Chapter 23
Lord and Lady Abington’s
London, England
As to Daria’s earlier question, it took a single receiving line for her to have an answer.
Cry. She most definitely, unequivocally wished to cry.
“Your Grace?”
“Your Grace?”
“May I have this set, Your Grace?”
“Might I speak to you about…?”
On all sides, Daria was surrounded by ladies and gentlemen vying for her attention. All around, the same people who’d ignored her before wanted a moment.
She didn’t have a single moment she wanted to waste on a single one of them.
And yet, this bizarre ritualistic society required one’s time not belong to oneself.
The swell of the Scottish reel, the wild stomping of revelers working through the lively steps of the set, combined with the high, sharp whine of the twelve-piece orchestra upon the dais, wreaked havoc on her nerves—frantically, desperately.
Daria scoured the sea of guests, her search for Emmy’s familiar dark-brown curls futile. There were too many—too many guests, too many strangers, too many men and women who stood taller than her. She would never find her.
Her heart quavered.
Gregory would.
Her husband—tall, commanding every room—would have picked Emmy out in an instant and brought her to her friend.
He had anchored her before, when the walls had felt as though they were closing in on her on the day of their wedding, when her family’s grief had been palpable and the understanding that she would no longer be with them had settled like a weight upon her chest.
He had anchored her this night.
The sight of him, the calm that surrounded him, moored her.
Where are you, Emmy. Where are you…?
The gay laughter of the revelers around Daria filled her head. The sounds of their mirth twisted, grotesque, into cackles. Men and women tossed back their heads.
Daria drew back.
It is me.
They laughed at her.
Her skin grew damp.
What else could they find such sinister amusement in? The new Duchess of Argyll alone.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
A devil in her head drummed that reminder home.
Her breath coming faster, Daria sidestepped guest after guest, their smiles as ghastly as their merriment, and claimed what little freedom she could upon the parquet floor.
Alone—
No!
Do not think of it.
Gregory.
“Your Grace!”
Gregory.
“But a word, Your Grace?”
Gregory.
“A moment, Your Grace!”
Gregory.
His name repeated in her head, keeping her from collapsing beneath the weight of those calls.
A guest knocked into her. The gentleman’s hurried apologies replaced the reassuring echo of her husband’s name.
Daria wanted to clap her hands over her ears and shut out the noise, the obsequious regrets, her heart hammering. She jolted her shoulder away from the man and took off in the opposite direction.
All around her, men and women who had never acknowledged her now called out greetings—or rather, greetings to a duchess.
The Duchess of Argyll.
It was someone else. It was not her.
And yet it was.
Now she was this woman, and so she existed as two: the woman she had been, the one she preferred, who found peace in quiet corners and familiar faces, and this stranger, this monster people flocked to for no other reason than the title now affixed to her otherwise same name.
A hot flush swept over her body.
Desperate. Desperate for escape. Desperate for air.
She grabbed the nearest drink proffered by a handsomely uniformed servant. Champagne sloshed in the crystal flute as her fingers wavered. She set it down hard upon the nearest empty surface.
A faint tinkling threaded through the roar—mocking giggles, shattered glass.
Daria’s heart slammed painfully into her rib cage.
And then—air. Precious air.
She found her way through the den and out the other side, into muffled quiet, her body slick with faint moisture, still burning hot.
Daria walked and kept walking.
The quiet enveloped her like a gentle hug. It did not fully calm her, but it settled the frantic, incoherent noise in her head. Somehow, she found her way outside to blessed spring air. It touched her; cool, comforting.
Outside, she walked the length of the stone terrace. When she reached the end, she turned and retraced her steps.
She was the worst sort of duchess. Title granted, there had never been doubt she would rise in grace and dignity—but not because of it.
Unlike her husband, she was not made for people.
She found joy and comfort in a small handful of those closest to her.
She was careful about whom she allowed into her world and quite content for everyone else to remain outside it.
She should not care that she was not a match for Gregory. That had been the purpose of her union—to marry a man who would never love her, perhaps never even like her. That had been bearable as a thought.
Living it was something else entirely.
Because in the most unexpected twist, Daria—who had married a man her family believed would break her heart by the sheer reprehensibility of his character—actually liked her husband. He fascinated her. He was a riddle.
