Chapter Nineteen
The drive to Exeter was not long enough for composure and too long for comfort.
Lady Maria spoke most of the way, instructing Petalia in names and alliances with the briskness of a woman arranging weaponry.
Lady Carrowmere was wealthy, vain, and useful.
Lord Fanshawe was charming, unmarried, and not to be trusted with secrets.
Lady Whitcombe would almost certainly attend despite disliking Lady Carrowmere, because scandal was a stronger lure than dislike.
Mrs Ashby had three daughters and a manner best survived by smiling at intervals.
Edmund sat opposite Petalia, one long leg braced against the carriage floor, the lantern light catching the newly revealed line of his face.
He looked out of the window as if the hedges had offended him.
Yet whenever the carriage jolted, his hand moved slightly, as if he were prepared to steady her and had stopped himself out of respect for her balance.
She saw each aborted motion.
She liked him for all of them.
The ballroom was already bright when they arrived. Candlelight spilt from the high windows, and music drifted into the cold night air with the confident gaiety of people who had not personally been forced into society as a corrective to scandal.
Inside, the room glittered with silk, jewels, feathers, dark coats, white gloves, and faces arranged into welcome while eyes performed arithmetic.
Petalia felt the calculation at once.
There she is. The governess. The new Duchess. The one from the story. Was the burn real? Did she trap him? Did he marry from guilt? Why brass in her hair? How soon will she fail?
Edmund’s arm stood beneath her gloved hand, solid and tense.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
“I am.”
“Not as if preparing to face a tribunal.”
“I have never faced a tribunal.”
“Then you are a natural.”
The unexpected dryness steadied her. She glanced up and found him looking not at the ballroom, but at her.
“Near me,” he reminded her quietly.
Lady Carrowmere received them near the entrance, a tall woman with pale feathers and a smile too practised to be sincere but too polished to be rude.
“Your Grace,” she said to Edmund, then turned to Petalia with a curtsy of faultless depth. “And Your Grace. How delighted we are that you have come. The county has had so few opportunities to welcome you properly.”
Properly carried a great deal of labour.
Petalia inclined her head. “You are very kind, Lady Carrowmere. His Grace and I are grateful for the invitation.”
Lady Carrowmere’s gaze flicked to the brass pin. Not long enough to be rude. Long enough to be intentional.
“How unusual,” she said warmly. “Such simplicity. One admires confidence in a young bride.”
Edmund’s arm went rigid beneath Petalia’s hand.
Petalia answered before he could. “My husband gave it to me. I find confidence easier when affection has better taste than fashion.”
For half a second, Lady Carrowmere’s smile faltered.
Lady Maria made a small, satisfied sound behind them.
Edmund turned his head towards Petalia. The look he gave her was too brief for the room, but not for her. Pride, surprise, something warmer.
Lady Carrowmere recovered. “How charming. You must allow me to introduce you to several friends who have been most eager to meet you.”
“An excellent idea,” Lady Maria said, moving forward like a warship. “Let us begin before eagerness grows teeth.”
Introductions followed. Names blurred, faces sharpened.
Mrs Ashby congratulated Petalia three times and asked, each time in a slightly different way, whether the marriage had been very sudden.
Lady Pembry admired the gown and then remarked that experience in managing children must be useful in a large household, which Petalia answered by saying a schoolroom was excellent training in detecting mischief before it had finished dressing itself as innocence.
Lady Maria nearly smiled herself into collapse.
Then Lady Whitcombe arrived.
She wore dark green silk and a widow’s cap trimmed with lace fine enough to ruin a lesser budget. Her eyes moved across Edmund, paused at his newly trimmed face, then settled on Petalia with a satisfaction too well-bred to show itself openly.
“Your Graces,” she said. “How very good to see you both in society. I trust your recovery continues well?”
“Very well, thank you,” Petalia replied. “Mr Meredith is satisfied.”
“Physicians are useful men when they are satisfied. And marriage seems to have agreed with you. You look quite… transformed.”
The word could have meant anything. That was its skill.
Edmund’s voice came low beside Petalia. “My wife has not transformed. The county has only begun paying attention.”
Lady Whitcombe’s smile held. “What a devoted husband Your Grace is, speaking prettily even when he means to sound severe.”
“I rarely mean to sound pretty,” Edmund said.
