Chapter 5
“My lady,” the maid’s voice came after a sharp rap at the door. “Your parents’ carriage has just turned onto the drive.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” she said, turning back to the tall, chill window in the upper corridor.
She pressed her hand against the stone ledge, letting the surface numb her fingers as she studied the long blue veins beneath her skin and the thinness of her hand after so many years in the nunnery.
She glanced at her reflection in the glass.
The dress—something the duke had found in an old closet, now pressed and put to new use—hung on her, the bodice gaping at her shoulders and the cuffs drifting over her wrists.
She had let her hair down for once, and it fell past her jaw in uncertain waves that framed her face with softness, even as her mouth betrayed none.
A nursemaid passed in the corridor. Lizzie was nestled in the crook of her arm, face pressed to the black wool like a faint thumbprint. The sight of the baby sent a ripple through Rose’s already fraying composure.
She pressed her palm against the wall and whispered, “Just a dinner. You’ve survived worse.”
Then she turned, squared her shoulders, and descended.
Below, the servants arrayed themselves in ceremonial formation, footmen in new livery, maids in their perfectly smocked uniforms, and a butler with the face of a puritan inquisitor. The staff made her uneasy, as if every person were another set of eyes cataloging her as she descended.
At the foot of the staircase, the duke was greeting her parents as if accepting the surrender of a minor country. He bowed with exquisite precision, took her mother’s hand in a manner that left no doubt as to the pecking order, and offered just enough flattery to soothe their egos.
“Lord and Lady Whiteridge,” he said. “A pleasure.”
Her father, a heavy-set man whose face suggested years of dignity, looked Rose over with a cold, appraising stare.
It was hard to forget the way he made her feel, but now her body recalled it in droves.
She might have escaped the nunnery, but she couldn’t shake the oppressive feelings that bore down on her in her father’s presence. Sweat prickled at her spine.
Her mother, adorned in a peacock blue confection that must have cost more than a year’s coal and candles at St. Clement’s, pinched her lips together as if to restrain the urge to offer grooming advice.
“You look so… altered,” Lady Whiteridge said. “Not ill, precisely, but—”
“I hope you don’t find her changed for the worse,” the duke inserted, his tone perfectly calibrated to pass for pleasantry while offering a challenge.
Her father grunted. “She was always a willful girl. And now a duke proposes marriage.” He eyed the duke with the same suspicion one might reserve for a buyer promising cash in hand. “Let us not draw things out.”
“If you wish,” the duke replied, and gestured to the footmen. “Dinner will be served.”
They moved as a unit through the gallery to the formal dining room, a cavernous space built to impress. The walls were lined with somber ancestral portraits of men with hawklike features and women with mouths fixed in expressions of permanent disappointment.
Rose felt their gaze as she walked in, as if each canvas were compiling evidence against her.
The footmen drew the chairs back in a choreography of enforced civility. Rose’s place was set to the duke’s right, across from her parents, whose posture became more ramrod as the first course, potted trout with cress, appeared.
The duke nodded at the footman to pour the wine, but Rose placed her fingers lightly on the rim of her glass, declining.
Her mother pounced. “Is this a religious thing now, Rose?”
Rose smiled without showing her teeth. “No, Mother. I’m only trying to keep my head clear.”
“Ah.” Her mother’s lips curled, as if this answer confirmed every suspicion she had brought with her. “That would be wise, given the, ah, circumstances.”
The first course passed in relative silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of silver and the echo of her father’s sniff when the duke attempted polite conversation. Rose fixed her gaze on the patterns in the table linen, memorizing the path of the stitching to distract herself.
It was only when the oxtail soup arrived that her father finally broke the standoff.
“So,” he said, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. “You intend to make an honest woman of our Rose.”
Rose stiffened. The duke set down his spoon and regarded Lord Whiteridge, Rose’s father, with a composure that bordered on predatory stillness.
“Lord Whiteridge, there is nothing dishonest about Lady Rose,” he said. “But yes, I intend to marry her at the earliest opportunity. It is my hope that you will give your blessing.”
Her mother made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. “It’s a little late for blessings, is it not?” She leaned forward, fixing Rose with a look so sharp it nearly drew blood. “After the letters we’ve received, the talk among our friends, the way you left in the middle of the Season—”
“Mother.” Rose’s voice came out quiet but hard. “You sent me to the convent.”
