“Indeed, so ten days in total.”
Her eyes widened. It was the last thing that she wanted, especially as she would have to be present throughout. She wanted to be alone, not surrounded by people wanting to watch her.
“Ten days is excessive.”
“Not at all. It is strategic.”
“Strategic for whom?”
“For us,” he replied. “Public unity discourages speculation, which is precisely what you and I need.”
“You did not consult me,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “I did not. I ought to apologize for that, though I cannot change my mind now.”
“It is all right. I know that you were trying to help. I wish to thank you for that.”
“There is no need.”
“There is,” she insisted. “Lady Sylvia was implying things that–”
“That required correction,” he said. “Now that we are connected, your reputation is tied to mine, so it is my responsibility to defend you.”
“And the party?”
“That is a means of control,” he replied calmly. “Those who might speak against you will be given no opportunity to do so.”
“And if they do?”
“Then they will answer to me.”
She hesitated. She liked that he was so willing to defend her, but she knew of her tendency to invite rumor. She also knew that he was aware of her apparent talent, and she did not want him to hate her for it in the end.
“You are very certain.”
“I am.”
“You intend to silence them,” she said slowly.
“Yes, I do. I will not tolerate people speaking ill of my wife.”
“And what of me? Will I be silenced?”
“Not at all. You may speak as you wish. Others will not.”
She did not know whether to feel protected or imprisoned by that promise. As they stepped outside, Cassandra was aware that she had not escaped anything at all. She had merely traded one form of powerlessness for another.
And yet, as she glanced at the Duke of Sherton, she could not deny that, for the first time since this ordeal had begun, someone had chosen to stand beside her rather than over her.
She did not know what to do with that knowledge. She only knew that it complicated everything.
Chapter Eight
The club was quieter than usual, the afternoon crowd thin enough to allow privacy. George preferred it this way. There were too many matters pressing at once to be observed while addressing them.
His friend Brandon, the Marquess of Willoughby, son of the Duke of Wetherton, was already there, seated near the window with a glass in hand. He looked up as George approached and smiled faintly.
“So,” Brandon said, lifting his glass. “You survived the reading of the banns.”
