Page 2 of Taken By the Dangerous Duke

Margaret sat in the sunroom with her needlepoint. Or what might pass for a sunroom if her father had not decided to skimp on the glass and buy old factory windows instead of new glass. Sunlight bouncing through brown glass did not have the same luster as translucent glass would.

That thought was disturbed by a quick rap at the front door.

“Margaret!” shouted James, her father.

Margaret knew better than to argue and put her sewing work down on the cushioned table that housed pins and needles. They had not skimped on sewing supplies, at least, but they were for her mother and not strictly for Margaret.

“Are you answering that damn door!” shouted her father.

“Yes, Father. I am on my way now.”

“Enough of that lip, Margaret!” shouted her father from the drawing room.

“Sorry, Father,” replied Margaret, trying to control her emotions. Their house was large enough that they should have had at least three of four staff, but they made do with one, a young maid who seemed to work around the clock. They had let go of three staff in the last two months, partly due to financial worries, and also because they could have Margaret do some of the work to save some pennies.

So, Margaret was forced to go to the door whenever someone knocked, no matter what time it was or what she was doing. And, she knew better than to argue with her father about it.

She had suspected for a long time that her father had gambling debts, but no one would know it from how he presented himself. On the outside, he was a merchant of great wealth, but the brown-stained windows and a daughter who was forced to answer the door told a different story.

The knock came at the door again, more impatient this time.

“Margaret!” came the shout from the drawing room again.

“I am going, Father.”

“Margaret!” came the shout again, and Margaret could not be sure if he was angry that she had not made it to the door yet or angry that she had dared reply to him.

She did not respond this time and quickened her step to get to the door before she faced more of her father’s wrath. When she opened the door, she only became more annoyed.

“Yes?” she demanded, forgetting her manners, though her father had a way of doing that to her.

“Yes?” asked the man. “Are you not the maid or housekeeper? Is this how you address a guest?”

“The maid? No,” stated Margaret. “I live here. And, who are you?”

She looked the man up and down and realized that she might have made a mistake, but she did not care. The man might have been well dressed, but he had a scowl on his face that matched her mood.

“Not that I need to explain myself, young lady, but I am Arthur Bolton—The Duke of Garriot, and I would advise you to hold your tongue.”

Margaret did not respond to that. Years of experience dealing with her father had taught her that most responses only antagonized men like this more. She placed her hand on her hip, angled her body against the door frame, and waited.

If he removed the scowl from his face, he might be passably attractive for an older man. He must be closing in on thirty years, and he was well-built, but the way he held himself let him down. He moved nervously as if he did not know what he wanted in life. Margaret chewed on the inside of her cheek as she waited for the man to speak.

The green eyes shone out from the scowling face like two stars alone in the night. And again, if it were not for his expression, he might be a handsome man, but the combination of how the man was acting and the fact that she had to answer the door at all put her in a foul mood. Not even his chiseled jaw and aquiline nose could pull her from her mood.

“Is your father home?” asked the duke.

“Yes,” replied Margaret.

That only annoyed the duke further, and they tested each other by both remaining silent. It was Arthur who finally spoke again.

“Can I speak to him?” asked the duke.

“Father!” shouted Margaret. “There is a duke at the door who wants to speak with you.”

“Well, ask him what he wants!” shouted her father in return.

Margaret rolled her eyes, not quite knowing if she was rolling them at her father, the duke, or the situation. “What do you—”

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