What? I was not expecting this. Has he been talking to Jem? Or the staff? What is going on? What assault? I have no idea what to say. I’m suddenly in a stormy sea, adrift and with no compass.
“Mr. Richards rapes your brother and you deal with it by victim blaming!”
I’m blinking blankly but I can’t stop it. His words are not making any sense. I feel as if I am floundering.
“He wasn’t raped, and I dealt with it just fine!” I protest as some part of my mind finds the words.
I’d been twenty-six at the time and our parents had just died. All things considered, I did a grand job at hushing everything up and saving the family name. And the very idea of Colby’s accusation is making me shake. If anyone ever hurt Jem, I’d destroy them. But that’s not what happened. Where is he getting these ideas from?
Colby jumps to his feet, his chair tipping back behind him. His face is flushed with anger.
“Do you even know what consent is?” he yells.
It feels like one of those trick questions, where there is no right answer. I think I know the dictionary definition of that word but I have a sinking feeling Colby means something else. I have a ridiculous urge to get my phone out and Google it, but I resist and stare back at Colby as if I’m calm and unruffled.
He glares at me for a moment longer, before throwing his hands up in disgust and storming out. Hopelessly, I watch him leave. I feel cold and the darkness is more consuming than ever. He already hates me. I’ve ruined everything.
I take a deep breath. Fuck it. This is a good thing. I don’t understand how or why, but he has finally seen me for who I really am. I have no idea what he is furious about, but it’s perfectly clear that there is not going to be any more sweetness or kindness from him. Which means I don’t need to try to be nice. My stupid little daydream of him somehow saving me is crushed.
This is a good thing. I can be my true self.
Chapter twelve
Colby
Eatingdinneraloneinmy rooms is rather depressing, and it’s hard not to feel homesick. My parents and I always ate together, usually along with two or three guests. There were always people staying over. A revolving door of company and interesting conversation.
The urge to call my parents is strong, but it will only make me feel worse when I hang up. It would be a temporary reprieve at best and a stark reminder of all that I have lost at worst.
Sighing forlornly, I move the broccoli around my plate. I should not have talked to Harry like that. It’s not the done thing. Vessels are supposed to be respectful at all times. I’m terrible at this. Why did I ever think I’d be good at it?
I wonder if I would have ever lost my temper with Rakeswell? But there is no point in going down that train of thought. I’ll never know. It’s not like I have a crystal ball. Rakeswell is probably riddled with secrets too. Most powerful men are.
It’s a morose thought. And it’s all very unfair. All I want is a husband and a pleasant life. Someone amenable. I’m not foolish enough to dream of fireworks and soul searing love, but someone to rail me occasionally, and then have breakfast with, is not a lot to ask for. It shouldn’t feel so out of reach.
It’s not, I tell myself firmly. I just need to make amends with Harry. This is all just a slight hiccup, I’m sure. Harry will forgive me and everything will be fine. He seems happy enough to rail me so I already have one part of my goal achieved. I just need to get him to like me a little more, so that he wants to spend breakfast with me. It’s not an insurmountable task.
The door opens and Harry walks in as if I conjured him with my thoughts. I scramble to wipe my mouth with the serviette and to stand at the same time.
“Good evening,” I say.
Maybe I should add a formal address? A ‘My Lord Husband’ or ‘Husband’? But being formal can be so cold and I want to bring us closer together, not drive us further apart.
“Good evening, Consort,” he replies stonily and there is a coldness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
My heart sinks. I have really, truly, spectacularly messed up. This is going to take a lot of fixing. I sure hope I am up to the task.
“I am hosting a party tomorrow evening,” Harry says.
I stare at him completely dumbfounded as my mind tries to make sense of his words. I have a horrifying feeling that I know exactly what he means but my mind is refusing to accept it.
“A party, party?” I ask slowly. “Not a dinner party, or a recital, or a soiree, or a garden party?” The hopeful tone in my voice is cringeworthy.
He flashes me a truly wicked grin. “No, an orgy,” he confirms, and my world comes crashing down.
I can only stare. I’ve never been to one, of course. They are not a place for virgin vessels to be. But I know they are fairly common in certain circles. I should have guessed that Duke Sothbridge was in one of those circles. It fits his reputation perfectly.
“You will attend,” he says.
