Chapter 7
The Wedgwood breakfast service had been set for two, as it had been every morning since Victoria became mistress of the Grosvenor Square townhouse, though only one place ever showed signs of use. She sat in the large dining room, her spoon creating small ripples in the cooling porridge while morning light streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the empty chair across from her, Rees’s chair, perpetually vacant except for the pristine napkin the servants insisted on placing there each day, as if their routine might summon him.
Three weeks had passed since their wedding, and the routine had hardened into something as rigid as the whalebone in her stays. He would leave before she descended the stairs, the faint scent of his shaving soap lingering in the entrance hall like a ghost of an intimacy they had never possessed. The butler would murmur something about his lordship having urgent business at his club, though what business required such dedication from dawn until well past dinner, Victoria could not fathom.
Pushing the untouched porridge away, she rose, her footsteps echoing against the marble as she wandered through rooms that felt more like a museum than a home. The morning room held French furniture upholstered in silk the color of butter, pieces Rees had suggested she replace if she wished, his tone so indifferent she might have been a hired decorator instead of his wife. Her fingers traced the carved wood, feeling the smoothness worn by other hands that had inhabited these spaces with more right than she possessed.
In the library, leather-bound volumes stood in perfect formation, their spines uncracked since her arrival. The drawing room showcased portraits of Harcourt ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow her with judgment; she did not belong here among their stern faces. Even the fresh flowers Mrs. Pembridge arranged daily felt like a reproach, their beauty too perfect for the emptiness they decorated.
The nights were worse than the days. Rees would appear in her chamber twice weekly, his knock so formal she might have been receiving a tradesman. He was gentle; she could not fault him there, but his touch carried all the passion of someone completing a chore. He never spoke during these encounters, never lingered afterward. The moment duty was discharged, he would rise, bid her a civil goodnight, and retreat to his own rooms, leaving her to stare at the canopy overhead and wonder if this hollow ache would define the rest of her life.
“My lady?” Mrs. Pembridge appeared in the doorway, bearing a silver salver. “Lady Harcourt has called.”
Victoria’s pulse quickened. Rees’s mother had been unexpectedly kind since the wedding, one of the few who had not treated her like she carried contagion. She descended to find Mary Harcourt waiting in the morning room, her silver-streaked hair arranged beneath a modest cap, her expression warm despite the concern that flickered in her eyes.
“My dear,” Mary said, rising to kiss Victoria’s cheek. “You look pale. Are you well?”
“Perfectly well, thank you.” The lie came automatically now, polished smooth through repetition.
Mary’s gaze lingered on Victoria’s face a moment longer before she smiled. “I have come to invite you to my musicale this evening. Nothing grand, just a small gathering. The Pembertons will attend, and the Ashfords.” She paused. “I thought it might be pleasant for you to circulate a bit more.”
Victoria’s stomach clenched. Circulate. Face the people who had witnessed her ruin, who whispered about her behind their fans. But Mary’s expression held such genuine kindness that refusal felt impossible.
“That is very thoughtful. Of course, I will attend.”
The evening arrived too quickly. Victoria dressed in pale blue silk—demure, respectable, nothing that might invite further scandal—and allowed Rees’s mother to guide her into the musicale. The moment they entered, all conversation stuttered and died. Eyes turned toward her with the avid curiosity reserved for public disasters, then quickly away when she met their gaze.
She found refuge near a potted palm in the corner, letting its fronds partially shield her from view while a young lady played poorly on the pianoforte. But the whispers reached her anyway, carried on perfumed air.
“That is the Harcourt bride,” someone murmured behind a fan. “The one caught with Sterling in the garden.”
“Poor Harcourt,” came another voice, dripping false sympathy. “Trapped in marriage with damaged goods. They say she fairly threw herself at Sterling.”
“And now she has snared an earl. Rather clever, if you ask me.”
Victoria’s hands trembled as she pressed them against her stomach, fighting the urge to flee. Across the room, through the gap in the palm fronds, she glimpsed Rees standing with a group of gentlemen. His expression had gone rigid, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle working beneath his skin. He had heard it too—every poisonous word.
Their eyes met across the space. For just a moment, something shifted in his face—concern, perhaps. But then the mask slammed back into place, cold and impassive, and he turned away.
The carriage ride home felt heavy with unspoken words. Victoria sat pressed against the window, watching gas lamps blur past while Rees maintained his silence on the opposite seat. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she spoke.
“We cannot continue like this, avoiding each other, living as strangers in the same house.”
“What would you have us do?” His voice held that particular flatness she had come to dread. “Pretend we are a love match? Play at happiness for society’s benefit?”
“I would have us try to find some peace with our situation.”
“Peace?” The word cracked like a whip. “How fortunate that you can speak of peace when you are not the one trapped.”
“You think I was not trapped?” Victoria turned to face him fully, anger overtaking caution. “You think I wanted any of this?”
“You signed the contract with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. You waited in the shadows while I walked into your snare. That suggests a certain degree of intention, would you not say?”
“We have been over this. I thought the wager would be fair! I did not know she would rig that final riddle. I thought—” Her voice broke, but she forced herself to continue. “I thought whoever accepted would be some hardened gambler who could afford the loss. I never imagined—”
“What? That you would catch someone who actually had a future planned? Someone who might have wanted to choose his own bride?” His eyes glittered in the darkness of the carriage. “Indeed, we have been over this previously, and how delighted I am to have married my rival’s cast-off.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Victoria felt something shatter inside her. “Your rival’s cast-off?” Tears burned down her cheeks. “Is that what you think I am? Lord Sterling attacked me. He lured me to that garden, trapped me against a wall, tore my dress when I tried to escape. And when my father demanded he marry me, he laughed. He destroyed my life for sport, and you—you speak as if I was his willing accomplice! I thought you believed me. That we were moving past it.”
