“Don’t you?” The third voice made her spin around.
Emerton stood in the corridor entrance, his handsome face transformed by rage into something ugly and hard. Gone was the preening peacock who’d led her through the earlier dance; this man looked at her with contempt usually reserved for something found on one’s boot.
“My Lord.” Lady Bardwell’s tone turned pleading. “There’s been a misunderstanding, surely. My daughter would never?—”
“Would never what?” Emerton’s laugh was sharp enough to cut. “Would never run away from her aunt’s house unchaperoned? Would never spend two nights alone with the Duke of Ashmere? Would never allow herself to be ruined and then attempt to trap me into marriage regardless?”
The words hit like physical blows.
Cressida’s vision narrowed, her breath coming in short gasps. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t insult what little intelligence I possess by playing innocent.” Emerton reached into his coat and withdrew a crumpled scandal sheet, thrusting it toward her with enough force that she had to catch it or let it fall. “It’s all here, Lady Cressida. Your sordid little adventure.”
Her hands trembled as she smoothed the paper, her eyes scanning words that seemed to blur and sharpen in sickening waves:
Lady C W, daughter of the Earl of B, lately returned from rustication in the countryside, has provided society with the most delicious scandal. The lady, it seems, took it upon herself to travel unaccompanied to witness her dear friend’s nuptials, only to find herself caught in the recent storms. Where did our intrepid lady take shelter? Why, at the estate of none other than the Duke of A, that most notorious recluse. Two nights, dear readers. Two nights unchaperoned in the company of a bachelor duke. One can only imagine…
The paper fell from her nerveless fingers.
“It—it’s not—it wasn’t like that.” But the protest sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“It doesn’t matter what it was like.” Emerton’s voice had gone cold, detached. “What matters is what everyone believes. And I will not marry a woman whose virtue has been so thoroughly compromised, regardless of her father’s fortune.”
“Emerton, please.” Lord Bardwell’s desperation was palpable. “We can explain?—”
“There’s nothing to explain. The engagement is over.” Emerton turned on his heel, pausing only to deliver a final cut. “I suggest you seek the Duke for a solution, since he’s the one who ruined her.”
Silence crashed down in his wake.
Then her mother began to keen, a high, terrible sound that spoke of social death and irredeemable shame. “Ruined. Oh God, we’re all ruined. How could you do this to us? How could you be so selfish? You should have just stayed with your aunt! You weren’t any trouble there!”
“I didn’t… The scandal sheet is lying. Nothing happened!”
“Nothing?” Her father’s voice shook. “You disappear for three days, return in clothes that aren’t yours, refuse to explain yourself, and now this? Don’t insult us further with your lies!”
Theodore’s hand tightened on his aunt’s arm. “What’s happening?”
The whispers had reached his ears in fragments, puzzle pieces that assembled themselves into a picture he refused to accept.
Cressida’s name, repeated again and again. His own title. Scandal. Ruin.
“Theodore—” Lady Seymore began, her expression grave.
But he’d already moved away, scanning the ballroom for auburn hair and green eyes.
John appeared at his elbow, Harriet close behind, both their faces etched with concern.
“Where is she?” Theodore demanded.
“Her parents took her away.” Harriet’s voice trembled. “Just moments ago. They looked… Oh, Your Grace, what’s happened? What are people saying?”
He didn’t answer.
He was already moving toward the exit when Emerton blocked his path. The Earl’s face was flushed with wine and righteous indignation.
“Well, well. The Duke of Ashmere.” Emerton’s attempt at intimidation would have been laughable under different circumstances. “I hope you’re satisfied with your conquest, Your Grace. Though I must say, she wasn’t worth the trouble?—”
Theodore stepped forward. It was a single step, but the promise in it—a violence barely leashed—made Emerton stumble backward, his false bravado crumbling like wet paper.
