“If I had known, perhaps I would not have ventured into the village like this,” Aurelia said, exasperated. “Now, will you please tell me what is going on?”
“We don’t associate with those connected to murderers!” someone snapped from across the street. Aurelia turned, but a sharp look from the plump woman silenced the heckler before she could catch sight.
“Go back to your manor, dear. Best stay there,” the woman said, eyes softening just enough. “And good luck with your marriage, Your Grace.”
With that, she left, her duty evidently done.
Aurelia froze where she was in shock, her thoughts reeling.
“Murderers?” she whispered to Jane, who appeared just as perplexed. “Why are they talking about murderers? Who has murdered someone?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Jane replied quietly. “It’s a mystery. But if they’re not friendly, best do as that lady said and return to the manor.”
“What about my dinner tomorrow?”
Jane frowned, chewing on her lip. “I’m not so sure, Your Grace.”
Sebastian scowled. “And justwhendid she do this?”
“Erm… last evening, Your Grace,” Fellows answered. “Her maid ostensibly helped orchestrate it.”
Foolish chit. If she had merely consulted him, he would have quite simply informed her it was a hopeless endeavor. No one would dare attend a dinner held in Ravenhall Manor. The rumors were too strong, and the people in this part of the country were led more by superstition than reason.
Not that superstition changed facts.
He paced quickly around the room, trying to outrun said facts. “And you tell me she has gone to the village now?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“With only her maid for protection?”
“Correct, Your Grace.”
He raked a hand through his hair. Ought he go after her to ensure she was all right? The silly girl had brought this upon herself, albeit unknowingly. He had never told her not to visitSwanstone; he had never supposed he would need to. Acoy miss, he was told. Unused to the prospect of being a grand lady, content to remain in the house and never venture too far.
Evidently, Mr. Arnold had misled him about that. She might have arrived with no polish, no pedigree—but she had every intention of acting the duchess regardless. With or without his say.
Presumptuous little actress.
If it were not so infuriating, he might have even been a dash impressed.
Before he could debate any further on the virtues of going to the village to bring her home himself, the door slammed shut, and his whirlwind of a wife swept into the foyer. Fixing his most blank expression on his face, he went to meet her.
She stood in the hallway, tugging at her gloves ineffectually, her face flushed with anger, or perhaps embarrassment. When she saw him, her eyes flared.
“Here,” he said coolly, pinching the end of her gloves. “Allow me.” One hand curled around her wrist, he gently tugged at her gloves, removing them and placing them in a footman’s waiting hand.
“You could have told me,” she snapped fiercely.
“Told you what, precisely?”
“That no one in the village would receive me!”
“I might have done so had you consulted me before you left. Instead, I suppose you decided it was unnecessary to seek permission when bedecking my halls for a grand dinner.” He still had hold of her wrist, but he dropped it now. “Well, that is your prerogative, I suppose, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warn me of what?” she demanded.
“We are not popular around here.” He studied her face, then stated, “Cancel the dinner.”
