Chapter 3 #2
He nods, his expression as sober as my tone. “I felt certain you would not trouble yourself otherwise.”
“It… it is the Lady Freya. I confess, it brings me discomfort to bring such tidings which will cause disquiet.”
“Your Grace, concealment serves no one. Please, I implore you to tell me all that you know.”
I clear my throat, doing my best to disregard the moisture on my palms that, if I were to wipe them, would surely betray me. “Lady Freya… the night of the ball… when she swooned, I realized… well, that is to say… I have very strong reason to believe your daughter to be…”
The Earl is not new to his position, or to the nobility, for that matter. In his shoes, I would have rushed a bumbling speaker. He is gracious, however, and gives me the time I need.
“I believe the Lady Freya to be with child.” The crux of the matter has come to my lips at last.
He clears his throat but does not pull his gaze from mine. “That is quite an accusation, Your Grace. I trust you would not bring such a matter to me unless you were absolutely certain.”
I have imagined this scene in my mind over and again. I have anticipated every possible reaction that Lord Denham might possibly have. Except for the one he gives me. Even so, I manage to answer. “I fear I am.”
He pauses, considering me carefully. “You have proof, I trust?”
This gives me pause—both the reaction I did not anticipate, and the question itself. I do not know what sort of proof I might offer in this regard. “I do not, my lord. I only just learned the news myself.”
His Lordship considers me thoughtfully, then signals to the butler who melted so seamlessly into the shadows I did not even realize he is still in the room.
“Yes, Your Lordship?”
“Please tell my daughter I require her presence.”
“Right away, my lord.”
We sit in silence. In several of my imaginings of this scene, I pictured Lord Denham trying to rip my head from my shoulders or dueling me for calling his daughter’s honor into question.
Though he does neither of these things—at least at present—he is no less a formidable mien as he sits in silence.
Yet, he does not seem uncomfortable in it.
I cannot say the same for myself, however.
I find him rising a tad higher in my grudging esteem.
Lady Freya sweeps into the room, a vision in a flowy blue gown. “Father, good day, I heard—” She stops short at the sight of me, and the pleasure in her countenance vanishes.
“Darling, surely you want to thank the gentleman who assisted you so gallantly at the ball,” Lord Denham prompts.
“Yes,” she says, never taking her eyes from me. “Thank you, Your Grace. Your aid to me during my time of darkest need was invaluable.” Her words are the very picture of obedience, and yet, the way she glowers at me makes it clear there is no truth in them.
It’s quite confounding, truly. Our conversation was pleasant enough, and I was sure she would be grateful for my comfort during her illness, and for staying by her side until help arrived.
But to judge by her mutinous expression, she harbors little good will toward me.
Which is a shame, particularly given that she has not yet heard of the purpose for my visit.
“Are you with child, my dove?”
The question is asked so pleasantly, I almost do not take note of it. And may not have done, if not for Lady Freya’s sharp indrawn breath.
“Father! How could you…” She slides her eyes back and forth between the two of us, her brow furrowed, her eyes wide.
“I notice you do not deny it,” he asserts, composed to the very end.
“I…Who has been filling your head with such… such… tales?” She trails off hopelessly.
“The child does not belong to Lord Pembroke, I presume?”
I go still at the question, for this had not occurred to me. I am watching my lady, ears alert for her answer.
Silence envelopes the sitting room, though it carries apprehension on its heels.
Father and daughter stare at one another, gazes locked, expressions composed, each waiting for the other to back down.
And I, a bystander, have never felt so strained with the charged atmosphere as I wait to see how this will unfold.
“No,” she whispers at last, so softly I wonder if I might have dreamt hearing it.
A flicker of emotion flashes across her father’s face, but it is gone before I can name it. Then he inclines his head regally. “I see. In that case, obviously I will make the necessary steps to bring the business of a betrothal to an end.”
She gasps again, her eyes growing rounder. “No! Father, do not you see I need—”
“You need to fool a man into believing you are having his child?” Lord Denham shakes his head and tsks his tongue at her in such a manner that her cheeks flood with heat. “He is an honorable man, my dear. Ours is an honorable family.”
He speaks no louder than he ever has, yet she flinches at the words.
“It simply will not do.”
I exhale, letting some of the tension leave my body in a soft, soundless sigh of relief. Yet, we are not done. Fortune may yet work in my favor, but I must remain alert to help her.
“Then what is it you propose?” Her hands ball themselves into tiny, tight fists at her sides and she gives a stamp of her foot. “What am I supposed to do? Who will marry me?”
“Who will take a noblewoman who has been soiled and give a home to her and her bastard?” her father asks. She stiffens at his question, but his expression is grieved and the words hold no rancor. “As to that, I fear I cannot say.”
“I do.” It is my turn at last, and I can only hope what I have to say will change the look in Lady Freya’s frightened eyes. “I shall marry you, my lady.”
Lady Freya
My body is poised for flight, but the moment His Grace’s words reach my ears, I am seized with overwhelming despair. I am shaking my head before I even recognize I am moving at all. “No.”
My lord father looks surprised.
I meet his eye. “No.” My rejection is loud and clear.
