Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Cressida!” Her mother’s voice carried through Bardwell House’s entrance hall with the pitch of someone who had discovered a minor catastrophe. “You’re back. Without the Duke.”
Cressida had barely crossed the threshold before Lady Bardwell descended on her, face arranged into concern poorly disguised as maternal devotion.
The performance might have been more convincing if her mother’s eyes hadn’t immediately traveled past her toward the door, clearly expecting Theodore to follow.
“Where is His Grace?” Her mother’s hands fluttered. “Surely he hasn’t let you travel alone?”
“I had a maid and two footmen with me, Mama. That’s hardly coming alone.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Lady Bardwell’s gaze sharpened. “You were perfectly content at Ashmere three days ago. What has happened?”
Three days. It felt like a lifetime.
Three days ago, her mother had sought her out in the morning room and initiated that surprisingly genuine conversation about choosing battles and being happy.
Three days ago, Theodore had walked beside her in the gardens while Mary introduced a toad to everyone.
Three days ago, she’d believed they were building something real.
“Nothing’s happened.” Cressida removed her gloves, focusing on the pearl buttons to avoid her mother’s eyes. “I simply wished to visit.”
Her father emerged from his study, already frowning. “Cressida. This is unexpected.”
“Unexpected and irregular,” her mother added, her voice carrying that particular edge that meant an interrogation would follow. “You don’t simply leave your husband’s castle without an explanation, especially not days after we’ve just seen you perfectly settled.”
“I’m not required to explain my every movement.”
“You are when you arrive without your husband, looking like—” Her mother stopped, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been crying.”
“I haven’t.”
“Your eyes are red.”
“The road was dusty.”
“Cressida.” Her father’s voice carried a warning. “What is going on?”
Her parents arranged themselves with practiced synchronization, her mother pouring tea, her father settling into his chair with the expression of a man bracing for bad news.
“Well?” Her mother handed her a cup. “Are you going to tell us what’s happened, or must we guess?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“Don’t insult our intelligence.” Her father leaned forward. “Three days ago, you were perfectly content. Your mother and I spent three days at Ashmere. We had dinner together. We spoke. You seemed happy.”
Cressida had been happy. That was the cruelest part.
“We had a disagreement,” she said carefully.
“A disagreement serious enough to send you fleeing to London?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of disagreement?”
“The private sort.”
“There’s no such thing as privacy in marriage.
” Her mother set down her cup with a sharp click.
“Especially not when your private disagreements affect this family’s standing.
Do you know what Lady Pemberton said to me yesterday?
She asked after the Duke in that particular tone, the one that suggests she knows something I don’t. ”
“Indeed.” Her father nodded gravely. “Your marriage has opened considerable doors for this family, Cressida. Lord Thornbury’s railway investment, the invitation to Lady Hartwell’s card party, the Pembrokes’ sudden eagerness for our company.
We cannot afford for you to jeopardize these connections with marital discord. ”
“How fortunate for you, Papa, that my marriage serves your interests so well.”
If he detected the bitterness, he didn’t acknowledge it. “I’m simply stating facts. The Duke’s standing in society is considerable. Any hint of trouble between you reflects poorly on all of us.”
“Then perhaps you should have considered that before you sold me to satisfy a scandal.” The words escaped before she could stop them.
The room went very still.
“Sold you?” Her mother’s voice rose. “We saved you. You’d ruined yourself, destroyed your prospects, and we arranged the most advantageous match possible.”
“Advantageous for whom?”
“For everyone!” Her mother stood and paced to the window. “You became a duchess. We regained our standing. The scandal was contained. Everyone benefited from your marriage.”
Everyone except Cressida. Everyone except Theodore, trapped in a contract he’d never wanted with a wife he couldn’t—wouldn’t trust.
“You still haven’t explained what’s happened.” Her father’s voice sharpened. “This disagreement. What was it about?”
“That’s between the Duke and me.”
“Not when it affects this family’s reputation.” He leaned back, studying her with the calculating expression he used for business negotiations. “Whatever he’s done, whatever you’ve done, it must be repaired. Immediately. I won’t have whispers circulating about trouble in your marriage.”
