“Yes... And I shall say no more than that, Miss.” She stepped away from the chair. “Do you require anything else from me, or shall I leave you to your bed?”
“Leave me,” Margaret said, staring at her reflection, trying not to picture the duke’s usual choice of company and compare herself unduly to them. “Thank you for your help, Beth.”
The door clicked quietly behind the maid as she departed, leaving Margaret sitting before the mirror in silence. She sniffed her hair. Beth had used some rosewater to fragrance her, and between the smell of roses and the frilly cotton night chemise, Margaret felt like an entirely different woman. The rain was a gentle susurration in the distance, the storm having almost ended. But the night, Margaret feared, would be long indeed, regardless of the weather.
Margaret hissed as a bead of candlewax fell on her thumb. She narrowly avoided dropping the candleholder, steadying it as she continued her walk. From the amount the candle had burned during her rest, she estimated she had been trying to sleep for an hour before abandoning her bed. Her mind buzzed with anxious thoughts, not least of all concerns for Lady Jane and Helena, who must have been worried sick for Margaret and Mr. Plim.
The duke had assured her that he would send a rider as soon as the rain stopped. She paused to look out of the large window beside her in the hall, which sent slashes of silver moonlight across the floor. The clouds had parted, but the rain had yet to cease.
And even though I am grateful that the Duke of Langley saved me, I still don’t trust him. Sending a rider would inevitablyconnect him to me. How would he know to trust Lady Jane with a secret such as this?
She sucked in a breath and pressed on, unsure whether she was headed the right way. Given the events of that evening, she doubted she would ever be allowed anywhere near Somerstead Hall again. Which meant she had to make the most of the night and explore the house to her heart’s content, especially if there was a chance of sleeping. She owed it to her grandfather, whose genuine passion for the place had delighted her as a child, to fill herself up with memories of the manor before it was too late.
Retracing her steps from years ago, she found herself in the manor’s grand ballroom. Memories washed over her as she imagined the chandeliers overhead and the dancers on the floor. Now there was only darkness and the faint light of the moon. She proceeded to the staircase that led to the upper gallery, her ankle hurting more than before as she climbed the steps.
Almost immediately, Margaret sensed she wasn’t alone. A flicker of candlelight caught her attention.
And then she saw him.
The Duke of Langley was leaning against the balcony, studying one of the paintings. His face was barely discernible in the light of his candle, shining from the side table nearby. A floorboard creaked beneath her as Margaret tried to retreat. He snapped his head quickly toward her, unfolding his arms.
“Miss Pembroke?” he asked, his voice touched with fatigue. “What are you doing?”
“Forgive me,” Margaret said, wondering whether it was better just to turn around, maybe pretend she was a ghost. “I had not thought anyone else would be roaming the manor at that time of night. But of course, I should not have been walking around by myself. I should?—”
“I asked you what you were doing.”
There was genuine suspicion in his tone, and Margaret’s skin prickled at the sound of it.
“I had come to look at the paintings,” she admitted pathetically. “I couldn’t sleep and thought I should busy myself in some way. After all, I did not get the chance to see them all the last time I was here.”
The duke was quiet for a moment, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling in the dim light. Margaret braced herself for another scolding, surprised when he sighed in defeat instead.
“Then study them until you become weary enough to sleep. That is my own present occupation,” he said, seizing his candleholder and stepping toward her.
He wasn’t dressed for bed, still wearing his clean white shirt and trousers. He smelled like soap and smoke, and Margaret heldher breath as he passed her, tingles rippling over her scalp, down her neck.
“Was the room not to your satisfaction?” the duke asked, insinuating that she was meant to follow him. “You said you could not sleep.”
“Nothing of the sort. The room is lovely,” Margaret replied, falling into step. “I was concerned about Lady Jane, among other things. I know you have done so much for me already, Your Grace, but?—”
“The boot-boy was sent to Lady Jane at Brockenhedge House the second I returned,” he explained, putting her doubts to rest. “He arrived moments ago, saying his journey had been successful. Your host has been informed of your whereabouts and told not to worry.”
A weight lifted from Margaret’s shoulders. “How relieved that makes me... Lady Jane has been nothing but excellent to me for as long as I can remember. She was no doubt preparing to ride into the storm herself to try and locate me.”
“What little I know of the Lady Jane suggests you are right. But come. You wanted to see the paintings.” He increased his pace, pointing toward a piece of artwork on their left. He lit a sconce with his candle, allowing them both a better view of the painting. “This one dates to the thirteenth century, the earliest in the collection.”
It was an impossible task to focus on the painting with the duke standing so close to her in the dark. The ballroom below them was silent, and what small noises their bodies made as they navigated the space echoed all around. She had never been so aware of another presence before, absorbing nothing about the artwork of Somerstead Hall buteverythingabout the duke—the rhythm of his breath, the shapes of him, the timbre of his voice.
“This collection is fascinating,” Margaret murmured, pretending to study the art. “And it is so meticulously organized. I have found everything about Somerstead Hall to be flawless so far. The decor, your pleasant staff – completely above reproach.”
“That is how I prefer it. Disorder is exhausting, do you not find?”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Once, I would have said that a little chaos is good for the soul. But there has been so much tumult in my life recently that I am inclined to agree with you instead.” They drifted to the next painting, depicting the north-facing gardens. She smiled, examining the finer details. “My sister would like this one.”
“I had not known you had a sister.”
“Eliza is very young still... only ten years old. She is much unlike me.”
