Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The man in the library—had he been the duke? He said it was his house… had I spoken to the elusive Duke Holloway?
“Ariadne?” Marigold nudged her, a frown knotted her brows. “Are you well? The bell for supper just rang.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” She nodded, then stood and stopped herself from swaying on her feet.
Maybe taking all those drinks Mother had brought me for consolation was not the best idea.
As they headed to the dining room, Ariadne watched the assembly sort itself into proper order to file into the dining room like toy dolls on a shelf.
It felt faintly absurd.
As she had expected, the duke’s brother had not danced with her again; as a matter of fact, said Lord had disappeared ten minutes after their dance. Every lord whom she had danced with after him had been entirely unsuitable.
After two dances with renowned fortune hunters, one with a crashing bore, and another with a baron who had two dead wives, Ariadne hadn’t been able to continue feigning enjoyment.
Her mother had plied her with conciliatory drinks after each disappointing set.
Now, with the ringing in her ears, she regretted that decision.
“Do you have a partner?” Isolde asked her, and Ariadne startled a bit. It was probably one of the few times her sister had spoken all night.
“No,” she replied. “Do you?”
Isolde shook her head, “But I am happy Celestine and Marigold do, though.”
She looked over to her two sisters and the lords chatting with them and felt happy for them.
Ariadne had yet to attach names to their faces, but their bearing spoke of wealth and consequence; hopefully, it would go somewhere well for them.
Ariadne was not sure the night would turn better for herself.
When they were permitted to enter, the dining hall blazed with candlelight. The glistening crystal glasses caught the light and threw it back in prismatic fragments, whilst silver gleamed atop the white linen.
A footman pulled out her chair for her, and when the meal arrived, the servers moved with practiced efficiency, settling bowls of white soup before them.
With Isolde sitting by her side and her mother on the right, she took care to sip a sobering drink through the meal.
“Celestine tells me that lord with her is interested in calling on her when we return home,” her mother said excitedly. “I am just disappointed that you didn’t make a match, though, Ariadne.”
Her heart sank a little at those words, but she held her head high while cutting into her veal. “It’s the first night of the season, Mother. I have some time to find someone.”
As her mother reached for her wine, Ariadne swore she heard her mother mutter, “Not as long as you’d think.”
She frowned. “What was that, mother?”
Ophelia blinked. “What do you mean?”
A small disturbance at the door had her attention changing from her mother to the door where Lord Leander stepped in, “I apologize for the disturbance. Please, continue your meal.”
As she and others turned back to her meals, Ariadne asked her mother, “Are you at least happy for Celestine and Marigold?”
“Yes, but you know my stance on how you all should marry,” Ophelia replied. “I’d love for you all to marry well, with lords who are kind and caring as your father was to me, but I would rather it start with you.”
Reaching for her tart lemonade, Ariadne took a sip and then rested the glass. “I am happy for them both. If the lords do follow through with courting them, they will be fine.”
The waiters came around with dessert, lovely trifles topped with plum strawberries, blueberries, and rich cream. Unfortunately, the state of her mind overcame any desire she had for the sweet and instead sipped her lemonade.
While the meal went on and chatter swirled around her, Ariadne felt her vision begin to double on her at times. She blinked it away only to feel her ears begin to ring and her heart pound out of rhythm.
She reached for her drink again and missed it by a mile, and tried again, only to tip the glass over. Thankfully, there was little inside, so it did not flood the tablecloth or upset the candelabra on the table, but it did get her mother’s attention.
“Ariadne?” Ophelia leaned in, brows furrowing as she rightened the glass. “Are you all right?”
“I think—” she blinked and blinked again, “I think I drank too much tonight, Mother.”
“It’s all right,” her mother said while standing, “Come along, dear. I’ll help you get some rest.”
As much as she wanted to object, Ariadne realized this feeling was not going to go away. A footman helped her up, and after her mother made excuses, they left the room and headed up the stairs.
“One moment, dear,” Ophelia said, then called out to a footman. “Excuse me. My daughter is unwell; can you kindly point me in the direction of the guest quarters?”
Dimly, she heard the footman give her mother directions, but Ariadne couldn’t keep her concentration on what he said; she could only muster the strength to follow her mother down long hallways and dizzying corners.
“We’re almost there, dear,” her mother replied.
She nodded with exhaustion while her mother pushed the bedroom’s door in and they both stepped inside. The room was dim, the moonlight barely flitting through the thick drapes, but all Ariadne could focus on was the bed at the far end of the room.
“Let’s get you out of your layers,” her mother said as she directed Ariadne to sit on the edge of the bed. Kneeling, her mother took her shoes off and then, when she stood again, undid the buttons and lacing on her dress, leaving her in her low cup, silken chemise.
“There,” Ophelia laid the clothes over a chair. “Now, get into bed and get some rest. I’ll be back with some water soon.”
Tugging the blankets down, Ariadne slipped into one of the softest mattresses and pillows she had ever felt. Instantly, the pounding in her head began to ease, and she felt that her mother was leaving the room or puttering around.
Soon, she slipped away into sleep, comforted by the fire she assumed her mother had struck to life.
She dimly felt her mother smooth her hair away from her face, “It will be all right in the morning, dear. Get some rest.”
It was a scent that alerted her first.
