Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“You stubborn, pompous fool!” Lady Norwell’s voice cut through Bardwell House like a blade, sharp enough that Cressida could hear every word through the locked door of her bedchamber.
She pressed her ear against the wood, her heart hammering.
“Mama, please—” That was Lady Bardwell, her voice pitched high with distress.
“Do not ‘Mama’ me, Jane! You’ve sold your daughter to that preening peacock Emerton without so much as consulting her, and you dare ask me to remain calm?”
Cressida’s fingers gripped the door frame. For three days, she’d been confined to this room. Three days of unanswered letters to Harriet and mounting anxiety that her friend might be suffering in silence.
“The match is advantageous,” her father interjected, his tone suggesting this was the final word on the matter.
Lady Norwell’s laugh was caustic. “Advantageous for whom? Certainly not for Cressida, who has more intelligence in her little finger than Emerton possesses in his entire vapid head!”
The argument continued, her grandmother’s fury a bright counterpoint to her parents’ defensive justifications. Then came a long, terrible silence.
“You’ve made your position clear, Mama,” Lady Bardwell said finally, her voice tight. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—”
“I will see my granddaughter. Now.”
“She’s indisposed.”
“She’s imprisoned, you mean.” Footsteps approached the stairs. “Stand aside, or I shall cause such a scene that even your precious Emerton will hear of it from across Mayfair.”
More silence, then Lady Norwell’s voice again, directed at the footman stationed outside Cressida’s door. “You, boy. Open this door immediately, or I shall inform your employer that you’ve laid hands on a dowager countess. Which would you prefer?”
The lock turned with fumbling haste.
Lady Norwell swept into the room like an avenging angel, and Cressida barely registered the footman’s retreat before she was wrapped in her grandmother’s arms, breathing in the familiar scent of rosewater and determination.
“My dear girl,” Lady Norwell murmured.
Cressida felt wetness against her temple. She pulled back, shocked to see tears streaming down her grandmother’s weathered face. In all her years, she’d never seen her grandmother cry.
“I tried,” Lady Norwell whispered, her voice breaking. “I argued, I threatened, I offered to double whatever settlement Emerton demanded. But your father…” She closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cressida. I failed you.”
“No.” Cressida guided her to the settee, their roles suddenly reversed. “You’ve never failed me. Not once.”
Lady Norwell dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her composure gradually returning. “This is unconscionable. They cannot force you into this marriage.”
“They can, and they will.” Cressida heard the defeat in her own voice. “I have no fortune of my own, no prospects. What choice do I have?”
Her grandmother’s grip on her hands tightened. “There’s always a way, my dear. Always.”
Cressida wanted to believe her, wanted to summon the same defiance that had driven her across the countryside to stop Harriet’s wedding. But that recklessness had led only to scandal, to Theodore’s devastating kisses and an impossible situation.
She managed a smile she didn’t feel. “Of course, Grandmama.”
The Thornbury ball blazed with enough candles to rival the sun.
Cressida stood beside her mother, the engagement ring on her finger heavy as shackles. Ten days since the scandal sheet’s revelation, ten days of her parents’ careful management and Emerton’s insufferable preening.
Ten days of trying not to think about dark eyes and passionate kisses at Ashmere.
“There’s Lady Whitebrook,” her mother announced, her tone carrying that particular brightness reserved for connections to elevated personages. “How fortunate that your friendship—”
But Cressida was already moving, propriety abandoned as she crossed the ballroom.
Harriet turned at her approach, and Cressida’s breath caught. Her friend was radiant, laughing at something her husband had murmured, her hand tucked possessively into the crook of his arm.
The Marquess of Whitebrook—rake, scoundrel, the man Cressida had traveled across England to save Harriet from—gazed at his wife with such naked adoration that it stopped Cressida mid-stride.
“Cressida!” Harriet’s face lit up with genuine delight as she rushed forward, embracing her with unfeigned warmth. “Oh, I’ve missed you terribly! Your letter… I only just received it yesterday. I’ve been in such a whirl—!”
