I sighed, finishing the last of my tea. Though Nelly’s words lingered in the back of my mind, I didn’t have time to dwell on them.
The dragon lady was waiting for me.
Chapter 13
I remained in my chamber for as long as was still considered polite, picking half-heartedly at my breakfast and indulging in several cups of Mrs. Ashby’s calming tea. The warm blend softened the edges of my nerves, but never quite smoothed them; something in me stayed taut, stretched thin like wire beneath my skin.
A sharp, efficient knock shattered the fragile quiet.
Mrs. Ashby stood in the threshold, her posture as straight and severe as ever. “Lady Havenshire requests your presence in the drawing room, Your Grace,” she said with the faintest nod, as though the wordrequestswere not a suggestion at all, but a command.
My stomach twisted. “Of course. I’ll come at once.”
The drawing room smelled of bergamot, and an old, aristocratic sort of disdain that wafted from the Dowager.
Sunlight, pale and wintry, fell through the lace curtains, gilding the edges of porcelain cups and gleaming silver spoons. The Dowager Duchess sat like a queen enthroned, her posture immaculate, her gown a confection of midnight silk trimmed with pearls now. A single diamond pin glittered at her throat like frost.
“Ah, the bride,” she crooned as I crossed the threshold, her tone sweetened only enough to make the bitterness more apparent. “Do come in,Lady Blackthorn.”
Her smile was narrow and practiced. I curtsied, careful not to look too long at the disapproval lurking just beneath her painted civility.
I smiled, fighting the urge to throw the horrible woman out. “Your Grace,” I murmured, straightening.
She gestured with a graceful flick of her wrist to the seat opposite her. “Sit, child. I thought it was time we had a proper conversation, woman to woman.”
I obeyed, smoothing my skirts as Mrs. Ashby poured the tea in tense silence.
The Dowager lifted her cup delicately, taking a long, thoughtful sip before setting it down. “You must forgive me for not attending the ceremony,” she stated flatly. “I was… indisposed. The news of your union was quite a shock.”
I smiled faintly, unsure if I should apologize for my own wedding. “Yes, it all happened rather quickly.”
“So I gathered.” Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. “One does not often see a Duke wed by special license with such haste. London is quite abuzz with curiosity.”
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks but kept my tone even, unwilling to play her game. “I imagine so.”
My gaze drifted to the hearth.
The fire seemed to behave strangely. Flames rose too high, licking hungrily at the grate, their shadows twisting up the walls in contorted shapes. Heat pressed against my skin, thick and suffocating. The lace curtains stirred without a breeze. The wallpaper seemed to pulse faintly, as though something beneath it strained for release.
I tugged at my collar, breath catching.
Across from me, the Dowager leaned forward slightly, observing me like a cat watching a mouse make an ill-advised move.
“My nephew has always been impulsive,” she criticized, her voice low and smooth, “but this—even for him—was uncharacteristically reckless. I do hope you understand the burden such a marriage places upon our family name.”
My teacup trembled faintly in my grasp as my pulse faltered, then stumbled back into rhythm.
“I do, Your Grace,” I managed, my tongue twisting around my words awkwardly. “I assure you I will do my best to uphold the family’s honor.”
Her gaze crawled over me like a slow touch. From my dark hair, still damp from the bath, to the modest dress I had carefully chosen, to the scar across my cheek.
Her nose twitched in faint distaste.
“Yes,” she murmured, her tone cool as glass. “I imagine you will try.”
I glanced down into my tea.
The liquid inside was no longer still.
