Something was terribly wrong.
Mr. Delacorte did pat his hands together tentatively. But he tapered off at the sight of Mrs. Pariseau with her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide and fixed on Mariana with what looked like shock and—more horrifying—sympathy.
A cold dread traced Mariana’s spine.
Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand were similarly wide-eyed and very still.
That bastard had walked her into a trap. That much was suddenly horrifyingly clear.
Dot and Mr. Delacorte had picked up the mood of the room and were somber, if confused.
“Thankyou, Miss Wylde,” the duke said, sounding bored. But his eyes glinted dangerously. “That was even better than I expected.”
She saw then how he’d done it. He’d used her flaws against her. He thought her an ignorant peasant, all instinct and nerve, and he’d extrapolated from there. He had trapped her neatly with her own pride, and he’d played a hunch that she wouldn’t be able to resist lying about it.
She knew at once there was no winning against this man. Ever. She would not ever signify.
She supposed she was glad he’d been the one standing between the English and the French. But she was also glad there was bird shite all over his statue in Hyde Park.
She stood in the middle of the room, her palms damp, a cold knot in her stomach, and wished this was in fact an opera stage and that a trapdoor would open beneath her and she would topple in and perhaps die.
She wondered who would be brave enough to tell her what it meant.
It turned out to be Mrs. Durand.
She cleared her throat and said, with an exaggerated sort of politeness, “‘I never stop squawking like a hideous parrot’isindeed an unusual expression, Your Grace.”
“And now it’s also a song,” the duke said placidly, and lifted the newspaper again to read.
Chapter Five
“We can’t let this stand. We need to have a word with the duke.”
“You mean... reprimand him?” Delilah whispered.
Angelique hesitated. Then nodded slowly, with deep regret.
Neither of them knew why they were whispering. They were in the sitting room at the top of the stairs; everyone else had gone to sleep. It seemed that a crime terrible and magnificent in its subtlety had been committed. Miss Wylde had retreated to her rooms immediately thereafter and had not returned for the rest of the evening.
It had been devastating.
The bawdy little song she’d delivered earlier had been veiled enough that it could be explained away, and yet they both knew what—and who—it had been about. And so did the duke.
He’d been provoked.
Nevertheless.
Delilah considered this. “It will be a shame to celebrate my first wedding anniversary with a divorce.”
Angelique stifled a laugh. “In all seriousness, do you think Tristan would ever forgive you if we evicted Valkirk? Not that we’re going to take it quite that far,” she added hurriedly. “Although . . . imagine the publicity. It could go either way, really. People love exclusivity, and would be awfully curious to learn that not even Valkirk could meet our standards.”
“That might be an amusing exercise to imagine once we settle this little problem. It’s just... do you suppose he’ll take kindly to it?”
Angelique had no answer for her. “No matter. We must do it. And we must do it tomorrow. The air was positively humid with reproach in the sitting room, and I shouldn’t like Mr. Delacorte or Mrs. Pariseau or Dot to think we’d allow them—or anyone—to be treated that way. And I shouldn’t like them to feel free tobehavethat way.”
And so, an hour later, in their cozy bedroom, Delilah broke the news of their intentions to her husband.
She’d gotten into her night rail. She brushed her hair a hundred strokes then plaited it.
