Lady Harrington’s Estate
It had been a very long time since she had needed her mother at her side so desperately.
Catherine hugged the plush pillows on the bed to her chest as she curled around them. Richard’s knocking had stopped a fair while ago. Perhaps she ought to have let him in—perhaps she should have made even the slightest effort to hear him out, but she could not do it. She wished to go home. Wherever that was.
She could not say with any honesty that she wished to go to the cottage with her mother because then she would have to explain and answer questions that she was not ready for. She could not stand the idea of going downstairs to the party and dragging her mother away from the dream that she had just realized once more.
Yet the duke’s manor was not her home, either.
Both options had been fine…the house in the country would have been fine, when Richard was to be by her side, and now she was staring into an unknown future where anything could happen, and still…she did not want it. She wanted Richard.
Catherine should have allowed him to explain. At least, that was what she battled with herself about as she slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position. She had yanked the gloves off of her hands, and now she wiped at her tear-swollen eyes.
She could not have seen this coming. It was a betrayal, no matter how she wanted to look at it. Richard knew that Lady Harrington desired him; they had been over it time and time again. He ought not to have ever placed himself in a position where he was alone with her. He never should have risked such a thing. He should have known better.
And yet…if she truly had been played for a fool somehow, and she had impossibly been so very wrong about her husband and his intentions…
Did he truly desire Lady Harrington? To what end? What had she said to him to change his mind? Could he truly be so weak? It did not seem possible…she did not wish to believe it…but the evidence…the things that the duke had said…
“Lady Landry?”
A maid’s voice came from the door, knocking softly.
“I have brought up a fresh tea service for you, Lady Landry. Might I enter?” the maid asked sweetly. Catherine did not particularly want tea, but to reject the maid would only stir even more gossip than the fact that the girl was likely going to rush off to tell all of the other servants that the guest of honor was holed up in her locked room, alone and crying.
She was tempted to just ignore the request entirely.
“Lady Landry? Are you unwell? Shall I fetch a physician?” the maid inquired kindly.
Catherine drug herself from the bed, not bothering to find her slippers as she sniffed back any residual tears and unlocked the door. The maid left the door ajar as she carried in a tray laden with cookies, cakes, and small finger sandwiches.
A very fragrant scent of tea wafted in her direction from the steaming, ornate pot on the center of the tray, which the maid set on a side table. A setting for two. No doubt they expected the newlyweds to be stealing a moment alone together then. It would explain why the maid was looking rather pointedly around the room, for Richard, no doubt.
“That will be all, thank you,” Catherine said bluntly.
The maid bowed at the waist respectfully. “Of course, my lady. Should you require anything else, please do not hesitate to ring the bell.”
Catherine nodded, her back already turned toward the door as the servant left. She crossed to the tea service slowly and sank heavily into the plush armchair. Her arms wrapped around herself for a long moment as she watched the curls of steam rise from the spout of the pot. If Richard was finished with her—having gotten whatever it was that he wanted…What would be her next move?
She poured herself a cup of tea, as if on reflex, before cupping her hands around the warmth of the cup, again watching as the steam curled over the brim. Bits of tea leaves that filtered in through the strainer swirled around the dark liquid.
What would come next?The cottage was far too small to raise a child in, though she knew that her mother and Elizabeth would have been only too happy to offer any sort of assistance that they could. But Elizabeth had her own failing marriage to worry about.
She felt like a fool. From the beginning, Catherine had known that the apple could not possibly fall too far from the tree. In the end, the duke and Richard were far more alike than he would care to admit. At least in so far as their scheming and penchant for ruthlessness was concerned.
She was only about to take a sip when the cup was slapped right out of her hands.
Catherine screamed. The shock of the intrusion was so sudden and violent that the chair she sat in was nearly knocked backward from the force of her attempting to scramble back up and over it. The teacup fell to the carpeted floor, and by some miraculous twist of fate, it did not shatter. Though the fragrant contents seeped into the rug, staining it hopelessly as it spread wider than should have been possible.
The tray holding refreshments skidded across the floor when she kicked out her foot. She whipped around, wide-eyed and wild, to spot that none other than the duke himself had been the one to knock the cup from her hand.
“No!” she screamed again on reflex as she tried to put the chair between her and the duke. Fear lanced through her like spears of ice as she managed to get out of the chair and shoved it toward him, nearly stumbling over her own feet and the layers of her dress as she hurried as far away from him as she possibly could get.
“No, Lady Landry. I am not…” the duke began. Unlike earlier, his voice was clear, and his hands no longer trembled with drink. He held them out toward her, palms outstretched in a gesture of warning. “I know what you must think about my being here, but I promise that I am not here to harm you.”
“Get out! Help! Please help me!” Catherine screamed.
She doubted that anybody other than the servants would hear her pleas. Not when the garden party was still a roar from outside. The other guests still enjoying themselves; talking, laughing, playing games—the last thing that they were going to be worried about was her or the sounds of distress so far off that they likely could not even be heard.
