The carriage lurched to a stop outside their townhouse. Victoria did not wait for the footman to open the door. “I had no choice. No choice! I was a woman with no power, no options, watching my family face ruin because of another man’s cruelty. So yes, I agreed to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s scheme. God forgive me, I traded your freedom for my survival. But don’t you dare speak as if I wanted any of this.”
She fled from the carriage, her skirts tangling as she rushed up the steps. Behind her, she heard Rees exit without a word, his footsteps heading not toward the main stairs but to his study, where brandy and solitude awaited. Victoria climbed alone to her chamber, where she collapsed onto the bed and let the tears come properly, deep, wrenching sobs that seemed to pull from somewhere fundamental, mourning not just her reputation or her marriage, but the girl she had been before Lord Sterling had decided to destroy her for his amusement.
***
The brandy sat untouched as Rees stared at the fire, watching the flames consume themselves in an endless hunger that mirrored the gnawing doubt in his chest. Victoria’s words circled his mind:I thought the wager would be fair. I did not know she had rigged it. I had no choice.
He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to ease the persistent ache that had settled there since the carriage ride. Could she genuinely not have known about the rigged riddle? The thought opened a fissure in his resentment, allowing uncomfortable questions he had been avoiding to seep in.
His mind returned to that night at the Lyon’s Den, but this time he forced himself to examine what he had seen. Victoria stepping from the shadows—yes, she had been there, complicit in that much. But her face... he had been too drunk and angry to see it then, but now, with distance and sobriety, he recalled details that did not fit his narrative of calculating entrapment. She had been pale, her hands visibly trembling through her gloves. When Mrs. Dove-Lyon announced his failure, Victoria’s expression had not held triumph but something closer to relief mixed with terror—the look of someone who had jumped from a burning building, grateful to survive the fall but horrified at what survival had cost.
If she had knowingly trapped him, would she not have looked satisfied? Victorious? Instead, she had seemed as frightened as he was angry, shrinking from his rage.
Over the following days, Rees found himself watching her with renewed attention. She managed the household with quiet efficiency, never overstepping or making demands, despite his carte blanche to change whatever she wished. When tradesmen called, she was courteous but careful with money, reviewing accounts with a thoroughness that suggested someone accustomed to economy rather than extravagance—not the behavior of a schemer who had married for wealth.
She remained unfailingly polite despite his coldness, never complaining when society cut her at the few events they attended together. When a lady had turned her back at the Ashfords’ tea, Victoria had simply moved to another conversation, her spine straight but her face carefully blank—a mask he was beginning to recognize as her shield against the world’s cruelty.
Three days after the musicale, his mother visited with several friends for afternoon tea. Rees had been in his study but found himself drawn to the door, listening as Victoria navigated the social minefield with surprising grace. When Lady Pemberton made a cutting remark about“unfortunate associations,” Victoria deflected with a comment about the weather so smoothly that the insult dissolved without acknowledgment. She was trying so hard to be the wife his position required, despite receiving nothing from him in return.
That evening, he returned home earlier than usual, dismissed his valet, and was heading to his study when he heard music floating from the drawing room, delicate and melancholy. He moved toward the sound, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet.
Victoria sat at the pianoforte, her fingers moving across the keys with unexpected skill. She had never played when he was home, and watching her now, he understood why. This was private—she was playing for herself alone, lost in the music with an expression of profound sadness that twisted in his chest. Her shoulders curved inward, and when the melody shifted to a minor key, he saw tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
She was not the calculating creature he had painted her as. She was as trapped in this marriage as he was, but without even his freedom to leave the house when the walls closed in. The recognition hit him with the force of a physical blow.
When the last note faded, he must have made some sound because she startled, whirling to face him with wide eyes.
“I am sorry,” she squeaked immediately, starting to rise. “I did not realize you were home. I will leave you in peace.”
“No.” The word emerged rougher than intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “No, do not stop. Continue. You play beautifully.”
She stared at him as if he had spoken in tongues. It was, he realized with a flash of shame, the first genuine compliment he had offered since their wedding.
“I... thank you.” She turned back to the keys uncertainly, her fingers finding a new melody, softer this time, almost tentative. He moved into the room, settling into one of the chairs arranged for an audience that never came.
They sat in surprisingly comfortable silence while she played—a Haydn sonata, then something he did not recognize, perhaps her own composition. When she finally stopped, her hands folding in her lap, he found himself speaking without conscious decision.
“I feel that there is something you have yet to tell me. What happened that night? In the garden with Sterling. Tell me everything.”
The color drained from her face so quickly he thought she might faint. But then she straightened, lifting her chin with a courage he was beginning to recognize as characteristic.
“I received a note at Lady Pemberton’s ball. It appeared to be from my friend Sarah, saying she had torn her dress in the garden and needed help. I went immediately—I could not leave her in such distress.” Her voice remained steady, but her hands clenched in her lap. “When I reached the rose arbor, it was Damian waiting, not Sarah. He had forged the note.”
She paused, gulping. “He said he had been watching me all evening. Said horrible things about what I wanted, what I was hiding. I tried to leave, but he blocked my path. When I attempted to duck past him, he grabbed me and pushed me against the wall.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I shoved him away and struck him across the face. That is when we heard people approaching—Mrs. Ashford and her daughter. Damian grabbed my arm, tore my sleeve in the struggle, and positioned us just so. When they rounded the corner, what they saw...”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she did not move to wipe them away. “He planned everything. The timing, the witnesses, even how the moonlight would fall. Afterward, he told me his family would never accept someone so desperate, so forward. He had destroyed me for sport.”
Rees studied her face—the genuine pain in her expression, the way her whole body trembled with the memory. He had seen enough artifice in his life to recognize truth when it stood before him. Every word she spoke carried the weight of lived experience.
“I believe you,” he said quietly.
Her breath caught, her eyes flying to his face. “You do?”
“I do. Sterling is...” He paused, searching for words. “I knew he was capable of cruelty, but this—orchestrating your complete destruction for amusement—it is monstrous.”
“Then you understand why I—why I had to—”
“Yes.” The admission felt like releasing a weight he had carried since their wedding night. “I understand why you felt you had no choice. And I am sorry, Victoria. Sorry for doubting you, for speaking to you as I have, for adding to your suffering when you had already endured so much.”