He spoke about Daria protecting herself, but he had no idea he did the same. He cloaked himself in even greater shadows. And as one who hid herself away, she had recognized in him a kindred spirit.
He possessed a droll sense of humor—one she understood and appreciated. Granted, his rhetorical questions confused her. They always had.
No, he did not like her. But he had come to her defense—had challenged Clayton in a way that had not fractured her family, even when he had compelled her.
She was a person he could not bring himself to be near. The only thing she could offer was peace between him and his former friend. Gregory believed the truce he sought stemmed from business necessity. A man who kept walls would believe that.
And she wanted to give him that.
Not because she owed him—though she did. He had married her on her word alone.
And yet he had not accompanied her. She’d wanted him to. Desperately so. She’d expected he would. She’d understood why he said he couldn’t. But she had wanted him with her, anyway.
There were so many glimmers of moments when she believed he cared.
Nor could she find the one friend who might make her feel less alone.
Daria hunched over the balustrade—
And stiffened.
That soft, lilting voice struck her like a balm upon her aching soul.
“Emmy,” she whispered.
She was afraid to move. Afraid to breathe wrong. Lest this be an illusion she might shatter.
“Oh, Daria, what have you done?”
The ever-cautious, worried tone of her friend—whom life had given every reason to be wary—made Daria’s eyes slide closed as life rushed back into her.
She spun and sprinted across the terrace, her slippers slapping softly against stone. She hurled herself into Emmy’s arms and clung for all she was worth.
Emmy folded her close.
They held each other in silence.
That had always been one of the blessings of their friendship. They never needed to fill the quiet with chatter. Silence was as comfortable as conversation.
Daria broke away first. She edged back, her gaze catching on her friend’s pale pallor, the misery bleeding from her pretty brown eyes.
Understanding struck.
“Oh, Emmy, you mustn’t worry. He has not mistreated me. I am fine.” She hesitated. “Lonely. I long for things I shouldn’t.” His heart. I want Gregory’s heart.
“You’re certain?” Emmy asked.
Daria gripped her shoulders and rubbed them lightly. “I promise.”
Instead of reassurance, Emmy’s tears came harder—silent sobs shaking her, wetting her cheeks. Unease whispered down Daria’s spine.
“You needn’t worry,” Daria said softly. “We are—and always will be—friends. And I believe my husband, Lord Rutherford, and the Duke of Craven can find their way back to friendship too.”
Immense sorrow swept over Emmy’s delicate features.
“What is it?”
Emmy bit her lower lip. “I am no longer able to see you.”
Daria stared, confusion blanking her expression. She shook her head. “What? But what of our friendship? What of my husband’s alliance with your brother-in-law?”
“The Duke of Craven has barred me—and my family—from having anything to do with you. As long as you are married to the Duke of Argyll,” Emmy may as well be reading through one of Daria’s Shakespearian scripts.
“We are not to have any contact and the duke has enough guards watching my family that I cannot defy him.”
A chattering filled the stark quiet. Daria clenched her teeth to stop it.
“We are best friends. And you are here now!” she reminded. “We will manage to see one another at events and we can help build an alliance between our fam—”
Emmy angled her head, her gaze slipping past Daria’s shoulder.
Daria followed it.
Edith stood at a distance, her kind eyes sorrowful, apologetic.
“His Grace is outside. He has said he would rather slit his own throat then form an alliance with the Duke of Argyll and Lord Rutherford” Emmy whispered. “Goodbye, Daria.”
Goodbye? Just like that.
Except she needn’t ask. Her friend was already marching off. “That is all you’ll say, Emmy,” she cried. “You are not a good friend and…and your brother-in-law is an even worse one!”
Speaking those unkind words didn’t make Daria feel better. Only worse.
Then, one of her only friends in the world, was no more.
Alone, Daria drew herself erect when the trembling started.
What was it about her that people could not love?
With a rasping sob, Daria buried her face in her hands.
“If this is not the very same reaction, I have to all these events.”
That smooth interruption brought Daria’s gaze flying up. Gasping, she turned to face her intruder.
An intruder whom she knew. In fairness, everyone knew him. The same held true for all dangerous dukes.
“Your Grace,” she said.
The raven-haired Duke of Rothesby wore an effortless white smile.
“Your Grace,” he returned. “May I join you?”