Dimly, Ariadne inhaled a scent that was certainly not her perfume; it was spicy, musky and earthy, raw and rich. It was an enticing scent but it was not hers nor did she remember any of her sisters having such a thing. The scent was prominent enough to make her wonder to whom it belonged.
She peeled her eyes open to the warm rays of early morning, and as her eyes adjusted, she saw leather furniture, an open wardrobe, and a cupboard with various liquors placed on it.
A thin but icy trail of dread began to slip through her ribcage and twine around her breastbone. She spotted a chair with men’s garments strewn over and near it, a leather bag that had been left open to reveal a brush, a razor, and a small tin of shaving soap.
These were the trappings of man—a man who owned the bedroom— and most certainly not the bare furniture of an empty guest chamber.
She was in the wrong bedroom.
She was in a man’s bedroom.
Breathless with panic, she considered what to do, how to sneak out of the room before the owner returned—then felt the bed dip with someone turning on it.
An arm snaked around her middle, and a husky voice murmured in her ear, “How industrious of you, Delilah.” He kissed the back of her neck, while his hand slid and rested on her arm…. And terrified, Ariadne screamed.
He leaped off her in a second, and she shot up in the bed, grabbing at the sheets to protect her modesty and put a shield between him and her.
“Who the devil are you?” Leander swore as he grabbed a robe to cover his nakedness. His eyes bugged. “Ariadne? What- what are you doing in my chambers?”
“I—”
It did not matter what she said, as at the next moment, he was gone. Still dazed, a bit disoriented, and utterly horrified, Ariadne slipped out of the bed, lurching for her dress and dragging it on.
“How—” she gasped. “How did this happen?”
The door pushed open, and mother entered, “Ariadne, I came to check on—”
“It’s the wrong room, mother!” Ariadne shrieked, “You put me in the wrong room!”
The incessant pounding jarred Cedric from his precious sleep.
He ignored it at first, trying hard to slip back into his sleep as he’d only gone to bed at three in the morning.
The noise from the damned ball he’d been forced to host had run to the damned witching hour.
He’d finally gotten some pertinent work done when the guests had petered off and then took himself to bed.
Cedric turned on his side, facing away from the door, hoping the damned knocking would go—until the pounding turned to a hammering.
Muttering a curse, he flung the covers away and, with three large strides, yanked the door in, “What the devil do you want—"
Leander rushed in, “She tried to trap me, Cedric. I swear to you, this is not my fault. I did not know she was in the bed, in my bed. Hell, I thought she was my mistress—”
Rubbing his aching temple, Cedric snapped. “What the blazes are you babbling about?”
“I came to bed this morning admittedly drunk, yes, but then this morning, when I woke, I thought the lady in my bed was Delilah Porter, the woman I have—”
“I know,” Cerdric growled. “And after that kerfuffle last night, which Hunt told me about, and which I warned you not to find yourself in because I did not want more speculation over my house, I thought you’d have enough sense to break that liaison off.”
“— and she was there, in my bed. A debutante, spinster, whatever she is—” Leander’s tone was ripe with horror. “I almost kissed her. I, God, you have to help me, Cedric. I bet she is going to trap me.”
Haggard, Cedric pulled on a shirt, quickly splashed water on his face to wake him up, before pulling on some shoes and striding out of the room. “Lord knows I ache for the day when I do not have to bail you out of your self-inflicted sinking boats.”
“I didn’t punch a hole in this one!” Leander insisted.
I’ll see about that.
Pushing the door to Leander’s room, he strode in to see a young woman hunched over into herself, clearly wanting to vanish through the floor, and an older woman bristling like a wet cat.
“You—” the lady punched a finger to Leander. “—compromised my daughter.”
“I did no such thing!” Leander shot back. “She came to my bed by mistake or by design. And seeing as she knew I was the duke’s brother, I am leaning towards it being an intentional trap.”
“It was not!” the girl said. When she looked up, he felt rooted to the ground he stood on. It was the same miss in the library.
Her eyes grew to the size of dinner plates when she saw him, and he could see her mind scrambling. If she had not put the pieces together last night, she surely would now.
Her mouth fixed to say, " It's you”, but his warning glare had her lips clamping tight. No one had to know they had met before, or else this would be another conversation entirely.
With her head down, she said, “I was ill last night, and my mother took me here to a room I believed was loaned to me.”
Cedric frowned. “My lady, this is the east wing, reserved for my family alone. You were set up in the west wing, with completely different directions, and I doubt my servants would mistake the two.”
The mother met his eyes and flinched—something Cedric was familiar with. Not many people took too kindly when they see the scars splattered over the left side of his face.
She then curtsied, “Your Grace.”
“And you are?” Cedric has no time for niceties.
“Ophelia Hargrave,” she replied. “Viscountess of Fairbrook.”
“Well, my lady, I too find this incident very, very convenient,” Cedric replied. “How did you find yourself on this side of the house instead of the one you should have been in?”
The lady notched her head up. “I give you my word, I followed the instructions to the letter. That does not belay the fact that your brother compromised my daughter, and I demand that he marry her to salvage her reputation.”
“Did anyone see her enter my brother’s room?” Cedric demanded.
“No,” Leander said stiffly.
“It matters not,” the lady replied. “My daughter has told me he touched her intimately. I will not leave this room until he is pledged to marry her.”