More silence, then Lady Norwell’s voice again, directed at the footman stationed outside Cressida’s door. “You, boy. Open this door immediately, or I shall inform your employer that you’ve laid hands on a dowager countess. Which would you prefer?”
The lock turned with fumbling haste.
Lady Norwell swept into the room like an avenging angel, and Cressida barely registered the footman’s retreat before she was wrapped in her grandmother’s arms, breathing in the familiar scent of rosewater and determination.
“My dear girl,” Lady Norwell murmured.
Cressida felt wetness against her temple. She pulled back, shocked to see tears streaming down her grandmother’s weathered face. In all her years, she’d never seen her grandmother cry.
“I tried,” Lady Norwell whispered, her voice breaking. “I argued, I threatened, I offered to double whatever settlement Emerton demanded. But your father…” She closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cressida. I failed you.”
“No.” Cressida guided her to the settee, their roles suddenly reversed. “You’ve never failed me. Not once.”
Lady Norwell dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her composure gradually returning. “This is unconscionable. They cannot force you into this marriage.”
“They can, and they will.” Cressida heard the defeat in her own voice. “I have no fortune of my own, no prospects. What choice do I have?”
Her grandmother’s grip on her hands tightened. “There’s always a way, my dear. Always.”
Cressida wanted to believe her, wanted to summon the same defiance that had driven her across the countryside to stop Harriet’s wedding. But that recklessness had led only to scandal, to Theodore’s devastating kisses and an impossible situation.
She managed a smile she didn’t feel. “Of course, Grandmama.”
The Thornbury ball blazed with enough candles to rival the sun.
Cressida stood beside her mother, the engagement ring on her finger heavy as shackles. Ten days since the scandal sheet’s revelation, ten days of her parents’ careful management and Emerton’s insufferable preening.
Ten days of trying not to think about dark eyes and passionate kisses at Ashmere.
“There’s Lady Whitebrook,” her mother announced, her tone carrying that particular brightness reserved for connections to elevated personages. “How fortunate that your friendship?—”
But Cressida was already moving, propriety abandoned as she crossed the ballroom.
Harriet turned at her approach, and Cressida’s breath caught. Her friend was radiant, laughing at something her husband had murmured, her hand tucked possessively into the crook of his arm.
The Marquess of Whitebrook—rake, scoundrel, the man Cressida had traveled across England to save Harriet from—gazed at his wife with such naked adoration that it stopped Cressida mid-stride.
“Cressida!” Harriet’s face lit up with genuine delight as she rushed forward, embracing her with unfeigned warmth. “Oh, I’ve missed you terribly! Your letter… I only just received it yesterday. I’ve been in such a whirl?—!”
“You’re happy,” Cressida could not help but interrupt. The words themselves emerged flat with shock.
Harriet’s smile could have illuminated the entire ballroom. “Deliriously so. Though I was devastated you couldn’t be at the wedding.” She turned, drawing forward the man at her side. “Cressida, may I present my husband, John Reading, the Marquess of Whitebrook. John, this is Lady Cressida Whitaker, my dearest friend.”
The Marquess bowed with surprising grace. “Lady Cressida. My wife speaks of you constantly. I’m honored to finally make your acquaintance.”
He was handsome, certainly, with warm eyes and an easy smile. But more importantly, the way he looked at Harriet—protective, admiring, utterly besotted—bore no resemblance to the debauched rake portrayed in gossip columns.
“I…” Cressida struggled to reconcile reality with expectation. “I’m pleased to meet you, My Lord.”
“If you’ll pardon me, ladies, I see Ashmere has arrived. I should greet him.” The Marquess pressed a kiss to Harriet’s hand that made her blush. “Please do not monopolize my wife’s time, Lady Cressida. I know you’re anxious to see her, but I’ve claims of my own on my wife’s time.”
He strode away, and Harriet watched him go with such open affection that Cressida’s chest constricted.
“You love him,” she whispered.
Harriet turned back, her expression softening. “More than I thought possible. Oh, Cressida, I know what you must think—what I wrote before about never marrying a rake—but John is…” She struggled for words. “He’s everything I never knew I needed.”
Across the ballroom, Cressida caught sight of Theodore entering, his dark presence commanding attention without effort. Their eyes met across the crowded space, and even from this distance, she felt the impact like a physical blow.
