Chapter 9
“Please, Cathy, eat something,” Lady Marlow soothed, her voice lowering to a purr Napoleon would be proud of.
She leaned in, her fingers lingering as she adjusted the lace on Cathy’s collar with doting tenderness.
“A duchess cannot faint at her own wedding breakfast. It would be seen as a lack of constitution, and we Marlows have never lacked for that.”
“I... I am not hungry, Grandmama,” Cathy confessed, pushing the eggs and kippers around her plate. She truly was not. Her stomach felt leaden. “I am merely calculating—”
“Calculating what, precisely?” Madeline asked.
She offered a cheerful grin, but the light did not reach her eyes this time.
Her gown was a hurried affair, tucked quickly in the early hours of the morning, yet she reached out beneath the white linen tablecloth to squeeze Cathy’s hand.
The gesture was a lifeline. “Are you calculating how long it will take for the ton to stop whispering about the tallest bride they have ever seen? And, may I add, the most beautiful?”
Cathy groaned, the sound caught in her throat; not an attractive sound at all.
Still, she could not help herself. She would never escape those whispers.
In a room full of petite, doll-like, and sometimes, even diminutive, debutantes, Cathy stood out in more ways than one.
If she had been wealthy, with an irreproachable reputation and a father who had not vanished like a literal thief in the night, perhaps her height would have been considered a fashionable feature.
Instead, it was a target. She was a target.
The target was right in the open, with the weight of her new husband’s absence to her right.
The Duke did not even think it necessary to maintain the pretense during their wedding breakfast. He was married to her now, bound by the laws of man and God, but the space beside her was an abyss.
He left his wine untouched and had managed to keep his eyes everywhere else but her.
“Imagine the sheer desperation,” a woman murmured not too far away, her voice drifting toward Cathy.
“Can you truly blame her?” one asked, although her tone was of mock pity. “There is so much to be ashamed of. Look at the state of Mr. Quinten.”
“Hush,” yet another woman tittered, making Cathy’s jaw clench. “It is no wonder that she set that calculated trap. How else would she end up wed to a duke?”
“Oh, how much do you know about that? Can someone truly trap a man like the Duke of Baxter? She must at least be clever in the dark than in the light.”
Calculated trap? If only they knew I was the one who felt like prey.
Cathy felt her cheeks darken even more until the crimson color felt like a burn.
The tension between her and her new husband was like a tight tether vibrating.
A brush of an arm would create a jolt. But it did not take long for the heat to slip away when Tristan meandered into conversations with guests and friends.
“I have to say, your groom looked like he was walking to the gallows,” Portia remarked, even as her eyes scanned a small volume of poetry.
Her sister was an expert in smuggling books into events.
Cathy did not mind. It was what made Portia herself.
“Does he not have a family? I do not see any uncles, and I hear no aunts complaining about our suitability. It would have been more entertaining to have some of his female cousins challenge the lack of a dowry.”
“It is just awfully quiet on his side,” Madeline agreed mournfully.
“You are right,” Cathy murmured. “I see the Viscount with him quite often, and the usual members of the ton who hobnob with everyone. For us, some people may think it is a celebration, but—”
“It is, though, is it not?” Portia interrupted. “It is our way to pay the debt collectors and maintain a modicum of reputation.”
“I know, but it must be torture for him, Portia. He is forced to break his word so that he can save my honor.”
“Why should it be torture to him?” Selina asked, frowning. “He is a duke who has everything. He also gets to marry my dear sister. He should consider himself fortunate.”
“You are too loyal, Selina. And too young,” Cathy mumbled, as she peered at her food.
Perhaps it was time to eat a little. She did not want to faint in front of the guests. More likely, they would gossip about her impending childbirth to justify the whole affair.
“I believe we must concern ourselves more about Grandpapa than the Duke,” Portia said, vaguely gesturing to where Lord Marlow was having a conversation—or trying to have one—with two other men whom she supposed were Tristan’s friends.
The old man had his ear trumpet at the ready, but it did not look like he was using it properly.
“A raid? You were part of a raid?” the baron bellowed, his voice making his granddaughters shudder visibly. “I had been a part of one, but we lost the herd and the gin. It is dreadful business, is it not?”
“We were delayed, my lord,” the young officer shouted back, his face turning a dark shade of purple.
“You were flayed? Are you sure? I do not see anything wrong with you, my dear lad,” Lord Marlow replied, inspecting the young man closely. “You should always find a way to escape the French.”
“Of... of course, sir,” the young man hopelessly replied.
He did not really have a choice but to agree with the old baron, or the conversation would go elsewhere. Even Cathy had to stop listening to the exchange, rubbing her temples.
“Do you see what I mean now?” Cathy asked. “I am not sure His Grace ever wished to join such an... unconventional family.”
“Speaking of which, where has your husband run off?” Lady Marlow asked, finally realizing what had happened. She scanned the room actively for a broad-shouldered man who should have been toasting everyone in his seat. “He disappeared on his wedding day? That is certainly not a good omen.”
“It had never been geared toward being a good omen, Grandmama,” Cathy reasoned. “You cannot expect to force a man to marry, and then simply have him celebrate about it.”
She looked around at each of her sisters. Madeline was still keeping her smile, even though forced. Portia was already back in her book, while Selina’s eyes continued to dance around the room.
These young women were all that she had left. Her own sacrifice was for their reputation. Their father did not care about the consequences of his departure.
Where could he have gone?
To Cathy’s horror, the man she was wondering about could either be her own father or her new husband. The betrayal of the former was too heavy a burden, though, that her mind wandered to various possibilities.
Did he leave London or did he leave the country entirely?
She was married, but such a thought she could not share with her own husband. The Duke’s interest did not lie in the Marlows and the Quintens. She sighed. At least, she had finished eating half her plate.
