She looked around at each of her sisters. Madeline was still keeping her smile, even though forced. Portia was already back in her book, while Selina’s eyes continued to dance around the room.
These young women were all that she had left. Her own sacrifice was for their reputation. Their father did not care about the consequences of his departure.
Where could he have gone?
To Cathy’s horror, the man she was wondering about could either be her own father or her new husband. The betrayal of the former was too heavy a burden, though, that her mind wandered to various possibilities.
Did he leave London or did he leave the country entirely?
She was married, but such a thought she could not share with her own husband. The Duke’s interest did not lie in the Marlows and the Quintens. She sighed. At least, she had finished eating half her plate.
“I believe I should find my husband,” Cathy whispered, rising from her chair. “This way, goodbyes can be said earlier, and nobody has to try to handle Grandpapa’s yapping any longer.”
“A wise decision,” Lady Marlow nodded. Her eyes reflected a mix of weariness and affection. She wondered if she would be like that as an older woman, trying to marry off daughters and granddaughters and dealing with the consequences of each marriage.
Then again, her marriage was not meant to breed heirs. She was merely the woman the Duke saved out of pity.
“Do remind your dear husband that he is needed here. A duke’s responsibility is to lead.”
We are lucky he has not fled London like Papa.
When she walked past her table, Cathy could not help but wish again that she were inches shorter. She had chosen her flattest slippers. Therefore, she did not have the added benefit of a wedge to support her feet. She was already too tall. Every eye in the room followed her, and not for the best reasons.
She squared her shoulders and went in search of Tristan, anyway. A young maid discreetly approached her to whisper, “Your Grace, I believe His Grace went with Lord Farstone to the private room next to the library.”
“Thank you.”
She followed the instructions, walking through the dimly lit corridors. Then she saw a door, with a footman standing sentry.
At least, Tristan was not with a woman. Her reputation was already too besmirched to be further tainted as the desperate bride. Or did that even matter?
Cathy edged toward the door. She wanted to tell him it was time to say goodbye to the guests, but the sound of her name spoken in a light argument stopped her in her tracks. Carefully avoiding making the door squeak on its hinges, she slowly moved forward while holding her breath.
“How could you marry Miss Priggish, Tristan?” Brandon asked. “You have forsaken Miss Longrove, someone worthy of the position of duchess, for a woman who is mostly shunned by theton? The whole of London is laughing at you, my friend.”
Cathy had to clamp her mouth with her hand to stifle her gasp. She should leave. It was clear that she was not welcome here. However, she wanted to know more. She wanted to know what her husband would say in reply.
“Did you study the situation, Brandon?” Tristan asked. His voice was not angry, but something else had replaced the heat she expected. Something worse. Something lifeless. “The trap was perhaps sprung long before the wedding party at the Longroves. Now that the vows have been made, what choice do I have?”
A decanter hit the glass, creating an echoing clink against wood. Then silence followed. Cathy did not like it. She could hear herself breathe. How could they not know she was there?
“Do you think Miss Quinten plotted it?” Brandon asked, sounding truly bewildered. “I will admit that would be quite cunning of her. She seemed too... too fixed in her ways to do that.”
“Perhaps,” Tristan mumbled. “Well, I cannot be entirely certain. It could be a plan of her own, of her grandmother’s, or perhaps it was merely orchestrated by fate itself. I had my fun. You know that. What is done is done. I have married her. This time, I will keep my word. I will provide the Baxter line an heir or two, and, well... Miss Priggish can have the run of the house and do as she likes.”
Cathy felt as if someone had doused her with cold water. He did not just resent being married to her, but he also truly suspected her of being the cause of their situation. Did he really think that she could have masterminded something like this?
She stayed in the hallway, her arm pressed against the door. Still, the vitriol from within the room seeped through the wood.
“I pity you, my friend. I mean... the face of her!” Brandon exclaimed.
“What is wrong with it?”
Cathy peeped in and saw Lord Farstone pull his hair in frustration, his face twisted in a cruel smile. “She scowls most of the time, as if she always smells something putrid. Not to mention these gaudy dresses... I cannot imagine you wanting to take such a woman to bed. She is of gargantuan proportions, not only in terms of height, but also in self-righteousness.”
Cathy clenched her fists, letting her nails dig into her palms; tears began to well in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She knew she had made the wrong decision; she just did not know how wrong she had been.
“She is...wasa Quinten,” Tristan replied, after a beat. His voice had dropped dangerously. It made her hair stand on end, but she was not afraid of him. Not at all. “Now, she is a Radcliffe, the Duchess of Baxter. Whether she is scowling does not matter. People should respect her title and silence.”