Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“You look wretched.” Theodore glanced up from his whiskey to find John settling into the chair opposite, that insufferable smile already in place.
White’s was blessedly quiet at this hour—most of London’s gentlemen were already dressing for Lady Seymore’s ball.
“I look as I always do.”
“Precisely. Wretched.” John signaled for brandy. “Three weeks of marriage, and you’ve somehow managed to make yourself more miserable than when you were a bachelor. That takes genuine talent, Ashmere.”
Theodore’s jaw tightened. “Did you summon me here solely to offer commentary on my disposition?”
“Among other things.” John accepted his drink with a nod to the attendant. “I hear you’re still avoiding your wife.”
Theodore set down his glass. “I didn’t come here to discuss my marriage.”
“Then you came to the wrong place, because that’s precisely what we’re discussing.” John leaned forward. “Do something nice for her. A gesture. Anything to show you’re not determined to make both of you miserable for the next fifty years.”
“A gesture won’t change the nature of our arrangement.”
“Perhaps not. But it might make your aunt’s ball tonight slightly less excruciating for everyone involved.” John’s expression softened marginally.
Theodore reached for his whiskey again, hating that his friend was right. “What kind of gesture did you have in mind?”
“I’m not planning your romantic overtures for you.” John’s grin returned. “Though I will say that women notice when a man pays attention to the small things. Details matter to them in ways we often overlook.”
“I’m not writing her poetry.”
“Good God, I should hope not. Can you imagine?” John shuddered theatrically. “No, I’m suggesting you demonstrate that you actually listen when she speaks. That you know her preferences. That she’s more to you than simply an obligation you’re fulfilling.”
Theodore said nothing, staring into his glass while John’s words settled like stones in his chest.
“You’re afraid,” John said quietly. “I understand that better than you might think. I was terrified of what I felt for Harriet, convinced that caring for her would somehow destroy me. But running from it only made everything worse.”
“This is different.”
“Is it?” John stood, draining his brandy. “Think on it, Ashmere, before you’ve wasted so much time that there’s nothing left to salvage.”
Molly hummed while arranging Cressida’s hair, weaving pins through her auburn curls with practiced efficiency. The preparations for Lady Seymore’s ball had consumed most of the afternoon—a welcome distraction from the hollow ache that had become Cressida’s constant companion these past weeks.
Theodore had left for London that morning without a word. Again.
A knock sounded at the door. Molly hurried to answer it, before returning with a large box bearing an unfamiliar crest.
“For you, Your Grace.” She set it carefully on the bed. “A footman just delivered it. He said it was from His Grace.”
Cressida’s hands stilled. “From the Duke?”
“Apparently, yes.” Molly’s eyes danced with curiosity. “Shall we see what he’s sent?”
They opened the box together. Beneath layers of tissue paper lay silk the color of deep forest—emerald green shot through with threads of gold. Cressida’s breath caught as Molly lifted the gown, candlelight rippling across its surface.
“Oh, Your Grace. It’s exquisite.”
Cressida reached out to touch the fabric, her throat suddenly tight. The color was perfect—her favorite shade, the exact green of the trees in her grandmother’s painting.
“How did he know?” she asked, muttering.
Molly smiled knowingly. “His Grace is very thorough, Your Grace. I hear he asked a lot about you before your wedding. Now, come. Let’s see how it fits.”
The gown draped over Cressida’s frame as though made specifically for her. Which, she realized, it had been. Theodore must have obtained her measurements somehow—another indication he’d been paying far closer attention than his behavior suggested.
Gold embroidery traced delicate patterns along the bodice and hem, catching the light with every movement. The neckline sat perfectly at her collarbones, modest yet flattering.
When Molly finished arranging her hair to complement the design, Cressida barely recognized her own reflection.
She looked like a duchess.
More than that, she looked like a woman someone had thought about. Noticed. Remembered.
“He’ll be absolutely speechless when he sees you, Your Grace,” Molly declared.
Cressida rather doubted that. Theodore excelled at silence—it was conversation he seemed to find unbearable.
Theodore stood at the base of the staircase, adjusting his cuffs with unnecessary force. John’s words had pursued him from White’s to his tailor and finally home, refusing to grant him even a moment’s peace.
Do something nice for her.
Well, he’d commissioned the damned gown. Harriet had mentioned Cressida’s favorite color to John, who’d naturally reported it with entirely too much satisfaction. Theodore had sent for his aunt’s modiste that same afternoon, specifying emerald silk and requesting utmost discretion.
Not that discretion had lasted—Lady Seymore had sent a note that very evening expressing her delight at his “romantic gesture” and offering entirely unwanted advice about maintaining marital harmony.
Footsteps sounded above, and as soon as Theodore looked up, he forgot how to breathe.
Cressida descended the stairs like something from a painting, emerald silk flowing around her with liquid grace. Gold thread caught the candlelight, making her shimmer.
But it wasn’t the gown that struck him motionless. It was the way she moved, the tilt of her head, the quiet confidence in her bearing that he’d somehow failed to notice these past weeks while fleeing from room to room like a hunted animal.
She was… extraordinary.
“Duke.” Her voice carried careful neutrality as she reached him. “Thank you for the gown. It’s lovely.”
Theodore’s tongue felt thick, utterly useless in his mouth. She stood close enough that he could smell lavender and see the golden flecks in her green eyes. His carefully rehearsed response—something brief and dismissive that would maintain proper distance—died unspoken.
