Page 92 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

"Look at those, darling," she said, holding him securely against her as he reached towards a cluster of roses. "Those are roses. Very pretty, but you must not pull them. They have thorns, and I should hate for you to discover that lesson personally."

Hugh made an excited little sound and waved his hands.

Margaret laughed. "Yes, I know. Your opinion has been noted."

She took him into the garden afterwards, where the morning sun poured over the lawns.

Hugh's face brightened almost immediately, and Margaret settled beneath a tree with him resting comfortably against her.

"There you are," she murmured, kissing his temple. "Sunshine, flowers, and fresh air. I know how to arrange a proper morning."

She had married Pierce for practical reasons. He had needed a mother for Hugh, and she had needed freedom from Harrowby. That was all. Their arrangement had been sensible, mutually beneficial and, above all, temporary in spirit, even if the marriage itself was permanent. She ought to be grateful for his help, respectful of his position and entirely indifferent to the broad shoulders beneath his immaculate coats.

Instead, she had developed the absurd habit of noticing his shoulders.

And his hands. And his voice.

Especially his voice when he lowered it and spoke as though the rest of the world had disappeared.

Margaret sighed and watched Hugh pat enthusiastically at a rose bush from the safety of her arms. "You must not grow up to be like your father," she told him solemnly. "One overbearing man in this household is quite enough."

Hugh answered with a delighted babble.

"Precisely," she said, nodding gravely. "I knew you would understand."

Yet even as she teased the child, an uncomfortable thought crept into her mind.

Pierce is not quite as heartless as I had first believed. I have seen glimpses of something beneath his stern exterior: the way he holds Hugh when he thought no one was watching, the regret in his expression when he realized how much of his son's childhood he had missed, the unexpected tenderness in his voice when speaking to me.

He could be infuriating, certainly. He could be controlling, arrogant, and so rigid that she sometimes wanted to throw one of his precious rule books into the fire.

But cruel? Why did Augusta flee if he were not cruel at all?

She was no longer certain. That uncertainty was far more intriguing than dislike.

Because if Pierce truly were a villain, Margaret could have protected herself quite easily. She could have kept her heart guarded, performed her duties, and maintained a respectable distance. But if there was kindness hidden beneath all that severity, if there was loneliness beneath his pride, then she found herself wanting to know him.

And wanting to know Pierce was precisely the sort of foolishness that led women into trouble.

She remembered their conversation. For once, he had not seemed like the Duke of Ravenfield. He had simply seemed like a man who had spent his entire life being told what he ought to be and had forgotten that he was allowed to be something else.

She looked down at Hugh, who had become distracted by a butterfly drifting across the lawn. "You are the reason I must remain sensible," she whispered, brushing a kiss against his soft hair. "Your father is entirely too distracting."

Hugh squealed and reached for the butterfly.

Margaret laughed. "Yes, I know. Apparently you disagree."

She carried him back towards the house, determined to occupy herself with something useful. Yet as she passed beneath the tall windows, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass and stopped.

She looked different. Not physically. That was not it. There was something in her expression that had not been there before she came to Ravenfield.

Something softer. Something hopeful.

Margaret frowned at herself. "No," she whispered firmly. "Absolutely not."

She was not falling for Pierce. She barely knew the man. Besides, he was impossible.

She did not notice the figure standing at an upper window.