Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Why, your engagement announcement, my dear. Why are you so cross? Have they misspelt your name?” Lord Bardwell glanced up from the crumpled scandal sheet, his expression one of mild confusion rather than alarm.
Cressida’s vision narrowed to a single point of fury. “Misspelt my—what on earth is going on?”
“Your engagement to Lord Emerton, naturally.” Her father picked up the paper, smoothing it with careful fingers. “Really, Cressida, such theatrics are unbecoming.”
Lady Bardwell set aside her embroidery. “Darling, why are you carrying on this way?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mama.” The words emerged sharp as cut glass. “Perhaps my stays are laced too tightly. Or perhaps it’s that I’ve just discovered I’m engaged to a man I’ve never agreed to marry!”
Her parents exchanged looks, that wordless conversation of long matrimonial understanding.
“Why, surely we told you,” Lady Bardwell said. “Two days ago, at tea time.”
“I wasn’t here two days ago!”
Lord Bardwell waved one hand dismissively. “Oh well, what difference does it make? You should be grateful, my dear, that I’ve managed to secure such a fortuitous match.”
“That’s quite enough.” Lady Bardwell rose, steel entering her voice. “You will marry Lord Emerton. The settlement has been agreed upon, and this discussion is finished.”
“Your consent is immaterial.” Her father’s tone matched the one he used when discussing crop yields. “You are four-and-twenty and unmarried, Cressida.”
“Given your propensity for causing scandal,” Lady Bardwell continued, “you’ll remain in your chamber except for meals and approved social outings. Thomas, ensure Lady Cressida’s door remains locked.”
“Mama, surely Cressida should be allowed to see her friend.” Mary’s voice rose with adolescent conviction.
“Mary, that’s enough. Go to your room. Both of you, now.”
Alone in her locked chamber, Cressida pulled out paper with trembling hands.
Dearest Harriet,
I attempted to reach your wedding, though circumstances prevented my arrival. I only wished to ensure your happiness.
If you should ever need anything, I remain your devoted friend.
Yours always,
Cressida.
She sealed it without any mention of her stay with her aunt.
Without any discussion of “circumstances” and absolutely without mentioning the Duke.
Without admitting how thoughts of him invaded her mind with increasing frequency—his hands on her waist, the heat of his mouth against her throat, the way his eyes had darkened with want.
Heat flooded her cheeks as increasingly wanton images assailed her: his fingers trailing across bare skin, his body pressed against hers without the barrier of clothing, his voice rough with desire whispering her name.
She pressed her palms to her face, mortified.
Her treacherous body remembered the gentle neediness beneath his severity, the poetry on his shelves, the careful way he’d ensured her comfort.
The memories grew more vivid by the minute, the unique scent that she still could not place, the strength of his arms as he’d held her, the taste of him that still haunted her dreams.
Stop this, she commanded herself, but her body refused to obey.
Two days later, Cressida attended the Helmsley ball with her family, her new gown a confection of pale pink that made her feel absurd.
They were barely through the receiving line before Lady Helmsley seized her mother’s hands with an enthusiasm that would have been embarrassing if she didn’t know why it was so.
“Lady Bardwell! And Lady Cressida… good heavens, is it truly you? We had quite given up hope of seeing you in town again.” Lady Helmsley’s eyes swept over her with undisguised curiosity. “Two years, was it not?”
“Rather more than that,” Lady Bardwell said smoothly, steering the conversation with the practiced ease of a woman who had survived decades of society. “But Cressida is returned to us now. We are quite delighted, as is Lord Emerton, naturally. The engagement was announced only last week.”
“Oh!” Lady Helmsley’s eyebrows rose with gratifying surprise. “Lord Emerton! Well, how… wonderful.” The pause before ‘wonderful’ was precisely one beat too long. “You must be very pleased to be given such a chance despite your prolonged absence and your… advanced age, Lady Cressida.”
“Tremendously,” Cressida said, keeping a tight smile.
The ballroom blazed with candlelight, each flame reflected in gilt mirrors until the very air shimmered with heat. Her parents moved ahead, drawn into the current of greetings and introductions, and she followed.
Then she saw him.
Theodore stood across the room, his dark evening attire emphasizing shoulders she remembered with shameful clarity.
Their eyes met, a collision of recognition and hunger and everything left unfinished at Ashmere.
The noise of the ballroom faded to nothing.
Her breath caught, her pulse thundering in her throat.