“I believe I should find my husband,” Cathy whispered, rising from her chair. “This way, goodbyes can be said earlier, and nobody has to try to handle Grandpapa’s yapping any longer.”
“A wise decision,” Lady Marlow nodded. Her eyes reflected a mix of weariness and affection. She wondered if she would be like that as an older woman, trying to marry off daughters and granddaughters and dealing with the consequences of each marriage.
Then again, her marriage was not meant to breed heirs. She was merely the woman the Duke saved out of pity.
“Do remind your dear husband that he is needed here. A duke’s responsibility is to lead.”
We are lucky he has not fled London like Papa.
When she walked past her table, Cathy could not help but wish again that she were inches shorter.
She had chosen her flattest slippers. Therefore, she did not have the added benefit of a wedge to support her feet.
She was already too tall. Every eye in the room followed her, and not for the best reasons.
She squared her shoulders and went in search of Tristan, anyway. A young maid discreetly approached her to whisper, “Your Grace, I believe His Grace went with Lord Farstone to the private room next to the library.”
“Thank you.”
She followed the instructions, walking through the dimly lit corridors. Then she saw a door, with a footman standing sentry.
At least, Tristan was not with a woman. Her reputation was already too besmirched to be further tainted as the desperate bride. Or did that even matter?
Cathy edged toward the door. She wanted to tell him it was time to say goodbye to the guests, but the sound of her name spoken in a light argument stopped her in her tracks. Carefully avoiding making the door squeak on its hinges, she slowly moved forward while holding her breath.
“How could you marry Miss Priggish, Tristan?” Brandon asked. “You have forsaken Miss Longrove, someone worthy of the position of duchess, for a woman who is mostly shunned by the ton? The whole of London is laughing at you, my friend.”
Cathy had to clamp her mouth with her hand to stifle her gasp. She should leave. It was clear that she was not welcome here. However, she wanted to know more. She wanted to know what her husband would say in reply.
“Did you study the situation, Brandon?” Tristan asked.
His voice was not angry, but something else had replaced the heat she expected.
Something worse. Something lifeless. “The trap was perhaps sprung long before the wedding party at the Longroves. Now that the vows have been made, what choice do I have?”
A decanter hit the glass, creating an echoing clink against wood. Then silence followed. Cathy did not like it. She could hear herself breathe. How could they not know she was there?
“Do you think Miss Quinten plotted it?” Brandon asked, sounding truly bewildered. “I will admit that would be quite cunning of her. She seemed too... too fixed in her ways to do that.”
“Perhaps,” Tristan mumbled. “Well, I cannot be entirely certain. It could be a plan of her own, of her grandmother’s, or perhaps it was merely orchestrated by fate itself.
I had my fun. You know that. What is done is done.
I have married her. This time, I will keep my word.
I will provide the Baxter line an heir or two, and, well.
.. Miss Priggish can have the run of the house and do as she likes. ”
Cathy felt as if someone had doused her with cold water. He did not just resent being married to her, but he also truly suspected her of being the cause of their situation. Did he really think that she could have masterminded something like this?
She stayed in the hallway, her arm pressed against the door. Still, the vitriol from within the room seeped through the wood.
“I pity you, my friend. I mean... the face of her!” Brandon exclaimed.
“What is wrong with it?”
Cathy peeped in and saw Lord Farstone pull his hair in frustration, his face twisted in a cruel smile.
“She scowls most of the time, as if she always smells something putrid. Not to mention these gaudy dresses... I cannot imagine you wanting to take such a woman to bed. She is of gargantuan proportions, not only in terms of height, but also in self-righteousness.”
Cathy clenched her fists, letting her nails dig into her palms; tears began to well in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She knew she had made the wrong decision; she just did not know how wrong she had been.
“She is... was a Quinten,” Tristan replied, after a beat.
His voice had dropped dangerously. It made her hair stand on end, but she was not afraid of him.
Not at all. “Now, she is a Radcliffe, the Duchess of Baxter. Whether she is scowling does not matter. People should respect her title and silence.”
“Silence? Do you really think that woman has a silent bone in her body?” Brandon challenged.
“She will use your money on ledgers and everything she considers sensible. Then, she will venture to lecture you on propriety and how you deal with your assets. You replaced a delicate flower with a thistle!”
What?
Cathy knew she might not be dainty, but she was not an ogre. Far from it. She also knew this marriage was supposed to be in name only, but she would not have a rake badmouth her on her own wedding day.
“Enough, Brandon,” Tristan snapped. His face now darkened into an undeniable fury. “There is no point in us discussing this further. Kathleen Quinten is now Kathleen Radcliffe. Whatever happens in this marriage, it will be my business, not yours.”
That was when Cathy decided to put a stop to this discussion.
She did not just open the door. She slammed it against the wall, creating a distinctive groan. All her life, she had schooled her features to create ‘Miss Priggish,’ the marble defense against the world that could not accept her.
She saw Tristan clearly before he registered her. He stood with his chest heaving, his cravat loosened, perhaps from frustration. It reminded her of him in different stages of undress, but she was not there for that.
“Your Grace,” Cathy said coolly.
The new duchess tried not to look at the empty glasses of brandy. She met her husband’s gaze directly, instead.
“I believe it is time to bid our guests farewell. They will be wondering why the Duke of Baxter disappeared from his own wedding breakfast,” she continued. “Well, I suppose if you are finished with your deliberations.”
Brandon’s mouth was hanging open when he saw the woman he had just called Miss Priggish, among other things, standing before him, with calm rage and a straight back. Tristan, on the other hand, merely squinted at his bride.
“Yes, of course. We were finished anyway,” the Duke replied.
“Splendid,” she said dully, as she turned on her heel without looking back.