Chapter 17
Daria found comfort in the familiar.
It’d always been that way for her.
Since she was a small girl, Daria herself organized her wardrobe. Her process was meticulous. Her gowns were hung in an order of: morning dress, day dress, carriage dress, dinner dress, ballgown, and nightshifts.
Then, of course, there came a separate corner of Daria’s wardrobe where she filed away the lesser donned opera dress and supper dress.
Within those subsets, her gowns were arranged by fabric type.
Never starched muslin, rough-laced collars, or heavily stiffened brocade.
And within those distinct pairings, she’d created a system where they hung by color shades: onyx black descending to the lightest shade of grey—at least it existed in her trousseau.
Every morn, Daria rose at the exact same time: twelve minutes past five o’clock. She lay reflecting on her coming day for fifteen minutes. From there, she went about her morning ablutions—also in a strictly followed order.
She broke her fast in the fourth upholstered dining chair. To her right sat Brenna. Cora sat directly across from Daria.
Her morning meal consisted of one boiled egg, two pieces of plain toast, a serving’s worth of strawberries or raspberries—and a glass of chocolate.
On this first morn in her new home, and a new seat at a different—an even longer Hepplewhite table, noticeably different in so many ways, but only one that truly mattered.
She skimmed her gaze along each silk damask upholstered mahogany chair.
Empty. Every last one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen-fifteen-sixteen-seventeen-eighteen-nineteen-twenty-twenty-one-twenty-two-twenty-three, and twenty-four of them.
Dropping an elbow onto the table and resting her palm upon her hand, Daria pushed her crested silver fork around her dish with her other hand. Her gaze snagged on her tired, blood-shot eyes reflected in the regretfully placed mirror above the loaded sideboard.
Seated here by herself in this sun-burnished, cheerfully painted room, she’d never been more miserable her life.
When her father died, through the anguish, Daria had her siblings. Her mother. Clayton’s friends who’d become family. They’d had one another and held one another, and helped each other to the other side of grief.
Daria searched her sad eyes around the silent breakfast room.
Here, there was no one. No one aside from footmen, too bulked in muscle to properly fit their—or any uniform—and looking more like dangerous guards in costume than actual servants.
There was one un-bewigged man stationed at every corner, two who flanked the sideboard, and two who stood sentry behind the leather-padded armchairs at the heads of the table.
As if they were prepared to slay an interloper who stepped forward to claim what was not theirs.
One of those distinguished places was reserved for her husband.
“…No…You are my bride. We are nothing in the eyes of the law and church until I bed you…”
And there it was.
Her morning misery came in some part from the gaping hole left by her family’s absence, and in larger part by her horrible, terrific, wretchedly miserable wedding night.
“…I do not want you coming to my bed after you’ve spent the day in some woman’s arms, Gregory…”
Daria dragged her fork down the middle of her untouched plate, punishing herself with the discordant screech of metal meeting porcelain.
It didn’t help.
Her misery was of her own making.
She’d assumed the worst of Gregory.
On their wedding day, she’d accused him of bedding another woman.
She’d told him she’d not give him a babe, a child he needed, and one he’d noted as a term of their marrying.
She’d been the cruel one.
“…You are attempting to punish me for, as you see it, being unfaithful…?”
His stillness in that moment, the flash of shock in his eyes, confirmed how deeply her accusations hurt him.
Daria flexed her hands; her fork clattered upon her dish.
Shaking, Daria drew her feet onto her chair, folded her arms around her legs, and hugged herself.
She’d unfairly judged him.
Digging her nails into the palms of her hand, Daria scrunched herself into a tight ball and edged the word from her mind.
No. No. No. No. No.
But it came anyway.
Fate.
“…Be honest about one bloody thing in all of this, Daria. This was never about me…it was about your own safety. I allowed you to persuade us both that you possessed the fortitude for this, and when you discovered, after one damned day…”
Nooooooo.
She liked him, and she wanted him to like her in return, apart from his wanting to bed her.
There it was.
Distantly registering an animal-like moan, Daria buried her face into her skirts to hide that plaintive wail the best she could.
When she’d first approached Gregory with her need to marry, it’d been all too easy to believe she could protect her heart.
She knew, as all of Society knew, the Duke of Argyll’s reputation.
