Chapter 9
“Please, Cathy, eat something,” Lady Marlow soothed, her voice lowering to a purr Napoleon would be proud of. She leaned in, her fingers lingering as she adjusted the lace on Cathy’s collar with doting tenderness. “A duchess cannot faint at her own wedding breakfast. It would be seen as a lack of constitution, and we Marlows have never lacked for that.”
“I... I am not hungry, Grandmama,” Cathy confessed, pushing the eggs and kippers around her plate. She truly was not. Her stomach felt leaden. “I am merely calculating—”
“Calculating what, precisely?” Madeline asked. She offered a cheerful grin, but the light did not reach her eyes this time. Her gown was a hurried affair, tucked quickly in the early hours of the morning, yet she reached out beneath the white linen tablecloth to squeeze Cathy’s hand. The gesture was a lifeline. “Are you calculating how long it will take for thetonto stop whispering about the tallest bride they have ever seen? And, may I add, the most beautiful?”
Cathy groaned, the sound caught in her throat; not an attractive sound at all. Still, she could not help herself. She wouldnever escape those whispers. In a room full of petite, doll-like, and sometimes, even diminutive, debutantes, Cathy stood out in more ways than one. If she had been wealthy, with an irreproachable reputation and a father who had not vanished like a literal thief in the night, perhaps her height would have been considered a fashionable feature. Instead, it was a target. She was a target.
The target was right in the open, with the weight of her new husband’s absence to her right. The Duke did not even think it necessary to maintain the pretense during their wedding breakfast. He was married to her now, bound by the laws of man and God, but the space beside her was an abyss. He left his wine untouched and had managed to keep his eyes everywhere else but her.
“Imagine the sheer desperation,” a woman murmured not too far away, her voice drifting toward Cathy.
“Can you truly blame her?” one asked, although her tone was of mock pity. “There is so much to be ashamed of. Look at the state of Mr. Quinten.”
“Hush,” yet another woman tittered, making Cathy’s jaw clench. “It is no wonder that she set that calculated trap. How else would she end up wed to a duke?”
“Oh, how much do you know about that? Can someone truly trap a man like the Duke of Baxter? She must at least be clever in the dark than in the light.”
Calculated trap?If only they knew I was the one who felt like prey.
Cathy felt her cheeks darken even more until the crimson color felt like a burn. The tension between her and her new husbandwas like a tight tether vibrating. A brush of an arm would create a jolt. But it did not take long for the heat to slip away when Tristan meandered into conversations with guests and friends.
“I have to say, your groom looked like he was walking to the gallows,” Portia remarked, even as her eyes scanned a small volume of poetry. Her sister was an expert in smuggling books into events. Cathy did not mind. It was what made Portia herself. “Does he not have a family? I do not see any uncles, and I hear no aunts complaining about our suitability. It would have been more entertaining to have some of his female cousins challenge the lack of a dowry.”
“It is just awfully quiet on his side,” Madeline agreed mournfully.
“You are right,” Cathy murmured. “I see the Viscount with him quite often, and the usual members of thetonwho hobnob with everyone. For us, some people may think it is a celebration, but—”
“It is, though, is it not?” Portia interrupted. “It is our way to pay the debt collectors and maintain a modicum of reputation.”
“I know, but it must be torture for him, Portia. He is forced to break his word so that he can save my honor.”
“Why should it be torture to him?” Selina asked, frowning. “He is a duke who has everything. He also gets to marry my dear sister. He should consider himself fortunate.”
“You are too loyal, Selina. And too young,” Cathy mumbled, as she peered at her food.
Perhaps it was time to eat a little. She did not want to faint in front of the guests. More likely, they would gossip about herimpending childbirth to justify the whole affair.
“I believe we must concern ourselves more about Grandpapa than the Duke,” Portia said, vaguely gesturing to where Lord Marlow was having a conversation—or trying to have one—with two other men whom she supposed were Tristan’s friends.
The old man had his ear trumpet at the ready, but it did not look like he was using it properly.
“A raid? You were part of a raid?” the baron bellowed, his voice making his granddaughters shudder visibly. “I had been a part of one, but we lost the herd and the gin. It is dreadful business, is it not?”
“We were delayed, my lord,” the young officer shouted back, his face turning a dark shade of purple.
“You were flayed? Are you sure? I do not see anything wrong with you, my dear lad,” Lord Marlow replied, inspecting the young man closely. “You should always find a way to escape the French.”
“Of... of course, sir,” the young man hopelessly replied.
He did not really have a choice but to agree with the old baron, or the conversation would go elsewhere. Even Cathy had to stop listening to the exchange, rubbing her temples.
“Do you see what I mean now?” Cathy asked. “I am not sure His Grace ever wished to join such an... unconventional family.”
“Speaking of which, where has your husband run off?” Lady Marlow asked, finally realizing what had happened. She scanned the room actively for a broad-shouldered man who should have been toasting everyone in his seat. “He disappeared on his wedding day? That is certainly not a good omen.”
“It had never been geared toward being a good omen, Grandmama,” Cathy reasoned. “You cannot expect to force a man to marry, and then simply have him celebrate about it.”