Page 91 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

"Sleep well, darling," she whispered, smoothing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You have exhausted me for the day, and I shall have to blame your father for teaching you such stubbornness."

Behind her, the nanny gave a quiet laugh. "I shall watch over him, Your Grace," the nanny assured her, stepping towards the cot.

Margaret smiled and nodded. "Thank you. He is becoming quite fond of you, which is fortunate, because I should like to retain some energy for dinner."

She gave Hugh one last affectionate glance before leaving the nursery, closing the door gently behind her. The moment she stepped into the corridor, however, her thoughts returned to the matter she had been trying desperately not to consider.

Pierce.

Margaret stopped outside the library and stared at the closed doors as though they had personally offended her. She remembered his hands at her waist the previous evening, the sudden heat of his kiss, the way her heart had seemed to forget its proper rhythm whenever he came too close. She could still remember the firmness of his mouth against hers, and the memory sent an entirely unwelcome shiver through her.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," she muttered, pressing her fingertips to her warm cheeks. "He is arrogant, impossible, infuriating, and entirely too pleased with himself. There is no reason whatsoever for me to be thinking about his lips." Or his voice. Or his hands.

Unfortunately, her mind offered several reasons, none of which she wished to hear.

She hurried away from the library and wandered through the house in search of something, anything, that might occupy her thoughts.

Ravenfield House was grand enough to provide distractions for a lifetime, yet she discovered that Pierce had somehow managed to make every corridor remind her of him. His books filled the library. His portraits decorated the halls. Even the stern-looking grandfather clock seemed to possess his particular air of disapproval.

Margaret sighed as she passed it. "Do not look at me like that," she told the clock. "I have married the duke. I need not be scolded by his furniture as well."

Then she noticed an empty vase resting upon a console table. Margaret stopped. She stared at it. Then she looked at another.

"Empty."

A third stood near the staircase, equally devoid of flowers. Margaret's mouth fell open in genuine disbelief. "What sort of house has no flowers?" she demanded, and the question was apparently loud enough to summon Mrs. Norris from the adjoining corridor.

"Is something the matter, Your Grace?" the housekeeper asked, approaching with concern.

Margaret pointed accusingly at the vase. "Why are all the vases empty?"

Mrs. Norris followed her gaze and seemed almost puzzled by the question. "His Grace has never seen much purpose in flowers indoors, Your Grace. He prefers the gardens."

Margaret stared at her. "He does not see a need for flowers?"

"No, Your Grace."

"Does he also believe sunshine is an unnecessary extravagance?"

Mrs. Norris pressed her lips together, evidently attempting not to smile. "His Grace is rather practical."

"He is positively tragic," Margaret declared, turning towards the empty vase again. "There is a baby in this house now. Babies require cheerful things. Flowers, sunshine, music, laughter. One cannot expect Hugh to grow up surrounded by empty vases and stern portraits."

Mrs. Norris's eyes brightened. "What would you like me to do?"

Margaret straightened with purpose. "Find the gardeners. I want shears and a basket. I will bring flowers into every room where they will not be destroyed by an inquisitive child, and I want fresh arrangements every few days. If His Grace objects, he may come and argue with me personally."

"I believe he may do exactly that."

"Excellent," Margaret replied. "It will give him something else to be unreasonable about."

By the following morning, Margaret's flower project had become the talk of the household. Fresh daisies and roses appeared in the drawing room, delicate lilies brightened the breakfast room, and bunches of lavender scented the corridors.

Even the library received a modest arrangement, though Margaret privately admitted that the flowers looked rather magnificent against Pierce's dark shelves. She refused to think about him whenever she entered the room, which naturally meant she thought about him immediately.

Her favorite part of the project, however, was Hugh.

She carried him through the halls that morning, pointing out each new arrangement as though he were an important patron of the arts.