“You remembered,” Cressida continued when he failed to answer. “The color. I’m touched that you—”
“We should depart.” The words came too harshly. “The carriage is waiting.”
He saw her expression shift, brightness dimming to resignation. She nodded once and moved past him toward the door, leaving him standing alone in the entrance hall, hating himself with renewed vigor.
The carriage ride stretched in uncomfortable silence.
Theodore kept his gaze on the window while every fiber of his being remained acutely aware of her presence.
Emerald silk rustled when she shifted. Her breathing was steady and controlled—the breathing of someone managing disappointment with practiced grace.
“Did Lord Whitebrook convince you?” Her voice cut through the quiet. “To commission the gown, I mean. It seems rather unlike you to suddenly remember such details.”
Theodore’s jaw clenched. “I thought you should have something appropriate for the evening.”
“How practical.” The edge in her voice could have cut glass. “For a moment, I imagined it might be a gesture of consideration. How foolish of me.”
He turned away from the window to find her watching him, her chin lifted in that defiant way that meant she was hurt and refusing to show it. Candlelight from the carriage lamps flickered across her face, illuminating the careful blankness of her expression.
“The gown suits you,” he said quietly.
“Yes. You chose well.” She smoothed the silk over her lap without looking at him. “You possess excellent judgment in matters of appearance and propriety, Duke. One might almost believe you cared about such things.”
“Cressida—”
“Please don’t.” She raised one gloved hand. “Whatever excuse you’ve prepared, I’d rather not hear it. We both understand this is for show. To present a united front at your aunt’s ball. To silence the whispers about our hasty marriage.”
Every word landed true. He had commissioned the gown for precisely those reasons—to demonstrate to society that the Duke and Duchess of Ashmere were a respectable couple worthy of their rank.
Except that wasn’t entirely accurate.
He had chosen emerald specifically because he’d asked her family’s staff about it, and they’d told her about a painting of her grandmother’s that Cressida often talked about.
Perhaps he could ask her about that painting himself one day.
“You’re right,” he relented. “The gesture was calculated.”
Cressida’s mouth tightened.
“But the color was deliberate.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “What?”
“The emerald. Your family’s staff told me it was your favorite. Your grandmother’s painting.” He looked away, unable to hold her stare.
“You…” she trailed off.
When he risked a glance back, he found her staring at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher.
“You asked them about that?”
“Yes. Because I want to know everything about you.” The admission escaped before he could stop it. “Every word. Every detail.” He forced himself to meet her eyes again. “Which is precisely why I must keep my distance. Because knowing you is dangerous.”
The carriage began to slow, the sounds of London society filtering through the windows—music and laughter and the rattle of dozens of other carriages converging on his aunt’s house. Through the glass, Theodore could see light blazing from every window, the entrance already crowded with guests.
They’d arrived.
The footman opened the door. Theodore stepped out and turned, offering his hand. Cressida placed her gloved fingers in his, trembling slightly as she descended.
Light spilled from the ballroom entrance across the street. Music drifted through the evening air. Every person who mattered was inside those walls, waiting to observe and judge and whisper about the Duke of Ashmere and his scandalous wife.
Theodore felt Cressida hesitate beside him.
“Keep your head high,” he murmured. “You’re the Duchess of Ashmere. Half these people couldn’t dream of matching your rank.”
She glanced up at him, surprise flickering across her features. Then her spine straightened, and her shoulders squared.
Theodore felt something shift in his chest at the transformation. A spark of pride that was almost feral, a recognition that this woman matched him as no other could.
They entered together.
The ballroom fell silent as a tomb. Every head turned. Every conversation ceased. The orchestra played on, but the assembled guests stood frozen, their collective attention fixed on the doorway with the intensity of predators scenting blood.
Lady Seymore materialized from the crowd like an avenging angel in purple silk. “Theodore! Cressida! How wonderful!” Her voice carried across the sudden hush with deliberate cheerfulness. “Darling boy, you look almost civilized. And Cressida, emerald is absolutely your color. Magnificent choice.”
“Thank you for inviting us, Lady Seymore,” Cressida said, her voice steady despite the scrutiny.
“Inviting you? Nonsense. You’re family.” Lady Seymore beamed at them both, before her expression turned sly. “Now, when might I expect news of a great-nephew or niece? Surely, you’re not planning to rattle about in that enormous castle with just the two of you indefinitely.”
“Auntie.” Theodore’s voice came out flat and cold. “The matter is not open for discussion.”
Lady Seymore’s smile didn’t waver, but something shifted in her eyes. “Oh, don’t be stuffy, darling. I’m simply expressing natural interest.”
“Then express it elsewhere.” Theodore felt Cressida flinch beside him and hated himself anew. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—”
“Actually,” Cressida interjected, her tone light but her grip on his arm firm, “I believe I see Lady Whitebrook across the room. Would you excuse me, Duke? I’d very much like to speak with her.”
Theodore stared at her. She was asking permission, when weeks ago, she’d have simply walked away without bothering. The shift unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
“You’re free to do as you please,” he said.
Her smile turned sharp. “I’ll remember you said that.”
Then she was gone, gliding through the crowd toward Harriet with her head held high and her emerald silk gown catching the light, leaving him standing with his aunt in the middle of a ballroom full of people pretending not to stare.
He had a sinking feeling he would soon regret his words.