Chapter 18
Cynthia
Sunday – Second Banns
By now, the Barrington household falls into an odd little rhythm. Every day I entertain some manner of cold, aloof attention from Henhaven, and by night, I am tormented with the hot, passionate hands of my duke of choice. Today is no different.
Breakfast, calls, a turn about Hyde Park with Henhaven, the opera, and then Charles forcing me to sing for him in a far different way. Sometimes with wax. Sometimes with his hands. Other times with the tawse.
As I prepare for morning services, I can’t help the clench in my stomach as I look at my reflection in the mirror. Second banns. Second chance for someone to object. Maybe now Charles will have some scandal, some bit of news that proves I cannot marry the viscount?
The air is thick and still as I take my place in the seats with the Barringtons. Off to the side, in my family section, Father smiles at me, but Mother barely gives me a passing glance.
It’s not fair. None of this is my fault, yet I seem to be the one to suffer the most from it. Resting my head in my hands, I wait for the second banns to be read.
He has to have something. He must. Any moment now, Charles will stand and give his evidence to the congregation. Nothing. Not so much as a shifting in his seat.
Desperate, I look over at him, but he sits there, face like stone as we’re all led into a song of worship. My heart pounds in my chest as air threatens to lie still in my lungs, refusing to move.
Next to me, Penelope gives me a sympathetic look and squeezes my hand. The gesture is nice, but it doesn’t help me breathe as blind panic claws its way through my insides. She wraps her arms around my waist, but it only makes matters worse.
I need to get out of here. I need to flee the confines of the church. The same church I’ll stand to pledge my vows in less than two weeks.
Suddenly, the air shifts around me. That scent. I know that scent. It smells like the coast, like salt air and musk. And that’s when I feel it. The purr that vibrates through my back.
Even now, Henhaven stands behind me, comforting me in a way that only a man like him can. No doubt the others around us know it. I’m sure it will fuel the gossip lines as they spout about the love match born from a forced marriage.
But it’s not him I want soothing me as the songs continue to pound around my ears in discordant notes. It’s not his purr, his voice, his anything that I need. It’s Charles. And yet, because we are not betrothed, he has to stand at the other end of the pew, watching, but doing nothing.
How this must hurt for him. How this must enrage him. Forced to watch another in his place. Rooted to the spot by damned duty. It’s enough to make me sick.
As soon as we’re able to sit, I take in a deep breath, unwillingly aided by Henhaven’s purr. My mind loathes the way I relax for him, but my body doesn’t care. I’m trapped inside as it responds. First my heart rate, then my breathing until the world comes back into focus.
The minister’s words surround my head in a buzz, but I don’t hear any of them. Sorrow stays locked behind my breastbone as I sit there, unable to move, unable to think.
When we’re finally released, I move as fast as I can, refusing to give Henhaven another chance to soothe me. But it’s no use. Even as we set foot into the house, a note awaits us.
When that goes unanswered, it’s another. And another. Until I’m forced to write back, begging off for sake of feeling ill. It’s not a lie. It’s the truth. Just not in the way he expects it.
Groaning, I drag myself to the bedroom and undress before sliding beneath the covers. There, I sob into the pillow until I fear I have no tears left. Less than two weeks. What miracle can be performed in such a short time?