Page 93 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

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Pierce had returned earlier than expected and had stopped when he saw them below. From a distance, he watched Margaret carry Hugh from flower to flower, speaking to him with endless patience and amusement. He watched his son reach for her face and heard Margaret laugh when Hugh caught a strand of her hair.

Pierce remained there longer than he intended.

Margaret knew nothing of it. She simply smiled at Hugh and held him closer, utterly unaware that the man who had once believed flowers useless was beginning to wonder whether the entire house had been missing something until she arrived.

He moved away from the window and walked down the corridor, determined to push her out of his mind.

Then he stopped. "Daisies?"

The flowers in the vase had seemed to come out of nowhere. He had never seen a reason to put flowers in the vases. Now they seemed to be on every corner.

"This woman," he sighed.

He remembered her explanation. Margaret is French for “daisy”. Which meant she had managed to decorate the home with Margaret’s.

"However, can I keep her off my mind now?" He rolled his eyes and continued down the hall.

But as the scent of lavender hit him, he took a deep breath. A calm came over him. Then he felt a sudden jolt of annoyance.

"Of course, she is right about this as well. Blasted."

* * *

The following afternoon, Margaret had almost convinced herself that Ravenfield House no longer felt entirely unfamiliar. The flowers she had insisted upon now brightened the corridors, sunlight streamed through windows that had once seemed perpetually dim, and Hugh's laughter could occasionally be heard from the nursery.

She was sitting in the parlor having tea when the butler announced that her father had arrived, and Margaret sprang to her feet with such enthusiasm that she nearly overturned the tea table.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, hurrying towards him as Bernard entered the room.

He smiled broadly and opened his arms, and Margaret threw herself into his embrace with all the affection she had felt since childhood.

"My darling girl," Bernard said warmly, holding her tightly before drawing back to inspect her face. "Look at you. A duchess! I have been away only a short while, and somehow you have become entirely grown up."

Margaret laughed. Her father had always been a gentle, soft-mannered man, more comfortable listening than commanding, and despite his years he possessed a trusting nature that had occasionally made his daughters worry for him. He had loved their mother deeply, and after losing her, he had found his greatest comfort in Iris, Camelia and Margaret. Seeing him now, standing in the elegant parlor of Ravenfield House, Margaret felt a familiar ache of affection.

"Bring another pot of fresh tea," she told the servant.

"Of course, Your Grace," he bowed and left the room.

"I have missed you dreadfully, Papa" she told him, taking his arm and leading him towards the chairs. "I am so pleased you have returned safely from your trip. How was it?"

"Very pleasing and productive," he said.

"You must sit and have tea and tell me all about it," she said as she took a plate and served him a tart.

The servant entered with another pot and cup and set it down on the table.

"Tell me everything." Margaret poured her father a steaming cup and handed it to him.

"I met with merchants in the north to bring some wool south to London for quite the bargain," he said cheerfully.

"Oh, that is very good," she said.

"It is. The journey was not good on my old bones. Always jostling and jolting in those carriages. Quite the discomfort that I look forward to every coaching in simply to be still for a night," she said.

"Oh, Papa. You must take care of yourself. A hot bath to soak your bones with lavender will help immensely," she said.