Chapter 6 #2
“I was sitting behind a rather substantial arrangement of lilies.” A small, genuine smile touched Cressida’s lips. “But your observations on Caravaggio were brilliant.”
His aunt actually preened. “Well, how delightful to find someone who appreciates proper culture. Theodore, you didn’t mention your guest was educated.”
“Aunt—” he started, already becoming exhausted by the turn the conversation was taking.
“I do hope those awful roads didn’t distress you too greatly, Lady Cressida. And staying here with only my nephew for company… how perfectly dreadful that must have been.”
Theodore watched with growing alarm as the two women fell into easy conversation, discussing art and literature and apparently bonding over what his aunt termed his “unfortunate tendency toward brooding solitude.”
“Really, Theodore keeps himself locked away like some Gothic villain. Lady Cressida, you must tell me, did he subject you to tours of portrait galleries and lectures on duty?”
Cressida’s eyes met Theodore’s briefly, something complicated flickering in their depths. “His Grace was a perfect gentleman.”
The slight emphasis on ‘gentleman’ made him clear his throat, a certain warmth threatening to torch its way through his chest.
How inconvenient.
“How disappointing,” Lady Seymore murmured, though her expression suggested she’d caught far more than she was letting on.
“Auntie, Lady Cressida mentioned she needs to return to London—”
“Of course, of course.” Lady Seymore waved one elegant hand. “Though I do hope we’ll see more of you, my dear. It’s so rare to find young ladies who can carry on a proper conversation.”
After Cressida had been escorted out by a footman, Theodore turned to find his aunt watching him with undisguised speculation.
“What?” he demanded.
“What, indeed.” Lady Seymore’s smile was absolutely wicked. “The road, Theodore? Really?”
“It’s the truth.”
Albeit partially. But it was the truth, nonetheless.
“I’m sure it is,” she drawled.
Theodore absolutely detested how much he couldn’t get anything past her.
She paused, then announced, “She’s lovely.”
Theodore narrowed his eyes at her and declared, “She’s leaving.”
“Yes, I noticed.” Lady Seymore tilted her head. “I also noticed that she couldn’t look at you without blushing, and you couldn’t stop watching her even when pretending to read your paper.”
Theodore’s jaw clenched. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” His aunt’s expression softened slightly. “My dear boy, I haven’t seen you look at anyone like that since… well, in rather a long time.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Of course not.” Lady Seymore gathered her gloves. “Nothing at all.”
But as she swept toward the door, Theodore caught her satisfied smile and knew with sinking certainty that she had seen far too much.
“Mary, darling, must you cause such a spectacle?” Lady Bardwell’s voice cut through the parlor with its characteristic blend of maternal exasperation and studied disinterest.
She didn’t look up from her embroidery, her fingers working the needle with mechanical precision.
But Mary had already launched herself across the room, her arms wrapping around Cressida with a force that nearly knocked them both sideways. “You’re back! Oh, Cressida, I’ve missed you terribly!”
“Mary, honestly.” Their mother finally glanced up, her gaze landing on Cressida with the sort of casual dismissal usually reserved for servants who’d entered without permission.
Then, her expression shifted, confusion flickering across carefully powdered features. “Cressida? What are you doing here?”
“She’s home, Mama!” Mary’s grip tightened on Cressida’s arm. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Home?” Lady Bardwell set aside her embroidery, her movements suddenly sharp. “You’re meant to be at Agatha’s. What possessed you to leave without—”
Her words faltered as her eyes traveled from Cressida’s face down to the traveling dress that Mrs. Agnes had provided.
A serviceable garment, certainly, but far too snug across the bodice and hips, and utterly lacking the fashionable embellishments that would mark it as belonging to a lady of quality.
“What on earth are you wearing? That dress is positively plain, and it doesn’t fit properly.”
Lord Bardwell lowered his newspaper with the air of a man presented with an unexpected and unwelcome puzzle. “Cressida? Good God, girl, what are you doing in London? Did Agatha send you back?”
“No, Papa.”