Then Lord Emerton materialized at her elbow, shattering the charged moment.
“Lady Cressida.” He captured her hand with practiced gallantry. “How radiant you look. Pink suits you admirably.”
She wanted to tell him lavender was her favorite, that she felt nothing when he touched her—no spark, no heat coursing through her veins.
Instead, she smiled. “Lord Emerton. How kind.”
He possessed conventional handsomeness: golden hair arranged just so, blue eyes empty of depth. Within thirty seconds, he’d bored her to tears.
“I was just telling your father about my new curricle. Cost a fortune, naturally, but one must have the finest equipage. The matched bays cost nearly as much, but are worth every penny for the impression they make.”
They discussed the rest of her life as casually as livestock prices. She felt suffocation creeping up her throat.
“Lord Emerton adores the opera,” Lady Bardwell interjected.
“Oh yes. Though truthfully, I attend more to be seen than to listen. All that caterwauling in Italian. Can’t understand a word, but appearances must be maintained.”
“Cressida!” Lady Norwell’s voice cut through her rising panic.
Her grandmother swept toward them with formidable determination, sharp eyes assessing Emerton with barely concealed disdain.
“I require your assistance, child. I need air,” she said.
“Oh, Mama, I can escort you,” Lady Bardwell offered quickly.
“Nonsense. I specifically want Cressida. You’d only prattle about fashion, Jane.” Lady Norwell’s gaze landed on Emerton. “No offense intended to present company.”
The dismissal suggested considerable offense was intended.
They escaped to the gardens, torchlight casting dancing shadows.
“Thank you,” Cressida breathed.
“That insufferable dandy? Good God, what was your father thinking?”
They walked in companionable silence before Lady Norwell spoke again.
“So, how was your extended visit? I do hope that dreadful aunt of yours didn’t make you too miserable. Though knowing Agatha, she probably had you scrubbing floors while lecturing you about propriety and gratitude.”
Despite everything, Cressida laughed. “Aunt Agatha remains unchanged in her delightful temperament.”
“Did you get up to anything naughty while away?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Perhaps. Slightly.”
Her grandmother’s delighted laugh rang out. “Excellent.”
They paused beside a fountain.
“Now explain how you’ve ended up engaged to that peacock Emerton.”
The story spilled out. Lady Norwell listened with a thunderous expression.
“Unconscionable. I’ll speak to your father immediately.”
“It won’t help.”
“Now, what else happened during these eventful weeks? You have quite an intriguing look about you.”
Cressida’s thoughts flew to Theodore. “There was a storm. I took shelter at a duke’s estate.”
Her grandmother, at least, could be trusted to keep her secret. Besides familial tenderness, Lady Norwell would keep silent out of sheer delight at knowing something no one else did.
“Which duke?”
“Ashmere.”
“Ashmere? How very interesting. And how long did this shelter last?”
“Two days.”
She wanted to say that they had been entirely proper. She could have said it to her mother or even to Mary. But something about Lady Norwell made it impossible to lie to her.
“Eventful, indeed. I’ll speak to your parents about this Emerton business. You shouldn’t be forced into anything.”
Cressida thanked her, though hope felt distant.
A rustle sounded behind them, fabric against hedge, and she spun around, heart racing. But there was nothing but shadows and torchlight.
They returned inside, and Lady Bardwell descended on her immediately, steering her toward a knot of women. Cressida recognized Miss Georgina Oakley, whose calculating eyes suggested predatory intelligence.
The women’s welcome carried reluctant obligation. They discussed fashions with determined superficiality.
“Have any of you read the new novel everyone’s discussing?” Cressida ventured.
Blank stares answered.
Miss Oakley glided forward, her smile venomous. “How wonderful it is to hear about your engagement, Lady Cressida. Lord Emerton is such a catch. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”
“We were just discussing eligible bachelors,” another lady said, sounding uncomfortable. “Lord Hartley, and—oh! The Duke of Ashmere is here. How unusual.”
“They say he never smiles,” someone tittered. “Like some Gothic villain. And that business with his father and uncle… both dying in a duel. How terribly scandalous.”
Cressida’s hands clenched as they dissected Theodore with casual cruelty.
“Have any of you seen Mr. Kean’s Hamlet?” she asked desperately.
“Oh yes.” Lady Sarah brightened. “The costumes were magnificent. Though all that talking about being or not being grew tedious. And really! Could the playwright at least have given us a happy ending?”