Chapter 5
“The two of them alone, you see—”
“Quite shocking—”
Frederic spent only another hour or so at the ball, more to prove a point to himself than anyone else. There had been no scandal, and he wouldn’t retreat from it like a cur from the scene of a crime.
It would have been helpful, perhaps, if the rest of the patrons had shared his opinion.
Everywhere he went, furtive glances and whispered asides followed.
Even Felicity, effervescent normally in her conversation, looked as if she had swallowed a spoonful of vinegar.
No one dared, of course, to speak of it to him directly or even within his earshot, but their persistent rustle disturbed him like termites in a post.
He hadn’t done anything improper. Rather, to the contrary, he had done something admirable and heroic, if he was to be any judge of the situation, in rescuing the lady from the savagery of small-mannered misery. But still the insinuations followed him like burs on a hound.
Lord Russell plowed nobly through a tete-a-tete about foreign investments, complementing also recent improvements to Highcastle Manor. Frederic attended him with increasing irritation as he ignored—with considerable effort—the sway of tittering ostrich feathers and the hum of lowered voices.
At last, his mother declared herself satisfied with the evening’s enjoyment, which he highly doubted but duly accepted as an invitation to depart. Only once safe in her own drawing room did his mother venture to speak again.
“Have you considered, Frederic, your next course of action?” She tossed her gloves on the table as if they had burned her.
Frederic raised his eyebrows.
“I suppose I shall give Carlyle directions as to breakfast and then retire for the evening.”
The Dowager Duchess of Blackmore gave him a look he hadn’t seen since his father’s death.
It unsettled him far worse than any of the night’s gossip.
It was the withering, disappointed face all too familiar when his father returned with excuses that his mother, broken-hearted, had continually accepted. She sighed and rubbed her temple.
“I speak, of course, about the scandal at the ball tonight.”
Frederic snorted. His mother plowed mercilessly on like a hammer to a nail.
“The lady’s reputation—or whatever reputation she had left—will be affected but not beyond repair.”
Frederic leaned back in his chair.
“You are referring, then, to the lady we met in the garden? Lady Caroline?”
The Duchess of Blackmore’s mouth straightened into a prim line.
“To be sure. The lady with whose name yours is now tied in ignominy.”
Frederic gave her a level look.
“What exactly do you believe, madam, passed between us in the garden?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Absolutely nothing. I would be surprised if you looked at a woman favorably, much less spoke to one voluntarily.”
Frederic frowned. That did seem a little unfair. He had, after all, accompanied her to the ball in the first place, and he had remained to socialize even with the scandal spreading. The Duchess of Blackmore ignored his scowl.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe.” Her fan and shawl joined the pile with her gloves. “It matters what they believe—the ton.”
“And their wagging tongues,” Frederic said. His simmering irritation, which he had bottled and ignored at the ball, started to boil. “Filled with false invective and blind understanding.”
She sighed.
“They say you and Lady Caroline were lovers—”
“Absolute nonsense.”
“That you went to the garden to lure her into your arms, and—”
“Preposterous!” Frederic stood. Heaven forbid he should listen to this senseless drivel twice in one night. “Really, Mother. I’m surprised—”
“They say,” she continued, raising her chin and her voice, “that you’ve known her for many years.”
Frederic shut his mouth. That, at least, was true. It had come back to him, when her aunt had said her name—Lady Caroline. How had her name come into his mind so quickly? In confusion, Frederic lowered his eyes.
The Duchess of Blackmore raised her eyebrows.
“All of which is beside the point.” She took a seat, lowering herself into it as if she were grateful for the support. “The most salient issue now is how you will address the tide of opinion, not whether you continue to deny it. What will you do?”
Frederic shut his mouth stubbornly. The Duchess of Blackmore sighed.
“The real damage,” his mother continued, “won’t be to you but to the lady—and to her honor, specifically. Again, I repeat—what are your plans to remediate the situation?”
“On second consideration,” Frederic said, standing, “my headache from earlier this evening has returned to plague me.” He bowed. “I shall retire to prevent its progression.”
He turned on his heel and retired to his study, shutting the door behind him and collapsing gratefully into a tufted chair.
It really was too much. How could a gentleman of his standing and a lady—quite unknown, except for malicious and uniformed rumor—become embroiled in such a web of scandal and falsehood?
He had spoken to her, no more. What shock would the ton have left had he the audacity to earnestly solicit a woman’s affection someday?
He almost wished he had done it with a flourish if he was to be punished as assiduously as if he had.
He placed a hand over his mouth, breathing slowly through his nose, until the vexation subsided.
Regularity of breath quickly welcomed regularity of thought.
Nothing, it is true, would have likely happened if he had not tried to meddle.
The ladies had been ill-mannered in their attacks, it could be accurately said, but no real danger had been extended to the Lady Caroline—other than the scandal his interference had initiated.