“You’re happy,” Cressida could not help but interrupt. The words themselves emerged flat with shock.
Harriet’s smile could have illuminated the entire ballroom.
“Deliriously so. Though I was devastated you couldn’t be at the wedding.
” She turned, drawing forward the man at her side.
“Cressida, may I present my husband, John Reading, the Marquess of Whitebrook. John, this is Lady Cressida Whitaker, my dearest friend.”
The Marquess bowed with surprising grace. “Lady Cressida. My wife speaks of you constantly. I’m honored to finally make your acquaintance.”
He was handsome, certainly, with warm eyes and an easy smile. But more importantly, the way he looked at Harriet—protective, admiring, utterly besotted—bore no resemblance to the debauched rake portrayed in gossip columns.
“I…” Cressida struggled to reconcile reality with expectation. “I’m pleased to meet you, My Lord.”
“If you’ll pardon me, ladies, I see Ashmere has arrived. I should greet him.” The Marquess pressed a kiss to Harriet’s hand that made her blush. “Please do not monopolize my wife’s time, Lady Cressida. I know you’re anxious to see her, but I’ve claims of my own on my wife’s time.”
He strode away, and Harriet watched him go with such open affection that Cressida’s chest constricted.
“You love him,” she whispered.
Harriet turned back, her expression softening. “More than I thought possible. Oh, Cressida, I know what you must think—what I wrote before about never marrying a rake—but John is…” She struggled for words. “He’s everything I never knew I needed.”
Across the ballroom, Cressida caught sight of Theodore entering, his dark presence commanding attention without effort. Their eyes met across the crowded space, and even from this distance, she felt the impact like a physical blow.
“Cressida?” Harriet’s concerned voice seemed to come from very far away. “What’s wrong?”
Everything, Cressida thought as Theodore’s gaze held hers. Absolutely everything.
“I owe you a considerable debt, my friend.” John’s voice pulled Theodore from his observation of Cressida across the ballroom.
The Marquess had appeared at his elbow with characteristic good humor, two glasses of champagne in hand, one of which he pressed into Theodore’s reluctant grip.
“I merely suggested a course of action,” Theodore replied, his tone deliberately flat. “You made your own choice.”
“A choice I thank God for daily.” John’s expression transformed, warmth suffusing features that had once been hardened by dissipation and aimless excess. “Harriet is…” he trailed off, apparently unable to find adequate words. “I’ve never been happier, Theodore. Never imagined I could be.”
Theodore forced his attention back to his friend, genuine pleasure cutting through his own turmoil. “I’m glad to see it worked out well.”
“Worked out well?” John laughed. “That’s rather like saying the sun provides adequate illumination.
She’s extraordinary. Clever, witty, utterly captivating when she forgets to be reserved.
” His gaze drifted toward his wife with undisguised adoration.
“I was a fool to think marriage would be merely duty and obligation. It’s—”
“I understand,” Theodore interrupted, unwilling to hear more testimonials to matrimonial bliss when his own situation felt increasingly impossible.
John’s eyes narrowed with sudden focus. “Do you? Because you’ve been staring at Lady Cressida rather intently since you arrived. In fact, you haven’t looked at anything else.”
Theodore’s jaw tightened. “You’re mistaken.”
“Am I?” His friend’s tone suggested he found this highly unlikely. “Because I’ve counted at least seven occasions in the past five minutes where you’ve tracked her movements across the room like a hound on the scent.”
Theodore thought of the whiff of lavender and warm skin, and scowled. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Theodore.” John shifted to block his view of Cressida entirely, forcing eye contact.
“I’ve known you since we were boys at Eton.
I’ve seen you face down creditors, navigate political intrigue, and maintain perfect composure through situations that would break lesser men.
I have never, not once, seen you look at a woman the way you’re looking at Lady Cressida right now. ”
Heat crawled up Theodore’s neck, a reaction he despised. “There’s nothing—”
“Is she the reason you left my wedding early?” John’s voice had dropped, genuine concern replacing teasing. “The ‘urgent estate matter’ you mentioned?”