“I am betrothed to the Lord Pembroke. I will be Lady Pembroke.” Something else has seized me, traveled in company with desperation, and is now causing me to tremble.
It begins slowly, at my shoulders, but then is cascading down my body until even my fingers shake.
I have long feared my secret being revealed, ever since I first admitted the truth of my condition to myself, but this is so much worse than my mind conjured it to be. Indeed, it is the embodiment of every fear I have ever known.
“It is a good offer, my dear.”
Father does not say it is the only offer you shall have and yet, I know that is what he implies. My lips tighten in denial, and I press them together until they hurt, lest I scream my refusal at the pair of them. My stomach churns, and dread is my only companion.
“Perhaps she just needs time to think,” His Grace says to my father.
Fury rears up to join dread and manages to overtake him. “How dare you?” I snap, narrowing my eyes. “How can you think to make decisions for me? You are nothing to me, Your Grace, and you shall never be of consequence.”
My father spears me with a look I have seen so few times in my life, I can count them, and I know it means to cease speaking, or I shall regret it.
“I apologize most sincerely, Your Grace, for my daughter’s ill manners.
It is her condition—I fear, that makes her lose her head.
Though, of course, it is no excuse for her behavior, ill-suited as it is to her upbringing. ”
A gasp lodges in my throat, and I gaze imploringly at my father, but he does not deign to look at me.
“I am not offended, my lord. She is merely… overcome with emotion. It is much to take in.”
“You are exceedingly gracious to say so, Your Grace.”
My father’s tone has warmed once more, though he has turned from me and seems resolute in pretending I am not present. Fury rolls through me hotter than any emotion I’ve yet known.
“It is no trouble, my lord. And please—do call me Gregor. I—”
“No.” The word comes out soft, but defiant.
I have found my voice, though it requires great effort to force it past my tightening throat.
“No,” I say, my voice growing louder. “No,” for a third time, my fingernails digging into the tender skin of my palms as I clench my fists.
Somehow, the pain feels pleasant and spurs me to continue.
My father turns to me and he studies me warily, in a way that tells me he considers me a problem that must be dealt with; he is merely doing his duty.
That cuts deeply.
“Dearest, you are overtired. What with all the excitement and—” He takes a step toward me.
I stumble back away from him. Even though my father grows still, I keep retreating until I bump against something solid.
As the table’s marble presses into my back, my breathing grows more frenzied as my heart races wildly beneath my breast. Yet, the stability of the table does nothing to soothe me, nor does the stone’s cool touch.
“My lady, I know this seems rather sudden, but I would not wish for you to be cast out from the genteel society that is your birthright. I—”
My heart slams against my chest so hard it hurts, then goes still. Everything goes still as my vision sharpens on the speaker—the newly appointed Duke of Fairwynd. I do not take my eyes off him, though my next words are directed elsewhere. “Father… how did you come to learn of my… condition?”
Father does not answer. He does not have to. I see a shadow upon the duke’s face—a flicker that bids me to look closer. His gaze wavers, then slips past mine. I focus on the tension around his mouth, and I know.
The truth seizes me with an unexplainable certainty and refuses to release me. My stomach knots so tightly, I fear internal injury.
“His Grace ensured the continued respect for this family. He was rendering a kindness, not only to me, but indeed, to you. When the Beau Monde learned—”
“They would not have learned.” The words feel a trial to get out past my barely moving lips. I have never felt such rage—a burning, living thing that threatens to consume me. “The Lord Pembroke is an honorable man. He never would have let it be known.”
“Though you might well be correct, what of you?” His Grace's voice is surprisingly sincere. “What kind of marriage would you enjoy if you entered into it with deception?”
“It is a kindness,” my father asserts again when I fail to answer.
It feels far from kind. I reflexively put my hands behind me when I collided with the table, and I grasp the marble, the hard stone cuts deeper than my fingernails ever have.
“Please, listen to me, Your Grace. I shall not marry you.” I stare at him until I feel quite certain my message has been heard, then level my father with the same determined gaze.
A muscle tics along my father’s jaw, but otherwise his expression is unreadable. “And what will you do instead? Is the father of the child someone who can provide for you?”
The question should not come as a surprise, and yet, it steals my breath. “I… no. He… he c-cannot.” I manage to force the admission past reluctant lips.
My father’s lips part—he seems intent on further inquiry, but then he clamps his mouth shut and wrinkles his nose as though confronted with a foul odor.
After a long moment of tense silence, he says, “Very well. Then I fear this the best course of action. While I understand you might not like it, I am afraid that is of little consequence now.”
Heat surges throughout my body, displeasure so great it has turned to flame and threatens to burn me alive from the inside-out.
Fearing they shall see the emotion on my face, I turn away from the pair.
Before I even realize what I am about, I seize the marble urn upon the table.
It is heavy—so much so that I nearly drop it—but I force my muscles to regain control and whirl to face my target—the Duke.
He is the cause of my displeasure, of today’s misfortune.
Indeed, the cause for much disquiet at the ball a fortnight ago.
If it had not been for him, I would not have swooned in the first place!
And he presents himself here, a charlatan in silk, and pretends the part of the hero!
I am so angry I am nearly blind with it.
But not so blind that I cannot heft the urn straight at him and his arrogant face.