“No,” Lady Whitcombe replied. “That much, at least, remains unchanged.”
Petalia felt the room listening. Not openly. Never openly. But shoulders angled, fans slowed, nearby conversation thinned.
She could let Edmund fight this and become the creature they expected: beastly, protective, too sharp for civil society. Or she could stand beside him.
“Lady Whitcombe,” Petalia said, “I hope you are enjoying Lady Carrowmere’s hospitality. I am told she has an excellent orchestra.”
“Indeed. Do you dance, Your Grace?”
There was no reason the question should sting. It did anyway.
Before Petalia could answer, a man’s voice entered smoothly from the side.
“If Her Grace dances, half the room will be relieved and the other half disappointed to discover she does so well.”
Lord Fanshawe bowed with polished ease.
He was handsome in the way ballrooms rewarded: fair hair, elegant shoulders, amused eyes, and the sort of smile that suggested welcome had always come easily to him. Petalia remembered Lady Maria’s warning. Charming, unmarried, not to be trusted with secrets.
He was not looking at secrets now.
He was looking at Petalia.
Edmund saw it.
Petalia felt the change in him at once: no movement, no word, only a stillness beside her that had become suddenly dangerous.
“Fanshawe,” Edmund said.
“Ashbourne.” Lord Fanshawe smiled. “You have disappointed rumour by appearing handsomer than promised. We had all become attached to the legend.”
“You will recover.”
“With time, perhaps.” Fanshawe turned to Petalia and bowed again, lower this time. “Your Grace, allow me to offer my congratulations. The county is indebted to you. Ashbourne has not attended anything more festive than a funeral in years.”
Petalia felt Edmund’s arm stiffen. She answered with care. “Then perhaps the county and I are both out of practice.”
Fanshawe’s smile deepened. “A difficulty easily mended. Shall we begin with a dance?”
Edmund’s head turned slowly.
The simplest answer was refusal. Her shoulder still ached. She did not particularly wish to dance with a man who seemed to enjoy discomfort as a social art. But half the room was watching, and the newest Duchess of Ashbourne could not appear afraid of one set.
“Thank you, Lord Fanshawe,” she said. “One dance, if His Grace does not object.”
Edmund looked down at her.
There was no objection in his eyes. There was concern, warning, and something darker he was making an effort not to use.
“Her Grace decides for herself,” he said.
The words were for Fanshawe.
They were also for her.
Petalia’s heart tilted.
Lord Fanshawe offered his arm. She took it.
As he led her towards the set, she heard Lady Maria say behind her, “Edmund, if you continue looking like that, Lady Carrowmere will charge us for terrifying the guests.”
“I have not moved,” Edmund replied.
“That has not made you less alarming.”
Petalia stepped into the dance and tried not to smile.
Lord Fanshawe danced well. Of course he did. Men like him seemed born knowing how to cross polished floors without appearing aware of their feet. He did not crowd her, did not behave improperly, did not say anything that could be quoted as insult.
That made him far more dangerous.
“You are braver than rumour suggested,” he said as they turned.
“Rumour has had very little time to know me.”
“Rumour rarely waits for acquaintance. It considers itself efficient.”
“Then rumour and Lady Maria have something in common.”
Fanshawe laughed, and the sound drew eyes. “Excellent. Ashbourne has married wit. That will disturb half the county more than beauty.”
Petalia kept her expression mild. “I had not realised I was expected to disturb in categories.”
“A duchess may do nearly anything in categories. The trick is persuading society that she meant to.”
“And if she did not?”
“Then she must look as if she did.”
It was not terrible advice. She resented him slightly for giving it.
The dance carried them past Edmund, who stood with Lady Maria near the edge of the room.
His gaze followed Petalia with a severity that would have terrified a more delicate conscience.
Petalia knew that look now. It was not anger at her.
It was anger at the room, at every eye measuring her, at Fanshawe’s hand hovering correctly near hers.
Jealousy, perhaps.
The thought warmed and alarmed her.
Fanshawe saw her glance. “He looks ready to challenge me.”
“His Grace often looks so. I should not take it personally if I were you.”
“I should be honoured if Ashbourne found me worth personal dislike. He dislikes most of us on principle.”
“Principles save time.”
Fanshawe smiled. “You have observed him closely.”
