Chapter 13
Agreeing to do something did not mean that Cathy would enjoy the whole affair.
Of course not. However, the evening itself brought other troubles she had not anticipated.
She had never been prone to anxiety, but her hands were cold when she watched herself before the mirror in her bedchambers, minutes before departure.
Her midnight blue dress was supposed to highlight her eyes, and the dark colors were supposed minimize her imposing height.
She wore the sapphires and diamonds Tristan bought her.
With the gown and the jewels, she looked like a duchess, as she should.
However, her heart still trembled in her chest. She feared that appearances alone were not enough to please the ton.
“You look magnificent, Your Grace,” Lottie reassured, as she pinned one last diamond into Cathy’s hair.
“Magnificent, or easy target?” Cathy asked grimly. “Be honest, Lottie.”
“Your Grace, they would only be jealous if they said anything cruel,” said the loyal maid.
Cathy was grateful for that little support. She was not used to having a lady’s maid, and she found the company quite pleasant. If only the ton did not ask for too much from each person in the realm.
When she descended the stairs, Tristan was already waiting in his full evening dress.
He stood by the foyer, fixing his cravat one more time.
There was nothing wrong with it. As usual, he was the picture of perfection.
She wondered if he was aware of how people saw him.
How people would mock him for showing up with Miss Priggish at his side.
“Shall we depart?” she asked, as she tried to walk daintily down the steps.
He looked up at her, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. His nose flared. He quickly regained his composure, though.
When Cathy was at the bottom of the steps, he offered his arm and asked, “Are you ready to face the lions?”
“Are you telling me that those are lions?” she retorted, taking his arm. “Don’t you think wolves would be more accurate? While I understand trials in the lions’ den, these people would not allow a true trial.”
“It is the Inquisition, really,” huffed Tristan, shaking his head in disbelief.
It is an ordeal that he certainly would not have to endure if he had not married me, Cathy thought bitterly.
“We will not bleed for them, Your Grace,” she said, even as she focused on ensuring her fingers were not trembling as they grazed the fine fabric of her husband’s coat.
“You are fierce enough for them,” Tristan replied.
Cathy took the compliment. She was too occupied by other thoughts, like how they would last hours under such close scrutiny.
Upon arrival, the Duke and Duchess of Baxter were properly announced.
The sights, sounds, and smells overwhelmed Cathy.
Intoxicating perfumes, dazzling gowns, and shimmering lights surrounded her.
She could also hear the difference between the before and after of their arrival, with the odd silence punctuating the latter.
After that brief shock, whispers cascaded from one end to the other.
Cathy tried her best to keep her posture straight.
Without even meaning to, her Miss Priggish walls rose around her.
Still, she had never been this scrutinized when she was still an unmarried spinster with a wastrel father.
Now, it seemed that the ton enjoyed watching her from head to toe, some even doing the inspection slowly to emphasize her height.
“Stay close to me,” Tristan murmured, his hand gently but firmly covering hers on his arm.
Cathy reminded herself that the gesture was meant for their wide-eyed spectators, but she could still feel its warmth. The whole thing almost felt tender; it made her want to cry.
No, she would not cry in front of these people. Never.
Soon, she saw her family arrive, and she breathed a discreet sigh of relief as she left her husband’s side to join them.
Madeline was radiant in pale yellow, but it was her twinkling eyes and ready smile that made her what she had always been: a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dour room full of pretenders and gossips. Lady Marlow, on the other hand, looked formidable in her purple silk dress and bejeweled cane.
“Cathy!” Madeline greeted, weaving through the crowd to greet her sister. “You look beautiful! Positively stunning. However, you look like you are about to go to the gallows! Smile!”
“I believe you know why I look this way,” Cathy replied. “Look around you. The ton is not too happy that I am here. See how they watch and whisper.”
“Nonsense,” her grandmother snapped. “They are just bored. No matter how long they stare at you, they cannot take away the fact that you are the Duchess of Baxter. Hold your head high.”
“Grandmama is right. The ball is lovely,” Madeline beamed.
Cathy forced a smile. Madeline and her grandmother were both trying to make her feel better. But just when she was starting to feel like the night could be somewhat enjoyable after all, she felt the hairs on her arms rise. Sounds seemed to have suspended as she realized what was happening.