He could have walked silently on into the shrubbery, and so, too, would have she, then nothing of the situation would have escalated to disastrous proportions.
But how could he really have been expected to say nothing? To pass by and turn his head to the shrubs while he knew persecution was taking place just a few leaves away?
He had taken what action he had seen best. He had intervened as well as he could, and the ton, with their overblown decorum and incestuous invective, had turned an act of kind compassion into a crime of self-interest and seduction.
It wasn’t his responsibility to—
He paused. The echo of his father’s voice reverberated about his mind. He had heard him utter those very words—those very same, damning words—time and time again. He shivered.
It was his responsibility. If it wasn’t before, it surely was now. However well-meant the intent and twisted the misinterpretation thereof, he bore an active part in its resolution.
So what—to echo the query of maternal concern, much to his annoyance—would he do?
He could issue a public contradiction—a denouncement. His conscience rejoiced, but his reason chuckled. Such a statement would be seen as an admission at least of some fault if not of the entirety. It would do nothing to clear his name nor the lady’s.
He could settle her somewhere in the country, somewhere remote, filled with sunshine and wandering geese. He brushed the idea away. The daughter of a former earl wouldn’t condescend to such measures, however pleasant the local waterfowl.
Frederic picked up a book, read the title, and tossed it onto the side table.
He could, of course, offer to marry her.
He stood, pacing the room like a cat in a cage.
As to the lady and the supposed curse, he had no objection. She had seemed kind and genteel enough in the few short words that had passed between them. Beautiful, certainly, and forgiving—gentle, even. He stared glumly at the carpet.
He had no inclination to marry. No intention at all. He was happy enough here at Highcastle, supporting his mother and younger brother. He wanted nothing more.
In fact, since his father’s death, he had cultivated a stalwart aversion to matrimony in any form—and now, here it was, shamelessly presenting itself as the only viable alternative. He ran a hand through his hair.
It was what a man ought to do, and so he would do it, inclination or no. He would not—could not—trod the same road to recklessness that had shamed his father and scarred him, his mother, and brother.
Regret coursed through him. Oh, but for the venom of waggling tongues, he would still be a free man!
At least, he considered, she was a lady and a beautiful one, after her fashion. It would not be unpleasant being her… husband. He shuddered.
He lay awake for several hours that night until finally, the fatigue closed his eyes.
Breakfast the next morning was a somber affair. His mother, her hair wrapped in an intricate black velvet turban, sipped gingerly at her tea. Frederic consumed two pieces of buttered toast and a mutton chop before clearing his throat.
“It might relieve you,” he said, “to hear that I have made a decision.”
“Have you?” she asked, leaning forward. “And?”
“I have decided to ask Lady Caroline to become my wife.”
Esther’s face clouded. She frowned slightly, staring at the print on the lace tablecloth. Frederic raised his eyebrows.
“Well?” He buttered another piece of toast. “I had assumed you would be relieved.”
Carlyle bowed and left the room.
“I suppose I am, after a sort. I’m proud that you feel inclined to take an active hand in the matter, but—” She put down her teacup. “Please, Frederic, reconsider your choice. A woman like that ought not to be a duchess.”
“A woman like what?”
“Like—” She fished for words and finding none, added another lump of sugar to her teacup instead. “Curses are fanciful things at best, but—”
Frederic snorted.
“I’ve never believed in superstition, but when it comes to this situation—” She stared at him wistfully. “All I really have in the world now are you and your brother. You’re the dearest and nearest to my heart.”
Frederic chuckled.
“And so, you fear I’m bringing a curse on my head, do you? No excitement—not a whit—for a bachelor son turned toward matrimony at last?”
“If the curse might be real—”
Frederic wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood, depositing the soiled linen on the table near his empty plate.
“No curses have governed or ruined my life thus far; I’m certainly not going to let them begin now.” He straightened his surcoat. “My naive heroics were the cause of this scandal. I alone am responsible.”
Carlyle entered, carrying Frederic’s greatcoat on one arm. Esther shook her head.
“You’ve swung now to extremes and heap too much of the scandal on your own head.”
Frederic took his coat from Carlyle and donned it.
“Mine is the only head thick enough to bear it, I suppose.”
He bowed.
“It is my full intention to marry Lady Caroline Dresher.”
Carlyle cleared his throat.
“She resides at Kingston, Your Grace,” he said. “At the estate of her aunt, Lady Olivia.”
Esther pursed her lips and glared at Carlyle over her teacup. Frederic smiled.
“Thank you, Carlyle. Now that I’m set on doing it, it’ll be a relief to have the task completed.”
He buttoned the front of his coat as he moved towards the door.
“Take heart, mother—you’ll see my neck in the matrimonial noose at last.”
Esther sighed and helped herself to a bit of buttered toast. It was a morning for comfort.