Fury rears up to join dread and manages to overtake him. “How dare you?” I snap, narrowing my eyes. “How can you think to make decisions for me? You are nothing to me,Your Grace, and you shall never be of consequence.”
My father spears me with a look I have seen so few times in my life, I can count them, and I know it means to cease speaking, or I shall regret it. “I apologize most sincerely, Your Grace, for my daughter’s ill manners. It is her condition—I fear, that makes her lose her head. Though, of course, it is no excuse for her behavior, ill-suited as it is to her upbringing.”
A gasp lodges in my throat, and I gaze imploringly at my father, but he does not deign to look at me.
“I am not offended, my lord. She is merely… overcome with emotion. Itismuch to take in.”
“You are exceedingly gracious to say so, Your Grace.”
My father’s tone has warmed once more, though he has turned from me and seems resolute in pretending I am not present. Fury rolls through me hotter than any emotion I’ve yet known.
“It is no trouble, my lord. And please—do call me Gregor. I?—”
“No.” The word comes out soft, but defiant. I have found my voice, though it requires great effort to force it past my tightening throat. “No,” I say, my voice growing louder. “No,” for a third time, my fingernails digging into the tender skin of my palms as I clench my fists. Somehow, the pain feels pleasant and spurs me to continue.
My father turns to me and he studies me warily, in a way that tells me he considers me a problem that must be dealt with; he is merely doing his duty.
That cuts deeply.
“Dearest, you are overtired. What with all the excitement and—” He takes a step toward me.
I stumble back away from him. Even though my father grows still, I keep retreating until I bump against something solid.
As the table’s marble presses into my back, my breathing grows more frenzied as my heart races wildly beneath my breast. Yet, the stability of the table does nothing to soothe me, nor does the stone’s cool touch.
“My lady, I know this seems rather sudden, but I would not wish for you to be cast out from the genteel society that is your birthright. I?—”
My heart slams against my chest so hard it hurts, then goes still. Everything goes still as my vision sharpens on the speaker—the newly appointed Duke of Fairwynd. I do not take my eyes off him, though my next words are directed elsewhere. “Father… how did you come to learn of my… condition?”
Father does not answer. He does not have to. I see a shadow upon the duke’s face—a flicker that bids me to look closer. His gaze wavers, then slips past mine. I focus on the tension around his mouth, and Iknow.
The truth seizes me with an unexplainable certainty and refuses to release me. My stomach knots so tightly, I fear internal injury.
“His Grace ensured the continued respect for this family. He was rendering a kindness, not only to me, but indeed, to you. When the Beau Monde learned?—”
“They would not have learned.” The words feel a trial to get out past my barely moving lips. I have never felt such rage—a burning, living thing that threatens to consume me. “The LordPembroke is an honorable man. He never would have let it be known.”
“Though you might well be correct, what of you?” His Grace's voice is surprisingly sincere. “What kind of marriage would you enjoy if you entered into it with deception?”
“It is a kindness,” my father asserts again when I fail to answer.
It feels far from kind. I reflexively put my hands behind me when I collided with the table, and I grasp the marble, the hard stone cuts deeper than my fingernails ever have. “Please, listen to me, Your Grace. I shallnotmarry you.” I stare at him until I feel quite certain my message has been heard, then level my father with the same determined gaze.
A muscle tics along my father’s jaw, but otherwise his expression is unreadable. “And what will you do instead? Is the father of the child someone who can provide for you?”
The question should not come as a surprise, and yet, it steals my breath. “I… no. He… he c-cannot.” I manage to force the admission past reluctant lips.
My father’s lips part—he seems intent on further inquiry, but then he clamps his mouth shut and wrinkles his nose as though confronted with a foul odor. After a long moment of tense silence, he says, “Very well. Then I fear this the best course of action. While I understand you might not like it, I am afraid that is of little consequence now.”
Heat surges throughout my body, displeasure so great it has turned to flame and threatens to burn me alive from the inside-out. Fearing they shall see the emotion on my face, I turn away from the pair. Before I even realize what I am about, I seize the marble urn upon the table. It is heavy—so much so that I nearly drop it—but I force my muscles to regain control and whirl to face my target—the Duke.
He is the cause of my displeasure, of today’s misfortune. Indeed, the cause for much disquiet at the ball a fortnight ago. If it had not been for him, I would not have swooned in the first place! And he presents himself here, a charlatan in silk, and pretends the part of the hero! I am so angry I am nearly blind with it.
But not so blind that I cannot heft the urn straight at him and his arrogant face.
Chapter Four
Duke Gregor