Women had been parting a path for someone wearing a gown of pale rose. She was the epitome of delicacy and preciousness. She was also a woman scorned.
It was Miss Anne Longrove.
Cathy felt the blood drain from her face, no, from her whole body. She expected Miss Longrove to turn to the side and avert what seemed to be a disaster in the making. However, Anne looked happy enough to continue walking toward her. Her face was impassive.
“Miss Longrove,” Cathy said, as a means of greeting. She was not too happy about how her throat felt chocked. “I... I did not expect to see you.”
“Oh, why are you surprised, Your Grace?” Anne asked. Her voice was steady and firm, but revealed a glint of anger. Cathy braced herself. “Did you think I would hide in shame after what happened? I have done nothing wrong. I have no reason to hide. You, however—”
“I wish to apologize,” Cathy began, guilt making her words tumble out. “For everything. For the way things happened. I never intended to—”
“Please, save your breath, Your Grace,” Anne interrupted, dismissing Cathy’s words with a wave of her hand. “You do not have to apologize to me.”
This time, Anne stepped closer. Even though Cathy was the much taller one, she could not help but flinch. Her body involuntarily prepared for a threat.
“You can have him,” Anne continued, a cold and cruel smile splitting her lips.
“But remember this, Your Grace. He will do to you exactly what he did to me. Men like him do not change. He will tire of you and see the thistles that grow from you. You are merely a novelty to him, the latest one. For now.”
“You ought to concern yourself with the matters of your own house, Miss Longrove, before you presume to know how to comment on someone else’s own,” Lady Marlow declared.
The old woman’s voice was not loud, but it was firm and unmistakably commanding.
She stood beside Cathy, her chin lifted in defiance.
At her age, it was still clear that she had been quite a beauty in her youth, somewhat like Selina.
But she was also made of stillness, her hand gripping her fan as she faced Anne.
“My house is quite stable, Lady Marlow,” Anne replied, giving a smile that did not reach her eyes. “I am not the one whose granddaughter had to marry a betrothed rake to keep the creditors at bay. I suppose some people would rather look elsewhere when the head of the family is not attentive.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Cathy asked, though she had an inkling as to what the scorned woman meant.
“Oh, Your Grace, do not insult my intelligence by feigning ignorance. It only means that,” Anne began, her face contorted with anger, “your grandmother should worry more about your father, her son-in-law. Has he extended his adventures to the gaming hells of the Continent? Or is he waiting for the Duke’s gold to clear his path back home? Everyone knows he has abandoned you.”
Cathy had to give Anne that. She knew where to salt her wounds and just how hard. Mentioning her father’s debts and abandonment was the ultimate rebuttal.
“My granddaughters cannot be held accountable for the actions of their father, Miss Longrove,” Lady Marlow retorted.
Anne was not even finished yet. She turned to the baroness once more.
“If you are not worried about your son-in-law, then perhaps you should concern yourself about the activities of your husband,” she said spitefully. “He is making a spectacle of himself as always!”
Grandmother and granddaughter turned in unison.
True enough, Lord Marlow, tall and still a picture of classic handsomeness, was standing too close to a statue.
He was again conversing with young men who had been of service to the country, perhaps since he was feeling slightly nostalgic about it.
That was not the problem. The problem was that he was gesticulating wildly and talking too loudly again.
His voice carried over the orchestra’s sounds.
And this time, because of the way he was standing, it looked like he was talking to the statue and not the young gentlemen.
“I tell you once more, Norman!” Lord Marlow shouted at the bewildered-looking statue, all gaping eyes and mouth. “If we do not fix the drainage thirty miles south of the estate, we will lose the crops! Do you hear that?”
As expected, the crowd began to titter. Some were hiding their laughter behind their hands, nudging each other, or wiggling eyebrows. However, some were blatantly laughing, no gloved hand covering their smirks.
“Is his eyesight as bad as his hearing now?” one asked loudly, knowing the baron would not hear him, anyway.
“It looks like everything is going, and his family’s not even there right beside him,” a lady remarked disdainfully, fanning herself aggressively.
“Oh, dear Grandpapa,” Madeline lamented, her face red with mortification.