Theodore said nothing, which was apparently answer enough.
“Good God.” John’s eyes widened. “What happened?”
“Nothing too concerning.” The words emerged too quickly, too defensive.
“Clearly, it concerns someone.” John glanced toward Cressida again, then back at him with dawning comprehension. “She was at the church, wasn’t she? That commotion outside just before the ceremony, that was her?”
Theodore’s silence confirmed it.
“And you…” John’s expression shifted through several emotions before settling on something between amusement and alarm. “You stopped her. Then what?” At Theodore’s minute flinch, he whistled low, already putting two and two together. “How very unlike you to behave recklessly.”
“It wasn’t reckless. It was necessary, and you’re very much welcome, you cur.” Theodore finally met his friend’s gaze. “And it’s over now. She’s engaged to Emerton, and I have no intention of—”
“Of what? Pursuing something that clearly matters to you?” John’s voice softened. “Theodore, I spent years running from anything real, and it nearly destroyed me. Don’t make the same mistake.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it?” John asked quietly. “You’re terrified. I recognize the look.”
Across the ballroom, Cressida laughed at something Harriet said, and Theodore felt the sound in his chest like a physical blow.
“Leave it alone, John,” he said finally.
But his friend’s knowing expression suggested this conversation was far from over.
“But how did you come to be engaged to Lord Emerton?” Harriet’s brow creased with concern. “I thought you were at your aunt’s. When did—”
“It’s a very long story,” Cressida managed, the weight of the ring on her finger suddenly unbearable. “My parents arranged it while I was away. I only discovered it upon my return.”
Harriet’s eyes widened with understanding and sympathy. “Oh, Cressida, I’m so—”
“Lady Cressida.” Emerton’s voice cut through their conversation like a blade through silk. He appeared at her elbow with the presumptuous familiarity of ownership, his smile calculated to charm. “I believe the first dance is mine.”
It wasn’t a request.
Cressida’s spine stiffened as she turned to face her betrothed. He was handsome enough, she supposed, fair-haired and well-dressed, but something in his eyes reminded her of a merchant appraising inventory. She felt nothing when he took her hand. No flutter or quickening pulse.
Nothing like what she’d felt when Theodore had—
“Of course, My Lord,” she heard herself say, the words tasting like ash.
Theodore watched Emerton guide Cressida onto the dance floor with a possessiveness that made his jaw clench. The Earl’s hand settled on her waist with presumptuous familiarity, and something dark and primal coiled in Theodore’s chest.
She was breathtaking. Her gown—a deep emerald that made her auburn hair gleam like copper in candlelight—fitted her curves with devastating precision.
Every turn revealed the graceful line of her neck, the elegant slope of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts above the bodice that made his mouth go dry.
“My, my.” Lady Seymore materialized at his elbow, her voice rich with amusement. “If looks could kill, poor Emerton would be bleeding out on the ballroom floor.”
Theodore didn’t acknowledge her, his gaze fixed on the dancers.
“Theodore, darling, you’re being rather obvious—”
“I would rather not speak of this, Auntie.” The words emerged colder than he’d intended.
The music swelled to its conclusion. Theodore moved before thought could intervene, crossing the room with singular purpose. Emerton was leading Cressida off the dance floor, his hand lingering on her elbow in a manner that made Theodore’s vision narrow.
“Lady Cressida.” He appeared before them, ignoring Emerton entirely. “May I have the next dance?”
Her eyes widened, color flooding her cheeks. “Your Grace, I—”
“The next dance,” he repeated, extending his hand with ducal authority that brooked no refusal.
Emerton sputtered something about prior claims, but Cressida had already placed her fingers in Theodore’s palm, and the contact sent heat racing up his arm.
He led her onto the dance floor as the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz.
“You’re very presumptuous, Your Grace,” she murmured as his hand settled on her waist. The curve beneath his palm made concentration difficult.
“And you’re very engaged to the wrong man, Lady Cressida.” The retort escaped before he could stop it.