Chapter 4
“Lady Cecilia,” Gabriel’s old butler, Mr. Sumner, bowed, “Welcome. May I help you?”
“I need to see His Grace, please,” she said while undoing her bonnet, “I will not take long.”
The man’s face was unnervingly stoic as he clasped his hands behind his back. “I am afraid His Grace is otherwise engaged, my lady. But, please be free to come another day.”
As he spoke, a maid came out from a corridor behind him, holding a tray with a teapot and three cups. Three? Who was Gabriel hosting?
“Tell me, Mr Sumner, who is he seeing at the moment?” Cecilia asked bluntly. “And please do not lie to me. You have been too good to me to become a liar now.”
The man’s face fell. “…Lady Ophelia Hawthorne and her friend, Lady Henrietta Ashbrook,” he said at last.
Cecilia’s stomach plummeted, but she notched her chin higher. “Well, I’ll make it quick. You do not have to announce me, Mr Sumner. As a matter of fact, I would prefer if you did not.”
The man nearly tripped over his feet as he followed her up the stairs, his tone frantic. “My lady, I would advise against this. Please, let me find another time for you to visit—”
“There is no other time,” she said as she headed down to Gabriel’s study, glad that she had chosen to wear her maize cashmere walking dress. “Because after I leave this house, I will not step foot inside it again.”
“My lady, please—”
“Save your breath, Mr. Sumner,” she said as she reached out for the brass knob on Gabriel’s study. “I am not reconsidering.”
Gabriel’s study, decorated in French baroque, was a substantial chamber that was at least forty feet long. As she stepped in, the light laughter paused, and Gabriel, who was in the middle of reaching for Ophelia’s hand, spotted her. He darted from his seat as if he’d been burned.
“Cecilia,” he announced. “What are you doing here?”
Casting a flickering look at the two on the loveseat, Cecilia said, “Well, I can see that it took you no time to replace me, did it?”
His face hardened. “You are not one to talk—” he moved around to his desk and pulled out a drawer, “—not with your seduction of Tressingham.”
“I did not seduce anyone, but that is beside the point,” Cecilia said as she slipped the diamond from her finger. Dropping it on the table, she slid it to him.
“I am not here to quibble about semantics. I only came here to return this. Clearly, I will not be requiring it anymore. And from the pearl ring, the size of an egg on Lady Ophelia’s finger, I suppose you will not be using it again either.”
Gabriel’s face tightened. “That is your fault, isn’t it? You were clinging to Tressingham like a limpet on a ship.”
“No,” she said calmly. “It’s not. I can stand here and plead my innocence and that the note I’d mistakenly sent to him was supposed to be handed to you from now to Judgement Day, but I’d be wasting my breath.
“You never intended on marrying me. I know that. But what I cannot forgive is myself for allowing you to play me like a marionette on a string. I should have demanded more of you, but I guess that is uncouth of a lady, isn’t it?”
“I hope you have a wonderful life, Gabriel,” she said, turning to Ophelia. “And send me an invitation if he does take you down the aisle.”
Spinning on her heels, she walked out, brushing by Mr. Sumner who was spluttering how he had tried to stop her. In the lobby, Cecilia donned her bonnet and coat, then stepped out of the ducal home, feeling an unknown burden tumble from her shoulders.
Her first instinct was to order her driver to head to Hyde Park so she could walk this feeling away, but she knew that she would only achieve making a spectacle of herself.
“Home, Mr. Tully,” she told the carriage driver before the spare footman helped her in.
All the way home, the only things she could think of were if her father had sent for her brother Marcus to return home from his and his friend’s jaunt in Manchester… and marrying Tressingham.
Her stomach clenched. That was the issue. The man did not—would not—love her, and she was not sure she would ever feel anything but contempt for the man.
It would be a cold marriage. A marriage of obligation. She couldn’t do that to him. None of this was his fault; he should not be forced to sacrifice his happiness for her. It wasn’t right.
Besides, she doubted he expected to follow through with this. Surely, he had some plan to extricate himself from this scandal. He had to. She was sure Tressingham wanted his freedom as much as she wanted hers.
Horror and shame collided inside her chest. Why did I… with Tressingham of all people? God, what have I done? What must he think of me?
She didn’t even like him.
Stalled in traffic, she made the mistake of looking out of the window only to see more than one hand pointing at her. Hastily, she dropped the shades and drew back in the seat, her heart pounding.
“Oh God…” she covered her face with both hands. “This shame will never go away, will it?”
