Page 90 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

The question struck him harder than he expected. Pierce's gaze shifted towards the tall windows lining the corridor, though there was nothing beyond the glass but the darkness of the evening. Augusta had become a ghost in his life long ago, but ghosts had a troublesome habit of appearing whenever one least wanted them. He had never truly known whether he was the man she had feared, the husband she had been unable to bear, or simply a foolish man who had failed to see what was happening beneath his own roof.

"I do not know," he admitted at last, his voice low.

Margaret watched him carefully. "You do not know?"

"No." Pierce's arms tightened across his chest. "I know only that she left. I know she was troubled, and I know that I did not understand the extent of it until it was too late."

His mouth tightened as old guilt settled heavily upon him. He had spent years telling himself that he had done his duty, that he had provided everything a duchess could require, that his household had been orderly and respectable.

Yet what good was order when the woman living within it was falling apart? What use were rules when I failed to notice the person those rules were meant to protect?

"If I had been more observant," he continued, forcing the words from himself, "if I had been less bound by ceremony and duty, then I would not have driven her to the point where she believed she had to flee. Maybe she would still be alive."

Margaret's expression changed. The irritation left her face, replaced by something Pierce could not easily name.

Pity. Is it?

He disliked the thought of her pitying him. He expected judgement. He had almost grown comfortable with being judged. It was easier than being forgiven.

She stepped closer and reached for his arm. Her fingers settled gently against his sleeve, and the simple gesture nearly undid him.

"You did not cause her condition," she said softly.

Pierce looked down at her hand. "You cannot know that."

"I know enough," Margaret replied, her voice calm. "You could not cure something simply by being a better husband."

Her words slipped beneath his defenses with astonishing ease. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Everyone else seemed determined either to condemn him or excuse him, but Margaret had somehow found a third possibility; she could see his failures without deciding they made him irredeemable.

It frightened him.

He looked into her eyes, and suddenly he was aware of everything he had been trying not to notice. The softness of her lips. The warmth beneath his hand when he imagined touching her. The faint scent of flowers that seemed to cling to her wherever she went. He had told himself that their attraction was merely physical, a troublesome inconvenience that would eventually fade, but standing there with her hand upon his arm, he knew he had been lying to himself.

"Margaret," he warned quietly.

She looked up at him. "What?"

He did not answer. He simply reached for her waist.

Her breath caught as he drew her closer, and for one suspended moment Pierce hesitated. He could have stepped away. He should have stepped away. Instead, every ounce of restraint he had summoned since their wedding seemed to vanish, and he bent his head and kissed her.

The kiss was brief but fierce, carrying all the frustration he had been unable to put into words. Margaret's fingers tightened around his sleeve, and that tiny response sent another wave of want through him. He wanted to remain there. He wanted to pull her closer and forget every rule, every duty, every sensible thought that had ever governed his life.

Instead, he released her.

Margaret stared at him, startled and breathless, but Pierce could not bear to see what his own actions had done. He stepped back, his expression hardening as he rebuilt the walls he had allowed her to breach.

"Goodnight, Duchess," he said roughly.

Before she could answer, he turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing through the corridor.

He did not look back. He desperately wanted to.

CHAPTER 22

Margaret settled Hugh into his cot and lingered beside him long after his eyelids had fallen shut. His little fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, his cheeks rosy from the warmth of the nursery, and the sight of him filled her with a tenderness she had never expected to feel for a child who was not her own by blood.

Yet somehow, he has found his way into the deepest corner of my heart.