But her mother had given her all she was capable of giving, and Frederica knew it. She had waited in her chamber, trapped in the purgatory of not knowing what would become of her. She had no funds of her own, and nowhere to go, else she would have attempted to run. Fleeing was not the answer to her woes, but she was hopeful her inevitable banishment would be.
She had no doubt Benedict had related the entire, sordid tale to their father, and even if he had not, Duncan would have. From her window, she had watched him departing, inwardly pleading with him to glance her way. As if he had heard her, he had stopped and looked back. And then he had turned away, climbed into his carriage, and disappeared from her life. She had never known such a sickening sense of finality. The cold burst of grief in her breast. The sinking stone of dread.
She felt both now all over again as she approached her father’s desk. She felt every bit the prisoner she was, awaiting the reading of her sentence. She could only hope she would not be forced to become a companion for some gouty curmudgeon in the countryside. Anything, she reminded herself, would be preferable to becoming the Countess of Willingham. If nothing else, Duncan Kirkwood had spared her from that fate, and she would always be grateful for it.
She curtseyed to her father, whose countenance looked as if it had been carved from granite. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Frederica,” he snapped, his expression grim, his voice bearing the crack of a riding crop. “Seat yourself.”
Her relationship with her father had always been tepid at best. He was a man who was not easily pleased. His autocratic temperament made any softening of the heart toward him almost impossible. Frederica supposed it was why her mother attempted to bury her unhappiness beneath a mountain of fans.
“Seat yourself,” he ordered again, his voice raising and echoing from the decorated plaster of the ceiling.
She sat, her face going hot. For some reason, regardless of how much she aged, standing before her father awaiting her punishment made her feel like a shameful child who had broken the Sèvres and neglected to eat her dinner. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”
“You have much for which you need be forgiven.” He was cold. Harsh. As unyielding as he had ever been. “How did you dare, my lady?”
She swallowed, held her head high. “I did not wish to enter a loveless marriage with a man who enjoys the suffering of others. I took the action I felt necessary to avoid such a thing.”
“The Earl of Willingham is a gentleman. Any lady would be grateful to take your place and become his countess.” His voice vibrated with the passion of his conviction.
But of course. To her father, a man’s lineage was the indication of his character. He was a duke, and he had made it clear to her in no uncertain terms that he expected her to become a duchess. Marrying her off to Willingham would have achieved such a feat, upon his inheritance of the Amberley duchy.
“You do not know Lord Willingham as I do,” she countered calmly. “He is aggressive with his attentions. There is nothing gentle in his conduct, and I find him repugnant.”
Her father slammed his fists down, sending a jolt of shock through her. “You will hold your tongue. You will listen to what I have to say. When I have finished my piece, you will thank me for the mercy I have shown you, and you will never again dare to disgrace this family, my lady. Am I understood?”
He was angrier than she had supposed. The fire in his eyes was undeniable. She wondered if he truly hated her in that moment. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Her Grace has pampered you,” he continued. “She has allowed you to run wild because you are her only daughter. No more, Lady Frederica. Henceforth, you will conduct yourself with the dignity and grace befitting a lady of the house of Isling. You will cease your lowly insistence upon writing a novel. You will marry the gentleman of my choosing. You will lead a quiet, respectable life from this moment forward.”
His words fell upon her like the weight of an anvil.You will marry…
He could not suppose she would still wed anyone, could he? Why, no man would marry her now, not knowing she had willingly lain with another.
…the gentleman of my choosing.
Of his choosing?
Panic swirled as she searched his inscrutable face, the eyes so like her own, the countenance that had never softened with love or pride when he gazed upon her. “I must be sent away, and I am aware of that, Your Grace. I will accept my fate, whatever you have decided it must be. Please believe that it was never my intent to bring shame upon you. I merely wished to achieve my freedom from a hateful marriage.”
“Her Grace allowed you to read too many books,” her father barked. “I can see that now. A learned woman will always attempt to usurp her betters, foolishly thinking herself superior. It is a trick of the mind, you understand. The wits of a female cannot hold a candle to that of a man. It is simply a part of the laws of God and man.”
Her mother had allowed Frederica to read books because she had been too distracted attempting to fill the emptiness in her life with things. Somehow, she had yet to realize that no trinket or bauble—not even a hundred thousand fans—would be her solace.
“It is my belief that a woman is capable of intelligent thought the same as any man,” she dared to dissent, even though she knew it foolhardy to do so in such a moment, and when she was powerless and entirely at her father’s mercy.
If indeed he possessed such a thing.
“You are wrong, my lady.” His lip curled. “One need only look to your reckless actions for proof of that. Fortunately, however, no one need know about your folly. Kirkwood’s silence came at a price, but it was easily bought. No one is aware of your indiscretion aside from your brother, and he will certainly not utter a word to damage your reputation.”
Disbelief joined the dread churning inside her. Had she heard her father correctly? “But I am ruined, Your Grace.”
He raised a brow. “A lady is only ruined if word of her misdeeds spread. If no one is the wiser, who is to say she is ruined at all?”
The dread grew and grew until it pressed upon her with such force she feared she would cast up her accounts before her father. All over his desk.No. No. No.This was not right. “Surely a lady’s husband will discover such a thing on the wedding night.”
The smile curling her father’s lips was unkind. Triumphant. “By that time, it shall be too late.”