Gadz, she’d made a hash of things, hadn’t she?
She kept her head down while the carriage meandered through the streets of London, finally cantering to her home.
The carriage rounded the circular drive, which had a grand fountain featuring Neptune commanding a marble spray of water that made the fountain’s rim.
The imposing Palladian entrance of the main building sported four Roman columns that held up a pediment worthy of a Roman temple.
The wings subtly curved out of the main house while expansive lands surged at the back.
With the footman’s help, she stepped down and headed into the foyer while envisioning a good cup of tea and a nap.
“My lady,” the butler, Mr. Wessely, bowed. “Your father would like to see you in his study.”
She sighed and pulled her coat away. “Can’t this be another time? I’d like to get some rest now.”
“I am sorry, my lady, but His Grace is insisting that you join him and Duke Tressingham.”
Cecilia jolted. “Cas—Duke Tressingham is here?”
“Yes, my lady,” the butler nodded somberly. “Please, come with me.”
She brushed down her dress, a prim promenade gown of dove grey silk, as she took the stairs and came to her father’s study.
Entering, she noted her father in his position behind a large mahogany desk, which dominated one end of the room. Her father, Henry Hartwick, Duke of Ashford, while being in his sixties, did not show the signs of sedentary life.
His body was ruthlessly fit while his wire-rimmed spectacles and brown hair, greying at the temples, flaunted his station.
Tressingham was standing with a cup of coffee in hand, with an arm up against the windowsill. With any other gentleman, the posture would be impolite, yet, he was a duke as well, so he and her father were on equal footing.
“Father,” she curtsied politely, mostly because it was ingrained in her than anything else. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Her father took his spectacles off to clean them, then plopped them back onto his nose. “Tressingham and I were talking about the matters at hand, as unfortunate as they are.”
From the corner of her eye, Cecilia saw Cassian straighten, and while, to an untrained eye, he looked at ease, she noted the taut ridges of his shoulders straining against his tailored jacket and waistcoat.
The afternoon light, just like the gas lamps at the ball, seemed to vanish in his hair, but it illuminated the sculpted angles of his face. It was a shame that the man was as handsome as an angel, for he certainly had the deportment of a devil.
He is as uneasy as I am.
“Tressingham here has offered a fitting marriage contract,” her father said at last. “A more than a generous monthly allowance, enough to purchase a season’s wardrobe every day.”
Her brows furrowed. To Cassian, she asked, “You think I’d want to buy clothes every day, Your Grace?”
“Jewels?” Cassian asked offhandedly.
“No,” she said shortly, then by force of habit added, “but thank you for the consideration.”
“Whichever it is,” her father waved, “you will be taken care of, and he has also given into your name a line of rental properties, the rents of which are yours as income.”
At that, her brows shot up. Cassian had given her a business? That was surely unexpected. Surely, that had some strings attached. “That is very… magnanimous of you, Your Grace,” she said carefully.
Cassian lifted his cup as a mock salute. “I do believe in independent women.”
With her dour image of him, the compliment oddly sounded like everything but.
Henry shifted another paper to the side. “The archbishop has granted the Special License, and I will be arranging with St. James for the wedding ceremony.”
Her heart fluttered at the image of wedding guests only attending the wedding to stuff their gossip gullets. “Actually, Father, I’d prefer a smaller venue and a very limited guest list. Perhaps St. Mary on Paddington, or St John’s, or St. Michael's.”
Frowning, Henry asked, “And why is that?”
“Because I do not want to give the gossipmongers more ammunition,” Cecilia said. “The more attention they get, the worse they grow.”
“Really?” Cassian drawled dryly with one hand drumming on the arm of a chair he had just taken. “And here I was contemplating inviting the editors of the Times while I have the invitation to the Prince Regent ready to go.
“In my experience, if you give them more than they can twitter about, they’ll be spoiled for choice and not care to look for anything… more.”
Cecilia gave him an aghast look, wordlessly asking him if he was insane. “I appreciate your candor, Your Grace, but I do not think your blasé treatment of the public is one for me. Discretion is the better part of valor.”
Her father was displeased, but he nodded in allowance, “I’ll see about that. And how many guests do you wish to invite?”
“For me, only two,” Cecilia answered. “Rosie and Emma.”
“And your brother,” Henry pointed out.
“Of course,” she refrained from rolling her eyes.
“One for myself,” Cassian added. “Earl of Somerton, Benjamin Hadleigh. He will be my witness.”