CHAPTER TWELVE
She had been the Duchess of Blackthorn for only five days when the soiree at the Fairfax manor rolled around.
Having spent too long in front of the mirror, doubting every part of herself, wondering if she was good enough to be presented as the Duchess of Blackthorn in society for the first time, Amelia eventually had to leave.
She wore a deeply rich red evening gown, the neckline more daring than usual but still modest, and the gentle beading on the bodice caught every light she walked beneath.
When she finally made it to the foyer of the townhouse, she was greeted by a very impatient husband, who couldn’t compose his scowl long enough to give her a smoother expression. Amelia cringed with embarrassment.
“We are late,” he told her. “The carriage is ready and waiting.”
Admonished, she nodded, and walked out of the townhouse behind him, picking up her skirts. Once she climbed into the carriage, Graham shut the door behind them, trapping them in a tense silence.
“I apologise for the delay,” she said quietly after a few unbearable moments. He turned the scowl onto her again.
“I cannot endure the ton as it is,” he muttered. “Being late means everybody stares that much harder.”
In the dim carriage light, his scar looked harder, the jagged lines painfully stark against his face. He was no less handsome for it, Amelia thought, but kept the thought to herself.
“I only worried, for I have been a quiet lady all my life,” she admitted. “I know you are aware of that but I found myself unable to quell the worry. I am appearing as your duchess for the first time, and that causes great anxiety.”
She was surprised she could even speak her mind, but it was fruitless, for Graham only turned away, when Amelia had desperately hoped for some sort of verbal reassurance.
They reached the Fairfax residence, and moments before they pulled up outside, Graham looked back to her.
“Amelia, you look every inch of what a duchess should be,” he told her unexpectedly. “Remember that their words may have mattered before but our situation has happened and has been resolved. Their words cannot affect you any longer. Should they prove to, we shall leave when you are ready.”
Although his voice was gruff, as if resisting the words he spoke, Amelia could only soften at his assurance.
She nodded, biting her lip, as she toyed with the fullness of her skirts.
It was then that she noticed his cravat matched her dress, and the solidarity, that simple similarity, rang through her tenderly.
He had allowed such a thing, for his valet would have told him, surely, of their matching theme.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “And… well, I am not blind to the knowledge that people say I tricked you into this marriage. If you feel the whispers are too much as well, we shall depart. I did not trick you, Graham, and I hope you are aware of that.”
He only gazed back at her in a way she could not decipher. Eventually he answered, “the ton shall believe what it chooses. We cannot do very much to sway their minds. All we can do is present a united front. I ask that you work with me for that.”
With that, he opened the door and helped her out of the carriage.
***
The Fairfax ballroom was resplendent with hues, adorned in shades of rose and ivory that enveloped the residence in a delightful tapestry of colour.
Amelia hovered in the doorway with the duke, her eyes on the glittering ball below, where ladies stood in groups, waiting to be asked to dance, and men shook hands with one another, already scoping out the lady they wished to woo.
Amelia was no longer a part of that scene. She was no longer among the hopeful women, wanting to be noticed, only to linger in the background.
Instead, she stood at the top of the grand staircase, and bit back a shiver when gazes began to flicker up to her.
“Presenting Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Blackthorn,” the announcer called out, and then every eye was turned to them.
A hush fell over the room, and Amelia realized the guests were not so much as looking at the duke but at her. The new Duchess of Blackthorn. Her breath caught in her throat as Graham tugged her to descend down the stairs, and Amelia had the disconcerting feeling of descending into a snake pit.
***
Graham had never been one to show off at a ball. Usually, he opted to attend and linger in the back or with Owen, but as a married man now, he was expected to walk around with his wife.
Gently, he guided her into a turn around the room, and tightened his hand into a fist at his side when the usual murmurs of speculation began.
“I heard she tricked him,” one lady whispered to her male counterpart. “I am surprised she even has the courage to show her face today.”
Graham bit his tongue, resisting the urge to snap at them, to meet their passive aggressiveness with something blunter and more destructive. Amelia tensed beside him, yet he observed her strained, brittle smile and longed to extricate her from the tumult.
“Shall we leave?” he asked quietly.
“We must continue on,” she insisted. “I shall not bring you shame by not being able to endure a few whispers. It is… not a rare occurrence, anyhow.”
“It is not shame, nor defeat,” he told her, keeping his voice low. “They cannot speak of you like this and expect yourself to endure it.”
“But I must.”
Her jaw tightened and Graham realized, his footsteps faltering, that she blamed herself for it all.
Meanwhile he blamed himself. With terror, he realized how he had not assured her otherwise that she was not to blame, that he did not believe the rumors about being deceived into marriage.
He had not avoided answering her due to a lack of belief but for he felt so guilty that words failed him, as they did now.
“It is remarkable, is it not?” one lady exclaimed to her friend. “The beastly duke and the wallflower. One wonders what they find to discuss.”
“Do you not know? They do not speak.”