“How considerate of you to worry about my well-being, Father.”
“Your well-being is best served by maintaining your position as the Duchess of Ashmere.” His voice remained level, practical. “Now, I suggest you compose yourself, write to your husband, and resolve this matter with dignity and discretion.”
Dignity. Discretion. The same words they’d used when they’d sent her to Aunt Agatha’s, when they’d arranged her engagement to Lord Emerton, when they’d forced her into this marriage.
Once she’d been safely married, they discussed their own gains as though she were an investment whose value had finally been realized.
Always a commodity, never a daughter.
“We must host a dinner party while you’re in town,” her mother was saying. “Nothing too elaborate, but enough to remind people of the connection. The Pembrokes and the Ashfords, certainly. Perhaps Lord and Lady Hartwell, if they’re available. What do you think, George?”
“Capital idea. I’ll have my secretary draw up a list.” Her father turned to her. “You’ll want to invite the Duke. Give us a chance to become better acquainted.”
“Naturally.” Cressida set down her teacup. “Though I cannot speak to His Grace’s availability.”
“Whenever he can manage.” Her mother waved this away. “I’m sure he’ll make time.”
The conversation drifted toward guest lists. Cressida let it wash over her while studying the carpet. The irony wasn’t lost on her—she’d escaped this house by marrying a man who viewed her as a contract, only to discover her parents viewed her the same way.
An asset that had finally proved itself useful. Nothing more.
“Cressida?” Mary stood in the doorway, her young face carefully neutral but her eyes bright with the particular intensity of someone waiting for an opening. “Might I borrow you? I wanted to show you something upstairs.”
“Mary, we’re in the middle of—” Lady Bardwell began.
“Of course.” Cressida stood before her mother could finish. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She followed Mary into the corridor and climbed up the stairs. Her sister didn’t speak until they’d reached her old room, the door closing behind them.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you, darling. Your warmth is overwhelming.”
“Don’t.” Mary crossed her arms, thirteen and far too perceptive. “I’m not Mama. You can’t distract me.”
Cressida sank onto the bed, exhaustion settling over her shoulders like a weight. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Mary sat beside her, warmer and brighter and taking up far more space than she had last time. When had she grown so much? “I saw your face downstairs. You looked like you wanted to disappear into the wallpaper.”
“An astute observation.”
“Stop it.” Mary’s voice sharpened. “Talk to me properly. What’s wrong?”
Where could Cressida even begin? How could she explain to her thirteen-year-old sister that she’d fallen in love with a man who couldn’t trust her? That she’d given Theodore everything—her body, her heart, her foolish hope for their future—only to discover she meant nothing?
“Marriage is an adjustment,” she said finally. “That’s all.”
“That’s a lie.” Mary’s chin set stubbornly.
“Mary—”
“You’ve been gone for months. And now you’re here without him, looking like someone died. So don’t tell me it’s just an adjustment.”
Cressida looked away, focusing on the window overlooking the garden. She’d spent so many afternoons at that window, watching for the post, hoping for letters from Harriet.
“He doesn’t trust me,” she heard herself say. “I thought he was learning to, but I was wrong. I’ll always be wrong, because he can’t let me in. He won’t. And I can’t keep pretending that’s enough.”
Mary’s hand found hers, small and warm. “What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. No great betrayal or scandal.” Cressida laughed, the sound jagged. “Just the truth, delivered clearly. I’m a contract he signed. That’s all I’ll ever be.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s an idiot.”
Despite everything, Cressida smiled. “Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps. Definitely.” Mary squeezed her hand. “You’re the cleverest person I know. And the kindest. And if he can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m accurate.” Mary’s chin lifted with familiar stubbornness. “And you shouldn’t have to settle for someone who makes you miserable.”
Cressida wanted to argue, to defend Theodore, to explain that he wasn’t trying to make her miserable. He simply didn’t know how to be any other way. That his damage ran so deep, she’d never reach the bottom of it.
But she was so tired of defending him. Of making excuses for his coldness, his withdrawal, his absolute inability to believe anyone might love him without an ulterior motive.
“I’ll be fine,” she said instead. “It’s difficult right now, but it will get easier.”
“Will it?”
“It has to.”