Page 98 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

Nathaniel laughed as Pierce turned away. "Good God, Ravenfield. I never thought I would see the day."

Neither had Pierce.

He left the house and descended the steps towards his waiting carriage, the cool early evening air doing little to settle the strange feeling that had taken hold of him. Once inside, he leaned back against the leather seat and stared through the carriage window as Nathaniel’s house disappeared behind him.

There had been a time when such an invitation would have required no consideration whatsoever. He would have accepted the evening’s entertainment without hesitation, amused by the secrecy, the indulgence, and the knowledge that tomorrow he would remember very little of it.

Now the thought left him utterly indifferent.

His mind went instead to dark eyes, loose dark hair, and a woman who possessed the astonishing ability to argue with him until he forgot why he had been angry in the first place. Margaret had somehow become the measure against which every other woman seemed to fall short, and Pierce found the realization both inconvenient and deeply unsettling.

He exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand over his jaw.

"What have you done to me, Duchess?" he muttered, though there was no one present to hear him.

The carriage rolled through the streets, carrying him home, and Pierce realized with some astonishment that he was looking forward to seeing her. Not merely because she was his wife, nor because she was the mother of Hugh, nor because she had become an increasingly fascinating complication in his carefully ordered life. He wanted Margaret herself.

That is the dangerous part.

For the first time in years, debauchery held no appeal. He did not want another woman’s attention, another flirtation, another meaningless night. He wanted to walk through his own front door and find his wife there. He wanted to hear her laugh, provoke her into another argument, watch her with Hugh, and earn one of those rare smiles she gave him when she forgot she was supposed to be annoyed with him.

And furthermore…

I want her in my bed.

Pierce frowned at the thought.

This was precisely the sort of development he had spent his entire life avoiding.

He had once believed attachment was a weakness. Now he was beginning to suspect that Margaret had quietly become one of the few things in the world he could not imagine willingly surrendering.

And he was not entirely certain whether that frightened him more than it pleased him.

I am getting too close. I must leave Ravenfield for a while. I have made my decision.

* * *

Margaret sat alone in the drawing room with a glass of port balanced delicately between her fingers, listening to the grandfather clock count out the minutes. Hugh had gone to bed some time ago, and she had been assured that he was settled comfortably, which left only one matter to occupy her thoughts: Pierce was due to return, and they were supposed to dine together.

She told herself she was merely waiting because it was the polite thing to do. It certainly had nothing to do with the peculiar flutter in her stomach at the thought of seeing him again.

When a sudden commotion sounded in the hall, Margaret nearly spilled her drink. She sprang to her feet and hurried towards the looking glass above the mantel, then immediately wondered what possessed her to behave like a nervous debutante.

She pinched color into her cheeks, smoothed the front of her gown, and hurriedly arranged a loose strand of hair that had escaped its pins.

"Good heavens, Margaret," she muttered to her reflection, narrowing her eyes at herself. "You are a duchess, not a girl waiting for her first beau."

A door closed somewhere in the hall, followed by another, and then came silence. Margaret stared towards the drawing-room entrance, her brow furrowing.

Surely that had been Pierce returning. Why has he not joined me?

She waited another moment before whispering, "Was that not the Duke?" The question received no answer, naturally, because the furniture of Ravenfield House had yet to develop the habit of conversing with her.

The door opened a moment later, and Mrs. Norris entered with an apologetic expression that Margaret immediately distrusted.

"Your Grace, His Grace has asked me to inform you that he shall be taking supper in his study this evening," the housekeeper said carefully, clasping her hands before her. "He has also requested that you dine in the dining room as usual."

Margaret felt the disappointment before she could stop it, and she hated herself for allowing it to show.