“Of course, it does, dear girl,” muttered Lady Marlow.
Cathy acted as if she did not hear her grandmother. She turned to her grandfather, who looked solemn for once.
“I thank you, Grandpapa. You have defended me so well. However, I will not be marrying anyone. Not today or the week after to appease a crowd. More likely, not ever. I will not be an accidental bride.”
“Miss Quinten, wait...” Tristan pleaded, reaching for her.
Something tore inside of him when she recoiled from his touch. It could be two things. She was afraid of the fire between them, or she regretted everything that transpired. The latter felt like a lance to the heart.
“No, Your Grace. This is all very improper,” she whispered. “There is still be something to be done. You are a duke. Explanations can be made about this particular tryst, as they called it. Your perfect life still awaits.”
With that, she turned and fled toward the gardens this time, where the stables could be found. Her lavender skirts flew behind her. Tristan stood frozen. Yes, he could have run after her. Her touch. Her kiss. They were all too warm and vivid on him. However, years of discipline and duty had made him stay where he was.
He was still in the cage.
Chapter 8
“Open your curtains, Cathy. The room is starting to smell of dust and resignation. These things are beneath you.” Lady Marlow had a way of waking even the dead; even her voice resembled chimes rather than a crack of the whip. She paused by Cathy’s bed to say, “Besides, I doubt anyone would be peeking in through your window. You have always been too high up for the common gossip to reach without their trusty ladder.”
Cathy groaned. Even as she doted on her eldest granddaughter, Lady Marlow had a way of reminding Cathy of why she was called Miss Priggish.
Theton’snew pariah had stayed mostly under her heavy duvet for three days. During those days, she tried to block out everything else. She had food served in her room, and she barely did anything else, not even read. It was too difficult to focus on anything. In her mind, the events at the chapel were enough to torture her for the rest of her life.
Being alone in her bedchamber was torture enough. In the darkness, the memories were even more vivid. She could smell the lilies and the burning wax, and feel the heat of the Duke’shand on her arm. Then came his voice, telling her he could not marry Miss Longrove. These were false hopes that she tried to scrub away. She was no fool, and yet, she continued to circle back to the events.
It will all go away. Hopefully. Someday.
“Go away, Grandmama!” She huffed into the silk. “Consider me not here. Kathleen Quinten no longer exists within the borders of polite society. Cathy is here to do whatever she pleases. Right now, she wants to sleep.”
“Nonsense! Look at you. You are far too tall not to exist. I can see the tip of your toes past your duvet!”
“You do not!”
The heavy curtains were yanked open with one violent swing. Sometimes, Cathy wondered how her grandmother could still be so strong, whereas she currently had no will to live. Light rushed into her bedchamber, stinging her eyes. It was then that she realized that her grandmother was not alone. Could her sisters be that stealthy, or was she so lost in her own world?
Behind Lady Marlow, her three younger sisters stood in a nervous semicircle. Madeline looked exhausted; her usual positivity had dimmed. Instead of a smile, she could only give a quiet nod as a greeting. That moved her even more than her grandmother’s yelling. Portia, aged nineteen, clutched a leather-bound volume of Virgil. She seemed to think that it was her strength at that very moment or at any moment. Whenever she did not understand anything, she would go to her books. On the other end stood their youngest, Selina, aged seventeen, whose ethereal beauty could make men trip over their feet. Even she did not look ready to see anyone. She no longer looked likesomeone who would be a debutante in a few months. It also looked like she did not bother with her usual hundred brush strokes before bed.
The Quintens were mourning. Cathy spent a few days in bed, and everyone was acting as if she had died.
“Cathy, please,” Madeline urged, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “I do not mean to put the pressure on you, but let us say I will. Cook threatens to leave. The rest of the staff seems uneasy that you are not on duty. Papa is not exactly reliable and...”
Not exactly reliable!
That sounded light for what he was doing at the moment. She could not even wallow in her misery without being reminded of why there were other reasons she should be on her feet right now.
“Perhaps it is better if I am not involved in these things, Maddy,” she croaked. “What we need is a miracle. You do not want a spinster with a reputation in tatters to be associated with you anymore. It is best that Grandmama banishes me so that I will no longer be linked to you. I am responsible for the humiliation of all of you. I am hoping people forget about me soon.”
“There does not seem to be any hope for that,” Selina chimed in, her voice sounding musical. What was it with her youngest sister? “Do not be too quick to think that His Grace is back in Miss Longrove’s arms. A friend of mine told me that a friend of hers told her that he looks devastated as of late.”
Cathy’s heart leaped at that, but she gave the treacherous jolt a hush. She reminded herself that they were talking about the Duke of Baxter, not some clergyman or a man who wasswooning at first love. This was the man who could make anyone swoon, even with his hair disheveled. Of course, she could not fool herself into thinking that she was the only one who had ever seen him in such a state.
He did have his ways of persuasion. He was right about that. The way his eyes had searched hers in the library had made her believe in his sincerity. How sincere could rakes be? The rational Miss Priggish reared her head, though, letting her remember just how dukes did not normally marry the daughters of drunkards with no titles.
I was merely a conquest to him. Nothing more.
“He is a rake, Selina. The only reason he would marry was for additional wealth and to strengthen alliances. If he could not find anyone who could give him that, he would ruin women left and right for sport. Do you think I have money and alliances to give him? No. I have ledgers to balance and a family to manage. We are on the brink of being sent to the poorhouse.”
“Since you know that so well,” Lady Marlow said, her tone shifting quickly from a grumble to a persuasive lilt, “Get out of bed now, my brilliant girl. The Marlows do not hide. That part of your heritage still exists, does it not? As for the Quinten side...”