“Heavens, what do they do? For surely Her Grace cannot spend her hours gazing at him. Who would want to?”
They both erupted into giggles behind their fans, and Amelia glanced at Graham. He stared straight ahead. Five years had been too long to feel any pinch of his scar anymore but he knew it was there even if he could try to forget it at times. The ton would never let him forget.
“Lady Dalton,” Amelia responded, speaking up to the first woman. “I shall have you know that His Grace and I speak at length about far more intelligent things than you seem to possess in your vocabulary.”
Graham fought to keep his composure, as stunned as he was at her brazen yet oddly graceful retort. Lady Dalton gaped at Amelia, but Amelia only drew Graham further on.
“I was not sure how a wallflower could ever be a duchess but I find myself rather impressed,” one man commented, and Graham fought not to growl in some awful possessiveness of his wife. “Miss Hawthorne holds herself well in such a role.”
“It is Duchess of Blackthorn,” Graham could not stop himself from biting out. “You shall address my wife correctly or not at all.”
The man’s mouth moved silently, only to nod quickly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Graham hurried Amelia on past the prying eyes, yet found a small smile on her lips. For her worries in the carriage, the validation must have felt rather nice. Did I assure her enough? Graham wondered, mentally chiding himself over having those foolish worries.
He was only stopped when Percival showed his face, appearing from the crowd with a wide, charming smile.
His arms were outstretched as he came towards them, as if planning to embrace them. “Cousin!” he called out. “Heavens, look at you! You are… well, I must admit you are scowling as ever. Does marriage life not suit you? I am jesting, of course.”
Graham searched for the threat in his cousin’s words but found only a strangely jovial teasing.
Percival turned his focus to Amelia. “And you, Duchess of Blackthorn, you are glowing! Married life seems to suit you. My congratulations to you both. Your Grace, I do hope we can have a wonderful relationship going forward. I realise I may not have made the best impression at the Smith ball.”
“Nonsense,” Amelia urged. “You were perfectly fine.”
Graham fought the urge to roll his eyes but he was the most relaxed around his cousin than he could ever remember. “Percival, how are you faring?”
“I am most well, cousin, thank you for asking. It is nasty business, all these rumours surrounding your marriage. I must admit I observed you both at the Kensington garden party, and there were sparks. Heavens, you could not keep your eyes off one another! Graham, does your wife know you were most jealous of Her Grace speaking with Lord Ambrose?”
He let out a loud, rolling laugh, and Graham looked away, shifting, suddenly tense once again.
There was a gleam in Percival’s eyes that he no longer liked as he stirred up trouble, yet Amelia looked happy, a subtle smile playing on her lips.
“Was he now?” she asked, laughing. “That is news to me.”
“Perhaps we should leave before my cousin delivers more news.”
“Oh, and Her Grace was most inattentive to Lord Ambrose. In fact, he grumbled greatly about it after the party, that he tried to speak with her but her eyes kept finding yours, cousin.”
Amelia blushed deeply, and toyed with her white-colored gloves. Graham was piqued at that, not daring to meet her eye, head-on.
“Ah, I see Lord Ambrose now. I shall see you both later. Do enjoy the soiree, family.”
Family, Graham thought. He loathed being related to someone he found as unpleasant as Percival. Yet he turned to Amelia properly, offering his hand.
“I wish to take you away from the crowds and invite you to the dance floor, Duchess,” he murmured, feeling softer after the revelation that they had searched for one another. Amelia looked at him, those hazel-green eyes meeting his with muted surprise.
“You wish to dance?”
“It shall be our first as a married couple,” he said, “it only seems right to see it through.”
She hesitated, nodding, as she took his offered hand. He led her to the dance floor as the next song began. On the other side of the dance floor, he watched as Owen led Lady Eleanor, their attention not at all broken from one another, as though some unseen force guided them back together.
Graham focused back on his wife, taking her hand, and pulling her closer. “A waltz, as was our first dance together,” he noted.
Amelia looked bewitched as they began to dance, taking small, tentative steps around the floor, in time with the other couples.
As they moved through the routine, he could not help but feel as though none of this scandal business had ever happened.
He was simply a duke, and she was simply the daughter of Baron Hawthorne, and he had collided with her by a garden terrace.
He had not been careless with her reputation and forced her to marry him to save herself, and he had not deprived her of the romance every girl wished for. The hope was too great, and his heart swelled with grief for what he had done.
Yet Amelia looked as though right there, in his arms, was the only place she wished to be, and Graham could not fathom out why.
As he spun Amelia, his body somehow knowing how to dance with her, yet not always speak to her, he caught sight of Lady Cassandra, her narrowed eyes on the pair. The moment she noticed him looking at her, she schooled her features into one of neutrality.
He still could not shake off the strangeness of her behavior. That day at the maze, how had she known where to find Amelia? And why had she claimed he was Lord Ambrose before she had even rounded the corner properly?
Nothing made sense but he quickly returned his attention back to his wife.
Like this, he thought, I can pretend that I might one day make her happy.