She’d not lie, the realization was steadily undermining her determination to withhold her forgiveness from him for all eternity. Which book could it be? The anticipation was making her fingertips itchy with the need to peel back the simple brown paper and see.
Her feet ached. Her head ached. Herheartached. And she had yet to seize upon a solution for the dreadful predicament in which she found herself unceremoniously mired.
Greycote Abbey wasgone. Sold. Lost to her forever. She had known, of course, that her father’s will had demanded the sale because she was unmarried and the funds of the sale were meant to be placed in trust for her and used for her dowry. But she had believed, quite erroneously it now seemed, that she had ample time to circumvent the requirements of the will. Greycote Abbey was unentailed. There was no reason for it to be sold. It ought to have been hers. Itwashers. Or, at least, it had been, until Ridgely had directed the sale of it.
Now, her future was desperately uncertain.
And everyone remaining in her life was adamant that she must marry the man responsible for its loss. She had pleaded a headache that evening to avoid dinner with Ridgely and Lady Deering, requesting a tray to be sent to her chamber instead. She was still furious with him for his lack of communication with her concerning the sale. He had been far more concerned with thieving her books from her than he had been with warning her of what lay ahead. He could take his gift and go to the devil, as far as she was concerned.
A knock sounded at her door.
She paused mid-stride. “Who is it?” she demanded crossly, thinking that if it was her guardian, daring to encroach upon the privacy of her chamber, that she would gladly box his ears.
“It is Abigail, my lady,” said a cheerful voice.
One of the maids, then.
“Come,” Virtue called.
The door opened to reveal the apple-cheeked domestic who often aided her with hertoilette. Instead of a tray of dinner in her hands, however, the girl held nothing. On her countenance was a look of expectation beneath her mob cap.
“I’m to help you dress for dinner,” Abigail explained.
Virtue summoned a sweet smile for the servant’s benefit; after all, her quarrel was not with the maid. “There will be no need for that. I’m not attending dinner this evening. I’ve already informed Lady Deering she should expect my absence.”
Abigail hovered at the threshold, looking uncertain. “Of course, my lady. But His Grace himself has requested me to attend you, saying you’d changed your mind.”
Oh His Grace had decided Virtue had changed her mind, had he?
She ground her jaw in frustration. “And I have requested dinner in my chamber this evening. I’m afraid there has been a miscommunication. You are dismissed, my dear.”
“I…please, my lady.” The maid plucked at her skirts, her uncertainty giving way to dismay. “The duke was quite clear on his wishes. I was told that I wasn’t to acceptnofor an answer.”
“Indeed.” Boxing his ears gathered appeal by the moment. “What are the consequences for you if I do not accede to His Grace’s wishes?”
“I don’t know, my lady. But I do wish to make His Grace happy,” Abigail said earnestly. “I depend upon this position to send money to my mother, to help with the wee ones at home.”
Of course she did, like many domestics thus employed. Virtue relented, not wanting to cause problems for Abigail any more than she was prepared to face Ridgely.
“Very well,” she allowed. “You may help me dress for dinner.”
The maid’s smile was blinding and gap-toothed. “Thank you, my lady.”
It required all the patience and goodwill Virtue possessed to refrain from grumbling as she allowed Abigail to assist her in dressing for dinner. She chose her palest gown—a simple white muslin, with a fichu for modesty, and kept her hair simple and severe. A tightly scraped chignon. No further adornment. She was a woman in mourning anew. If she had brought her black gowns with her to London, she would have donned one of those to emphasize her displeasure.
Her gowns. The reminder left a bitter taste in her mouth as she descended for dinner at the appointed hour. And all the books she had left behind. The library at Greycote Abbey which had kept her such company…
What had become of the fragments of her life she’d abandoned at Greycote Abbey, thinking to return for them soon?
Ridgely was waiting to escort her into dinner, dressed in customary elegance, his slashing jaw freshly shaven, his hair newly trimmed, the bruise having faded. If she didn’t know better, she would have said he had taken extra care in his appearance this evening, whilst she had decidedly done the opposite.
He bowed formally.
She dipped into an abbreviated curtsy, unsmiling. “Your Grace. Where is Lady Deering?”
He smiled, his dark eyes glittering. “She accepted a prior engagement. She won’t be joining us.”
Oh dear.