“I am his wife.”
“That does not always follow.”
The words were light. They troubled her anyway.
The dance ended. Fanshawe bowed over her hand.
“Thank you, Your Grace. You have survived your first public set admirably. The county will be forced to revise several unkind theories by supper.”
“Only several?”
“We must leave them something to do.”
He escorted her back.
Edmund did not move until she was within reach. Then he offered his arm with such controlled restraint that only Petalia could feel the force beneath it.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Then we leave.”
“We have only just arrived.”
“We have been seen. You have danced. Lady Whitcombe has failed to wound you visibly. Fanshawe still possesses all his limbs. We have exceeded expectations.”
She looked up at him, unable to help herself. “Were his limbs in danger?”
“Not all of them.”
“Edmund.”
“You asked.”
The answer should not have pleased her. It did.
Before she could reply, Lady Carrowmere approached with a gentleman Petalia did not know and a smile that warned of fresh obligations.
“Your Grace,” she said, “Sir Lionel Harbury has begged for the honour of an introduction.”
Sir Lionel bowed. “Ashbourne! Never thought to see you caught. And by such a charming little governess, eh? Fortune favours the bold, Your Grace. Or the well-placed tea tray, perhaps?”
The silence was immediate.
Petalia felt it like cold water down her spine.
Edmund stepped forward, placing himself slightly between Petalia and Sir Lionel.
“Sir Lionel,” he said, very quietly, “you will apologise to my wife. Now, clearly, and without attempting humour a second time.”
Sir Lionel’s smile faltered. “My dear fellow, I meant nothing by it. Only a jest.”
“Then we are fortunate the apology need not be complicated by intent.”
Lady Carrowmere went pale. Lady Whitcombe, several feet away, became very still.
Sir Lionel flushed. “Your Grace, surely—”
“Now.”
Sir Lionel turned to Petalia, sweating now. “Your Grace, I beg your pardon. My remark was in poor taste. I meant no offence.”
Petalia’s heart beat hard, but her voice held. “I accept your apology.”
Edmund did not relax.
Petalia placed her hand on his arm. Just enough.
He felt it. She knew he did.
“We are leaving,” he said.
Lady Maria appeared beside them as if summoned by disaster.
“A wise decision. Her Grace has been very patient with the evening, and I see no reason to reward the room with more of her time. Lady Carrowmere, your orchestra is excellent. Sir Lionel, thank you for correcting yourself before the evening became more embarrassing.”
They left before the room had finished deciding what version to tell.
***
In the carriage, silence held for nearly a mile.
Petalia sat beside Edmund rather than opposite him because Lady Maria had claimed sudden fatigue and taken the forward seat with the air of a woman who intended to sleep through any necessary marital conversation.
She was not asleep. No one believed it.
Edmund stared out into the dark.
Petalia could feel the anger still in him, contained but not gone. “You wanted to strike him.”
“Yes.”
Lady Maria said from the opposite seat, eyes closed, “Honesty. How refreshing. Continue in gentler tones.”
Petalia looked at Edmund. “Thank you for not doing so.”
“Do not thank me for the minimum standard of civilisation.”
“I am thanking you,” she said, “for remembering that I was standing there too.”
He turned from the window.
The carriage lantern shifted across his face, making the scar briefly brighter.
“I could hardly forget it.”
“No,” she said softly. “I do not think you could.”
For a moment the dark beyond the carriage windows seemed to press closer.
Then Edmund looked at the brass pin in her hair. It had held through the dance, the insult, and the hurried departure: a plain thing surviving a glittering room.
“Fanshawe admired you,” he said.
Petalia turned her head slowly. “Lord Fanshawe admires most things that reflect well upon his own discernment.”
“He looked at you too long.”
There it was. Not accusation. Not quite confession.
Petalia felt warmth rise in her cheeks. “And did you dislike that because the room might notice, or because you did?”
Edmund was silent. Lady Maria’s eyes remained closed.
Edmund exhaled. “Because I did.”
The words settled between them with more force than their volume deserved.
Petalia looked away first, not because she wished to, but because looking at him had become unexpectedly difficult.
She leant back carefully, mindful of her shoulder.
“Then perhaps the evening was not a failure.”
Edmund looked at her. “No. It was not.”
He did not say why.
He did not need to.