Silence ensued.
“No?” Her father’s face began to mottle. “You mean to tell me you’ve left your aunt’s house without permission? Without—”
“George, lower your voice.” Lady Bardwell had risen, her complexion paling beneath her rouge. “The servants.”
But Mary was still clinging to Cressida’s arm, her young face creased with concern. “How long have you been traveling? You must be exhausted. When did you leave Aunt Agatha’s?”
Cressida sucked in a sharp breath as she prepared to answer that particular question. “Three days ago.”
“Three days?” Lord Bardwell stood abruptly, his newspaper crumpling in his grip. “It’s barely a day’s journey from your aunt’s estate! Where the devil have you been?”
The parlor door opened again, admitting Peter, who was adjusting his cravat with the self-absorbed concentration of a young man newly returned from university. He glanced toward the assembled family with mild curiosity, then froze when he spotted Cressida.
“Good Lord. The prodigal daughter returns.” His attempt at levity fell flat when he registered the tension in the room. “I say, what’s happened?”
“Your sister,” their mother said, her voice taking on a shrill quality, “has apparently absconded from Agatha’s and has been wandering about the countryside for three days in a dress that looks like it belongs to a governess.”
“I was not wandering—”
“Then where were you?” Lord Bardwell’s voice rose despite his wife’s earlier admonishment. “A lady does not require three days to travel from Lincolnshire to London! You should have arrived two days ago at the latest!”
Cressida kept her spine straight, her chin lifted. “I was delayed by the storm. I took shelter somewhere safe.”
“Somewhere safe?” Lady Bardwell pressed her fingers to her temples. “That is not an answer! Where? Whose house? An inn? Please tell me you at least had the sense to stay at a coaching inn with proper chaperonage—”
“I was perfectly safe, Mama.”
“You cannot possibly guarantee that.” Her mother crossed to her, hands fluttering like agitated birds. “Two days! Two days unaccounted for! If anyone saw you, if there was even a whisper… Oh heavens, if Agatha discovers you’ve run away—”
“She will have discovered it by now,” Peter pointed out, settling into a chair with the detached interest of someone watching a theatrical performance. “Servants talk, and word travels fast. I’d wager Aunt Agatha has already dispatched a scathing letter.”
“No doubt she will have,” Cressida observed. “Considering that she sets me to scutwork and household chores with the servants every morning.”
Lady Bardwell made a sound like a wounded animal. Cressida knew better than to believe that it was because of her revelation.
“This is catastrophic,” Lord Bardwell pronounced, his face now an alarming shade of crimson. “We sent you to Agatha’s to avoid scandal, and now you’ve caused one infinitely worse! Running away, disappearing for days—do you have any idea what this will do to our family’s reputation?”
“Our reputation?” Cressida heard the bitterness creep into her voice. “Not my safety? Not whether I was harmed or in danger?”
“Don’t be dramatic.” Her mother’s dismissal was automatic. “You’re standing here unharmed, which means you were clearly not in any real danger. But the scandal, if anyone suspects you were unchaperoned for two entire days—”
Cressida’s fingernails dug into her palms. “No one knows.”
“You cannot guarantee that!” Lady Bardwell’s voice had risen to a pitch that suggested genuine distress, though Cressida suspected it had more to do with social ruin than maternal concern.
“Servants gossip, neighbors talk, and if word reaches the ton that our daughter was gallivanting about the countryside—”
Cressida decided she’d heard enough of that.
“I was not gallivanting. I was trying to help Harriet.” That particular admission slipped out before she could stop it.
Lord Bardwell’s eyes narrowed. “Harriet? You mean Miss Barnes? What does she have to do with any of this?”
Cressida pressed her lips together, recognizing her mistake too late.
“You ran away from Agatha’s to interfere in Miss Barnes’s wedding?” Her father’s tone suggested he couldn’t decide whether to be furious or incredulous. “Have you lost your senses entirely?”