He charmed. He inspired awe. He broke hearts.
That’s how she’d known herself to be safe from Gregory.
But she’d known no more, even less than Society did, about the Duke of Argyll.
She’d built her view of Gregory not on a man, but a caricature of one.
Being his wife, it had been inevitable he’d exist not as some one-dimensional rendering in a gossip column, but as a flesh and blood man who felt things…deeply.
She dragged a breath in through her compressed lungs.
Yesterday, Gregory let Daria dictate how their meeting with Clayton went.
He’d honored her wishes, and sat outside the viscount’s offices through the horrid things said about him by Daria’s family.
The only time he’d intervened had been when Daria’s brother refused to allow Daria the marriage she’d wanted.
After all that, he’d dropped to a knee beside Eris and soothed the girl with promises that the sisters’ parting was not forever.
And how had she received those gifts? Like a jealous, bitter woman who wanted even more from him.
She’d said hateful things.
Not intentionally. She oft blurted things that shouldn’t be said and always at the worst timing. And once uttered, there could be no putting them back to be forgotten.
“…What did you mean to imply when you insisted your family be allowed to raise the child?”
Daria knocked her head into her knees. Why, why had she said those things to him?
“…It would have been helpful, madam, if you’d arrived at such a conclusion before you circumvented my marriage to the woman I actually wanted as my bride…”
The echo of those icily detached words struck like a fresh lash upon her heart.
He’d been right to call Daria out. She had attempted to change their agreed-upon terms. The reasons she’d given him for doing so were paltry, and all because of what he’d seen and said about her, that Daria hadn’t even seen herself.
“…This was never about me. It was about your own safety. I allowed you to persuade us both that you possessed the fortitude for this, and when you discovered, after one damned day…”
That was why.
He’d known.
Her repayment for his kindness had been to hurt him—badly.
“M-Me,” she whispered, needing to hear someone’s voice.
She went over each and every way, flaying herself with each remembrance.
“…What did you mean to imply when you insisted your family be allowed to raise the child?”
But her accusations had been exactly what he’d claimed—Daria’s attempt at self-preservation. He’d sensed and seen easily when Daria had, after but a single day, started to lose herself.
“…It would have been helpful, madam, if you’d arrived at such a conclusion before you circumvented my marriage to the woman I actually wanted as my bride…”
Gregory hadn’t uttered one unkind thing. The charges he’d made against her hadn’t been unfounded. He’d called her out, and rightly so, and had simply spoken the truth regarding their relationship.
Distantly registering an animal-like moan, Daria buried her face into her skirts to hide that plaintive wail the best she could.
When she’d first approached Gregory with her need to marry, it’d been all too easy to believe she could protect her heart.
She knew, as all of Society knew, the Duke of Argyll’s reputation.
He charmed. He inspired awe. He broke hearts.
That’s how she’d known herself to be safe from Gregory.
But she’d known no more, even less than Society did, about the Duke of Argyll.
She’d built her view of Gregory, not on a man, but a caricature of one.
Being his wife, it had been inevitable he’d exist not as some one-dimensional rendering in a gossip column, but as a flesh and blood man who felt things…deeply.
Tears burned her eyes. That much-hated fullness filled her ears, and she fought to keep from slapping her palms against them.
She’d gone and stuck Gregory with a wife he didn’t want. At the very least, she owed it to him to not collapse in front of his staff and humiliate him further in their marriage.
All fault resided with Daria.
“You made a mistake in asking me to marry you, Daria. You were never strong enough—never hard enough—to weather life as my wife.”
Her heart throbbed with the same viciousness as when he’d scraped a duke’s disapproving eyes over her.
“We are both well and truly stuck.”
A building pressure started low in her chest and climbed. A crushing weight that cinched her lungs.
She’d hurt him.
Daria’s fork wavered and she squeezed the cold metal tight, until the utensil no longer shook, but instead bit viciously into her palm.
She punished herself with the good he’d spoken against her wrongs.
“…There was no other woman tonight. Because you are the only one I hungered for…I hunger for you, Daria…”
Tears burned her eyes and she rubbed her face hard against her lap to wipe them.
“…I want you as I have never wanted…”
“Hullo.”
Gasping, Daria turned so fast towards that gentle voice that she fell sideways from the chair.