Chapter 32 #2
Theodore stood in the doorway, his dark eyes blazing with controlled fury. He’d clearly bypassed the butler, ignored every protocol, and walked straight into a private family confrontation with the commanding presence of a man who cared nothing for propriety when his wife was threatened.
Cressida’s breath caught. He looked magnificent and terrible—jaw tight, shoulders squared, every inch the Duke of Ashmere reduced to his most elemental and dangerous self.
“Your Grace!” Lady Bardwell’s tone shifted immediately to fawning delight. “What a wonderful surprise. We didn’t expect—”
“I suggest you watch your tone with my wife.” Theodore’s gaze never left Lord Bardwell’s face. “Both of you.”
The parlor went absolutely still.
Lord Bardwell straightened, attempting to regain some measure of authority. “Your Grace, this is a family matter. A simple disagreement between parents and their daughter. Nothing that requires your intervention.”
“A simple disagreement?” Theodore’s voice carried lethal softness. “Is that what you call berating your daughter for daring to expect basic decency from the people who claim to love her?”
“We were merely expressing concern—” Lady Bardwell began.
“You were expressing nothing except your disappointment that your daughter might inconvenience you.” Theodore moved further into the room with predatory grace.
“I heard you from the corridor. Every accusation. Every manipulative word designed to make her feel guilty for expecting more than your cautious approval.”
Lord Bardwell’s face flushed deeper. “Your Grace, with all due respect, you’ve misunderstood—”
“I’ve misunderstood nothing.” Theodore’s eyes remained cold as winter steel.
“You’ve spent years treating your daughter like a burden to be borne rather than a person to be treasured.
Sent her away when convenient, arranged her marriage without a word.
And now you stand here berating her for having the audacity to want parents who actually care about her well-being rather than your standing in society. ”
“That’s not—” Lord Bardwell tried.
“I’m not finished.” The command in Theodore’s voice stopped him cold. “You will apologize to your daughter. Both of you. Immediately.”
Lady Bardwell’s hands fluttered nervously. “Your Grace, surely there’s no need for such dramatics. Cressida knows we love her.”
“Does she?” Theodore turned his full attention to her, his expression devastating in its contempt.
“Because from where I stand, you’ve done an exceptional job of demonstrating the opposite.
Love doesn’t lock daughters in rooms like prisoners.
Love doesn’t arrange marriages without consent.
Love doesn’t hear distress and respond with accusations. ”
The silence stretched taut as drawn wire.
“Furthermore,” he continued, his voice dropping to something infinitely more dangerous, “you will treat your children better going forward. All of them. Particularly Cressida. You will speak to her with respect. You will consider her feelings before your own interests. You will be the parents she deserves rather than the disappointments you’ve proven yourselves to be thus far. ”
“You cannot dictate how we manage our family,” Lord Bardwell protested, his voice rising with impotent rage.
“I can.” Theodore’s smile held no warmth whatsoever. “And I will. Because Cressida is my wife, which means she is under my protection. If you continue to treat her with the callous disregard you’ve shown today, you’ll discover exactly how unpleasant I can make things for people who hurt her.”
“Is that a threat?” Lord Bardwell’s voice shook with fury.
“It’s a promise.” Theodore’s expression left no room for doubt.
“Your social standing depends largely on your connection to the Ashmere title. Every door that’s opened for you since Cressida’s marriage exists because of me.
I can close those doors just as easily. Lord Thornbury’s investment?
Gone. Lady Hartwell’s invitations? Withdrawn.
The Pembrokes’ sudden interest? Evaporated.
All it would take is a word in the right ears about how you’ve treated your daughter. ”
Lady Bardwell went pale. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” Theodore’s voice remained terrifyingly calm. “Hurt her again, and find out exactly what I’m capable of when properly motivated.”
Everyone in the parlor held their breath.
“Now.” Theodore’s tone shifted to something resembling civility, though the steel remained beneath. “You were about to apologize to your daughter. I believe we’re all waiting.”
Lord Bardwell’s jaw worked, pride and pragmatism warring on his face. Lady Bardwell looked between him and Theodore, calculation clear in her expression.
Finally, they exchanged glances—that wordless communication perfected over decades—and turned to face Cressida.
“We apologize.” Lord Bardwell’s voice was stiff with reluctant contrition. “For any distress we may have caused you.”
“For any distress?” Theodore’s eyebrow rose. “Try again. And this time, be specific.”
Another tense silence. Then Lady Bardwell stepped forward, hands clasped tightly at her waist.
“We apologize for not considering your feelings. For treating your marriage as though it existed solely for our benefit. For failing to be the parents you needed us to be.”
The words sounded rehearsed, performative, devoid of genuine remorse. But they were words nonetheless. An acknowledgment, however hollow, of years of accumulated hurt.
Cressida found she couldn’t speak past the tightness in her throat.
“Better.” Theodore’s tone remained uncompromising. “Now, leave us. My wife and I require privacy.”
They departed with wounded dignity, Lady Bardwell pausing at the threshold to look back at Cressida with an expression that might have been genuine regret or simply annoyance at being caught. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
The parlor suddenly felt too small, too warm.
Theodore stood near the mantelpiece, his profile sharp in the afternoon light. His hands hung loose at his sides, his jaw still tight.
He’d defended her with fierce protectiveness she’d only dreamed of receiving from her parents. And she had no idea what to say to him.