He had barely seen her in the past four days as he was out at the outhouse swinging the sledgehammer into the walls, working out his frustration. The sole time he had crossed her path in a corridor, they had skirted each other like wary cats.
“Cards, yes, horses, no,” he added. “Is it something you enjoy?”
“I can frankly say it is the only vice I embrace,” the older duke guffawed as they took their seats on the right side of their wives. “I cannot remember the inside of Whites these days.”
“You are not missing anything much,” Cassian replied, while stealing another look at Cecilia.
Her hair was pinned up in an elaborate coiffure, and her gown, a bold navy and emerald walking dress. She inclined her head to hear better what her mother was saying, before he forced his eyes away.
“The clubs are no longer the bastion of male camaraderie and useful acquaintance,” Cassian said. “They have become little more than parlors for idle gossip and incessant complaint.”
“And pugilism, I hear.”
Cassian held the man’s gaze, “At times, yes.”
“That’s disappointing to hear.” Henry shook his head. “How have things changed so quickly?”
What is her mother asking her?
Deep down, Cassian knew Cecilia would not cross him with Whitmore, that she would never touch him—but the thought that she had once loved the bastard taunted him. Was it that easy to unlove someone?
What about Isabella?
Swallowing, he forced that thought away. A vivid, infuriating, upsetting image of Whitmore’s filthy hands on Cecilia, clawed at his gut and made him feel sickened on top of the uneasy feeling seconds ago.
For the life of him, he could not let the image fade. The pain of it made his bones ache.
“How are you and my dearest Cecilia?” Henry asked suddenly.
Cassian stilled. “Why do you ask?” he chuckled softly.
“Because I don’t think the two of you have looked at each other once since we arrived,” Henry replied.
He stared at the track. “Then you weren’t watching closely enough. We are fine.”
“Areyou?” Margaret chimed in, her tone stiff and rather poisonous. “There appears a blustering wall of current between the two of you, and I believe I know why.”
“Mother—”
“And why is that?” Cassian asked directly.
“Your eyes are straying,” Margaret said tartly. “It is inevitable in a man of your temperament.”
The crystal glass in Cecilia’s hand slipped, but she caught it. “Mother! You cannot say such a horrible thing! Why—why would you even think that much less say it?”
“Because it is true,” the duchess hummed before sipping her champagne.
“It is not true,” Cassian interjected. “It may mean nothing to you, but I promised Cecilia that I will not stray as long as we are married.”
“Key words,as long as you are married,” Margaret sniffed. She muttered something that Cassian did not catch, but he believed she had said,which will not be for much longer.
Grinding his teeth, Cassian trained his gaze on the track.
Henry awkwardly called for a footman to refresh their glasses while the jockeys lined up. Eventually, he waved to the track. “There is one of my stallions, and I guarantee he is going to win.”
“And how could you possibly guarantee that?”
“He was born and bred in the stud farm I own.”
