Chapter Two
Cassie had slept—finally—but as her consciousness dawned the following morning, her limbs felt stiff and her mind muddled. Though she’d had little true rest, with effort, she forced her eyes to open. Ripples in her bedsheets came into focus, ripples aglow with sun-kissed diamond shapes.
The hour was late. In more ways than one.
As she smoothed out the coverlet, the sparkling light patterns transferred to the back of her hand, brightening her fat, golden wedding band.
Harbury’s band.
She pushed her fingers back beneath the sheets, aching with a deep, visceral longing for her twin, Eliza. Until a few weeks ago, they’d spent every night of their twenty years sharing a bed. Waking alone was still disorienting. Waking alone after having been intimately invaded…
She swallowed roughly.
Harbury’s phantom touch lingered on her skin, inside and out, in visible and invisible places.
In fact, a faint twinge of pain was still present in a place she’d never experienced sensation before.
A very private place. With a mew of distress, she scooched back up against the headboard, drawing in and holding her legs with one arm while cupping her forehead with her other.
Last night, between the single, distant gong just after Harbury’s departure, to the four she’d counted just before weariness won the battle with her anger, she’d existed in an unwilling wakefulness, a seemingly endless, liminal void.
Since intentionally going out of her mind was not an option—at least not a viable one—she had resolved to make peace with her situation.
To aid her resolution, she’d counted the times Harbury had seen to her comfort during their courtship, even though their courtship was supposed to have been a ruse.
She summoned, in detail, the memory of the cool drink he’d brought back to his dark, hot opera box during their first outing together.
She relived the moment at the Harbury ball when he’d shielded Eliza from further scandal with a loud, terrible, but effectively distracting jest…
a scandal Cassie had unintentionally created.
She further recalled the pained look of self-disgust he’d had as he confessed his long-standing, unrequited attachment to Vivianne, Lady Pennington. That day, he’d transformed in her eyes, from an arrogant duke into a flawed but sympathetic human.
Confiding in her had not been necessary, but he had. And so, at the very least, he deserved her trust. Finally, she came back around to the one, simple, fact she could not deny—she’d been the one to propose marriage. A marriage of convenience, she’d called it.
She pursed her lips.
How naive her use of the phrase seemed now.
Convenience had nothing to do with the Pandora’s Box Harbury had unleashed in her last night. Skin against skin. Warm breath comingled. A private world’s creation. A world known only to themselves. The experience had left her more vulnerable than she’d anticipated. And permanently altered.
Some small part of her had expected the transformation from wallflower to duchess to end in happy, settled satisfaction, like the resolution of a good novel.
But she should have known better. The meat of any story was struggle.
Metamorphosis can never be experienced without pain, without bafflement, confusion… and, yes, a touch of panic.
And wasn’t the struggle to break free of the cocoon what brings animation to a caterpillar’s new wings? Somehow, she had to force her way through her profound distress.
She must come out stronger.
She might feel like her life was at stake, but no one had ever died from what was essentially embarrassment. Nor had anyone, to her knowledge, expired from anger.
So, nothing was to be done but to persevere. She was mistress of Harbury Hall, a place far removed from anything having to do with Vivianne, Lady Pennington.
With renewed determination, she rang for her new maid. Sally appeared almost immediately.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” She came to stand at the foot of the bed. “His Grace suggested you might wish to take breakfast here in your room. Would you like me to go down and make you a plate?”
Already arranging her life, was he? Didn’t the law give him enough power over her?
Despite her intentions, her anger sparked anew.
If he thought he could manage her day without her input, she would quickly disabuse him of the notion.
“No, thank you.”
In truth, she had planned to request breakfast in her room.
Moreover, she’d intended to avoid her husband until she mastered schooling her features into appropriate ducal (duchessal?) composure. Her pique, however, caused an abrupt change of heart.
She tossed aside the coverlet and rose to her feet. A beam of light landed on a bright, red stain just to the right of the place she had slept. She inhaled sharply as heat flared up her neck. Sally’s blush was equally dark.
They both turned their backs to the bed.
With forced dignity, Cassie managed, “My yellow morning dress, if you please.”
If she couldn’t feel bright and cheery, at least she could look the part.