“She’s my dearest friend—”
“She was your friend,” Lady Bardwell corrected sharply. “She is now the Marchioness of Whitebrook, and you would do well to remember that such elevated personages have no use for scandalous spinsters who cause scenes.”
The words struck like a slap, but Cressida had learned long ago not to flinch. “I merely wished to ensure her happiness.”
“Her happiness is no longer your concern.” Lord Bardwell’s pronouncement carried the weight of paternal authority. “Your concern should be salvaging what little remains of your reputation and not bringing further shame upon this family.”
Mary tugged at Cressida’s sleeve, her young face troubled. “But where did you stay during the storm? You must tell them, so they’ll stop worrying.”
“Worrying.” Cressida couldn’t quite keep the irony out of her voice as she fought to keep from rolling her eyes. “Yes, I can see how deeply concerned they are.”
“Don’t be impertinent,” her mother snapped. “We have every right to demand answers. You’ve defied your aunt, abandoned your place, and disappeared for days. The least you can do is tell us where you’ve been, so we can determine how much damage has been done.”
“I told you, somewhere safe. No one saw me, and my reputation is intact.”
Nothing good would come of telling them she’d been with a man unchaperoned, no matter that he was a duke. And they’d turn positively purple in the face if she even so much as revealed just how much that very duke knew what her lips tasted like.
“That,” Peter murmured, “seems rather unlikely, given the circumstances.”
Cressida turned toward the door, suddenly exhausted by the familiar pattern of recrimination and concern that had nothing to do with her well-being and everything to do with social calculation. “If you’ll excuse me, I should like to change.”
“This conversation is not finished, young lady.” Her father’s voice carried the inflexibility of a man unaccustomed to being dismissed.
“Nevertheless.” Cressida didn’t turn around. “I am finished with it.”
She climbed the stairs with as much dignity as she could muster, acutely aware of her parents’ continued whispered argument below and Mary’s worried gaze following her ascent.
The familiar walls of her bedchamber wrapped around her like a shroud. Everything was precisely as she’d left it two years ago—frozen in time, a museum to the daughter who’d failed.
Her lady’s maid, Betsy, appeared almost immediately, her round face creased with confusion and concern. “My Lady! I didn’t know you were coming back. Your mother said nothing about—”
“It was unplanned, Betsy.” Cressida began unpinning her hair, desperate to remove any trace of Ashmere Castle, any reminder of dark eyes and devastating kisses. “I need to change out of this dress.”
“Of course, My Lady.” Betsy moved to help with the buttons at her back, her fingers working with practiced efficiency. Then she paused. “Though I confess, if word spreads about your return, I don’t know how your fiancé will take the news of your… unexpected journey.”
The words penetrated slowly, like a blade sliding between ribs.
Cressida froze. “My what?”
“Your fiancé, My Lady.” Betsy’s voice had gone small, uncertain. “Lord Emerton.”
The name meant nothing.
“Betsy, what are you talking about?”
Her maid’s face crumpled with dawning horror. “Oh. Oh no. They didn’t tell you.” She reached into her apron pocket with trembling fingers, withdrawing a crumpled scandal sheet. “I’m so sorry, My Lady. I thought—I assumed you knew. It was announced while you were at your aunt’s.”
Cressida snatched the paper, her eyes scanning the printed words that seemed to swim before her vision.
It is with great pleasure that we announce the engagement of Lady Cressida Whitaker, daughter of the Earl of Bardwell, to Bernard Campbell, the Earl of Emerton…
The parlor, the conversations about her future, the relieved expressions on her parents’ faces when they’d sent her to Aunt Agatha’s—it all crystallized with sudden, brutal clarity.
They’d sold her. Bartered her away like livestock while she’d been scrubbing floors and mending petticoats, her future negotiated without her knowledge or consent.
The scandal sheet crumpled in her fist.
“What is this?”
The roar erupted from somewhere deep in her chest as she flew down the stairs, the paper clutched in her hand like damning evidence. She burst into the parlor, where her parents still sat, their argument dying mid-word as she threw the gossip sheet at her father’s feet.
“What on earth is this?!”