierce froze. It was faint at first, almost indistinguishable beneath the music and conversation from the ballroom, but then it came again.

A baby's cry. He stared towards the door, his expression changing as an inexplicable chill travelled down his spine.

"No," he murmured, shaking his head as though he could dismiss the sound by refusing to believe it.

For two years, he had dreamed of hearing that cry, only to wake to silence and the knowledge that his child had supposedly died before ever drawing breath. Yet the sound came again, unmistakable this time, and Pierce hurried into the corridor. He followed it past startled servants until he reached a small gathering, where several household staff stood clustered around a basket.

Pierce stopped several feet away. Inside lay a baby, perhaps a year old, bundled warmly against the night's chill.

One of the servants immediately stepped forward. "Your Grace, a masked lady brought the child," she explained nervously. "She asked that we deliver him directly to you. She would say nothing more."

Pierce's gaze remained fixed upon the infant as the servant held out a folded note. "She left this as well, Your Grace."

Pierce took it with trembling fingers. He recognized the handwriting before he had even unfolded it.

His breath caught as he opened the paper and read the few words written inside.

This is Hugh. He's your son.