Sally disappeared into the dressing room. By the time she returned, Cassie had discreetly covered the stain. Still, she stood frightened-rabbit still as Sally prepared her for the day.
Unlike Mary, the kind and motherly maid she had shared with Eliza and her sisters when they were all back at Willowhurst, Sally proved brisk and efficient, neither inviting confidences nor offering consolation.
On one hand, the maid’s manner left Cassie even more adrift. On the other, in less than a quarter hour, Cassie’s hair was arranged, her layers properly fitted, and her locket containing a miniature of her deceased mother on one side and her sisters on the other clasped around her neck.
Of her late father, she refused to carry a remembrance.
Leaning toward the mirror, Cassie pinched color into her cheeks.
There. She stood taller.
If not formidable, she was, at least, presentable, and she carried with her the love of the people she held dearest.
Keeping her posture formally erect, she made her way down the stairs. The breakfast room was easy enough to find. She, her sisters, Adrian, Harbury, Lady Sarah, and Adrian’s sister Emily had met there every morning for the past fortnight.
Before, however, she’d only needed to follow the sounds of her sisters’ voices.
If today had been like the prior days, Millie and Lenora would have already been exchanging witty barbs, Nettie and Emily inserting occasional dry comments, and Harbury’s sister, looking from one pair to the other as if watching a game of jeu de paume.
Adrian and Eliza, of course, would be oblivious to all other company while sharing smoldering looks. And Harbury…
Cassie smirked.
Harbury would be lounging at the table’s head, observing them all with no small amount of consternation.
Perhaps he, too, hadn’t known quite the level of upheaval marriage would bring.
Girding herself with a deep inhale and a cheerful smile, Cassie stepped into the breakfast room. Her new husband, she noted, looked as sleepless as she felt. Her forced smile faltered as his troubled gaze met hers.
“Good morning.” He rose from his chair. His hand hovered in the air before he changed his mind about whatever he’d been going to do and dropped his arm. “I trust you slept well.”
“Well, indeed.” Her gaze briefly flitted to the liveried footman next to the sidebar. “And you?”
“Capital.”
They stood in uncomfortable silence, each with fixed smiles stitched to their faces, while the clock in the corner clicked as loudly and incessantly as a bad-tempered cricket.
Recalling himself, Harbury cleared his throat and then moved to the chair beside him, the same seat she’d chosen on earlier mornings because the rest of the table had been full.
The legs made a rushing sound against the carpet as he pulled back the chair.
With a gesture of his hand, he bid her to sit.
She inclined her head in thanks but, instead, moved to the sideboard to fill her own plate.
He remained silent while, taking her time, she served herself a bit of ham, a spoonful of berries, and a slice of toast with a slab of butter. Only when she returned to her chair did she venture a glance to see how he’d taken her rebellion.
Harbury’s color was high, but, like last night, the look in his eyes suggested embarrassment rather than anger.
Gracefully, she took her seat. He aided her by adjusting her chair’s position before returning to the table’s head.
Cassie lifted her knife. The flatware was cold and heavy and the process of slicing her ham ridiculously labored. This was breakfast, for heaven’s sake. A meal she took every day. So why, on this morning, was she so irritated by the sound of silver clicking against porcelain?
And why did the crunching noises Harbury made increase her annoyance?
He swallowed, patted his mouth with a napkin, then studied her with passive features.
“I’ve been wondering if your bedchamber is furnished to your taste.”
“Yes.” Cassie dropped her eyes.
Actually, she hated the profusion of pink, but she couldn’t bring herself to disparage decorative choices likely made by his deceased mother. Nor had she any valid reason for complaint—the fabrics were of good quality and showed surprisingly little wear.
“If there is anything you wish to change…” He left his sentence dangling.
“Not at present.”
His chair creaked and the fabric of his coat whispered.
He’d shifted. Perhaps he’d taken up the posture and was gazing at her with the same dispassionate, but slightly perplexed expression, she’d seen him use on her sisters on prior mornings.
Or maybe his eyes were burning with the same dark, hungry expression she remembered from last night…
Butter oozed over the top of her toast, slowly liquefying. She wet her lips.
“The wedding went well.” His voice had gone soft.
“Yes,” she answered. “Very… proper.”
“I was,” he paused, “well-pleased.”