“It was for your own good. You were always too headstrong. Even as a child.”
“You embarrassed us,” her father said, folding his hands.
The duke spoke before Rose could respond. “Lady Rose has done nothing to merit censure since St. Clement’s. I suggest you choose your words more carefully in my presence.”
The air in the room changed, as if the fire had gone out.
Her mother gave her a brittle smile. “Of course, Your Grace. We meant no offense. We are only concerned for her…” She paused, as if searching for the right word, and finished weakly, “Her prospects.”
Rose looked down at her hands, wishing she could shrink them to nothing. The sleeves of the dress pooled at her wrists, emphasizing every bone.
The duke reached over and covered her hand with his own. The contact was brief, but the effect was immediate. A jolt returned her to the present.
“My decision is made,” he said. “If you would like to discuss settlements, now would be the appropriate time.”
Her father’s expression shifted, thoughts engaging, evident behind his eyes. “Given the, erm, circumstances, I would have expected you to demand a substantial dowry, Your Grace.”
“I require nothing,” the duke replied, shaking his head. “The Carden estate is self-sustaining. And I suspect Lady Rose would rather not feel beholden to anyone.”
“She should feel grateful for this match,” Rose’s mother said, looking straight at Rose with the steady certainty of a judge already expecting a verdict, watching for the instant she would bow her head and supply the gratitude on cue.
“She does,” Felix replied. “And I am grateful to have her.” He let the words hang heavy with intent.
There was a lull as the main course arrived. The roast pheasant smelled rich and flavorful, crisp-skinned in the candlelight. Rose watched her father carve his meat with the efficiency of an executioner; each slice was a small act of violence.
“Perhaps you could tell us how you two met,” her mother tried again. “In detail.”
The duke was ready. “I had reason to visit St. Clement’s as a charitable patron. Lady Rose impressed me with her wit, her discipline, and her capacity for compassion. I admired her from our first conversation.”
“Odd,” her father chimed in. “Given she never showed those qualities at home.”
A silence followed, broken only by the baby’s sudden wail from somewhere beyond the door.
Lizzie.
Rose stood up, but Felix gestured for her to remain. Her parents turned their heads toward the sound.
“She is the daughter of a distant cousin who recently passed,” the duke said unflinchingly. “It seemed best that she have a home with family. Lady Rose has already proven herself more than capable with the child.”
“That’s a very… generous arrangement. But the ton will talk, regardless,” her mother said, reaching for the wine.
“They always do,” the duke replied, his voice a steel blade.
“And what will you tell them, Your Grace?” her father huffed impatiently.
“I will say exactly what I told you. My niece was recently orphaned and came into my care. After that, I met Lady Rose at St. Clement’s when I went to seek solitude, pray, and donate.
It is a perfectly credible account. And anyone who chooses not to accept it is free to find themselves unwelcome in London. ”
Rose’s mother put her glass down so hard it nearly shattered. “You truly believe that people won’t speculate about the child’s parentage?”
“I expect they will, and I am perfectly prepared to handle anyone who dares to do so,” the duke said, his voice so firm that even Rose had to look up. “I would suggest that you prepare yourselves for a wedding within the week.”
Her parents exchanged a glance. Rose could read the silent conversation in their eyes. They straightened their shoulders and adopted an air of solemn congratulations.
“We are grateful, Your Grace,” her father said at last. “And we hope you will forgive our earlier bluntness.”
“Consider it forgotten,” the duke replied. “Shall we toast to new beginnings?”
After dinner, the staff cleared the table with military efficiency. Rose’s parents withdrew to the drawing room, chattering between themselves about the guest list, the suitability of Carden Hall for a proper society wedding, and the prospect of access to the duke’s extensive wine cellars.
Once everyone had retired to their chambers, Rose made her way to the nursery, where the maid was still attempting—without much success—to settle the baby for the night.
Lizzie gave a small, stubborn cry the moment Rose stepped inside.
“Here, let me,” Rose said quietly, already holding out her arms. “You look exhausted. Go and rest.”
The maid hesitated, shifting her weight. “My lady, I really ought to see her settled first. She’s been fretful, and I wouldn’t wish to leave you with—”