Lady Freya sweeps into the room, a vision in a flowy blue gown. “Father, good day, I heard—” She stops short at the sight of me, and the pleasure in her countenance vanishes.
“Darling, surely you want to thank the gentleman who assisted you so gallantly at the ball,” Lord Denham prompts.
“Yes,” she says, never taking her eyes from me. “Thank you, Your Grace. Your aid to me during my time of darkest need was invaluable.” Her words are the very picture of obedience, and yet, the way she glowers at me makes it clear there is no truth in them.
It’s quite confounding, truly. Our conversation was pleasant enough, and I was sure she would be grateful for my comfort during her illness, and for staying by her side until help arrived. But to judge by her mutinous expression, she harbors little good will toward me. Which is a shame, particularly given that she has not yet heard of the purpose for my visit.
“Are you with child, my dove?”
The question is asked so pleasantly, I almost do not take note of it. And may not have done, if not for Lady Freya’s sharp indrawn breath.
“Father! How could you…” She slides her eyes back and forth between the two of us, her brow furrowed, her eyes wide.
“I notice you do not deny it,” he asserts, composed to the very end.
“I…Who has been filling your head with such… such… tales?” She trails off hopelessly.
“The child does not belong to Lord Pembroke, I presume?”
I go still at the question, for this had not occurred to me. I am watching my lady, ears alert for her answer.
Silence envelopes the sitting room, though it carries apprehension on its heels. Father and daughter stare at one another, gazes locked, expressions composed, each waiting for the other to back down. And I, a bystander, have never felt so strained with the charged atmosphere as I wait to see how this will unfold.
“No,” she whispers at last, so softly I wonder if I might have dreamt hearing it.
A flicker of emotion flashes across her father’s face, but it is gone before I can name it. Then he inclines his head regally. “I see. In that case, obviously I will make the necessary steps to bring the business of a betrothal to an end.”
She gasps again, her eyes growing rounder. “No! Father, do not you see I need?—”
“You need to fool a man into believing you are having his child?” Lord Denham shakes his head and tsks his tongue at her in such a manner that her cheeks flood with heat. “He is an honorable man, my dear. Ours is an honorable family.”
He speaks no louder than he ever has, yet she flinches at the words.
“It simply will not do.”
I exhale, letting some of the tension leave my body in a soft, soundless sigh of relief. Yet, we are not done. Fortune may yet work in my favor, but I must remain alert to help her.
“Then what is it you propose?” Her hands ball themselves into tiny, tight fists at her sides and she gives a stamp of her foot. “What am I supposed to do? Who will marry me?”
“Who will take a noblewoman who has been soiled and give a home to her and her bastard?” her father asks. She stiffens at his question, but his expression is grieved and the words hold no rancor. “As to that, I fear I cannot say.”
“I do.” It is my turn at last, and I can only hope what I have to say will change the look in Lady Freya’s frightened eyes. “I shall marry you, my lady.”
Lady Freya
My body is poised for flight, but the moment His Grace’s words reach my ears, I am seized with overwhelming despair. I am shaking my head before I even recognize I am moving at all. “No.”
My lord father looks surprised.
I meet his eye. “No.” My rejection is loud and clear. “I am betrothed to the Lord Pembroke. I will be Lady Pembroke.” Something else has seized me, traveled in company with desperation, and is now causing me to tremble. It begins slowly, at my shoulders, but then is cascading down my body until even my fingers shake.
I have long feared my secret being revealed, ever since I first admitted the truth of my condition to myself, but this is so much worse than my mind conjured it to be. Indeed, it is the embodiment of every fear I have ever known.
“It is a good offer, my dear.”
Father does not sayit is the only offer you shall haveand yet, I know that is what he implies. My lips tighten in denial, andI press them together until they hurt, lest I scream my refusal at the pair of them. My stomach churns, and dread is my only companion.
“Perhaps she just needs time to think,” His Grace says to my father.
