“Your Grace,” she said, folding her hands in a way that meant she intended absolute seriousness, “I must ask directly: is my daughter being treatedwell?”
“Mother—”
“No, Celine. A mother’s duty is to be vigilant. Particularly when her daughter becomes the talk of London for… displays.”
Lucy coughed. “Displays is generous.”
Elias, to his credit, did not so much as flinch.
“Lady Broker,” he said evenly, “your daughter is the mistress of this house. She commands its respect, as she commands mine. What the gossip sheets choose to invent is nothing more than that—gossip.”
Lady Broker studied him with hawkish scrutiny.
Finally, she nodded once. “Very well.”
Celine exhaled.
Anne clapped. “Splendid! That’s settled. Celine, may we see everything now? I want to see the gardens and the gallery and the grand staircase and—”
“We shall take a tour,” the Duke interjected with admirable calm. “If that suits you.”
Lucy perked up. “Will there be any scandal-disguising along the way? I should very much like to witness how high society attempts to conceal enthusiasm.”
“Lucy,” Lady Broker sighed. “Must you?”
“Constantly.”
***
The house tour proceeded with suitable decorum—at least until Anne gasped at every corridor, Lucy paused before each portrait to declare, with perfect seriousness, that“this ancestor looks as though he has just smelled something dreadful,”and Lady Broker subjected the butler to a near-military interrogation regarding dusting schedules and window-polishing rotations.
Lord Broker, however, was unusually quiet.
Celine noticed it.
So did the Duke.
When they reached the long gallery overlooking the gardens, the Duke paused.
“If you will excuse my daughter and me,” he said to the others; and with a particular look at Lucy, he added firmly, “please remain within sight of the footmen.”
“Of course,” the Duke said. He offered his arm to Lady Broker and followed the others down the gallery, leaving Celine alone with her father.
The moment they were out of earshot, Lord Broker stopped walking.
“Celine,” he said softly. “I owe you an apology.”
Her throat tightened. “Papa—”
“No. Let me speak.” He ran a hand down his coat as though smoothing years of regret. “I wronged you. I put you in a position no father ought to put his daughter in. I told myself I was giving you a choice, but the truth—” His voice broke. “The truth is, I left you none. I failed you.”
She stepped closer, touched by the rawness in his eyes.
“Papa, you were desperate. I understood.”
“But you should not have had to.” He swallowed. “And after reading those scandal sheets, I feared—I feared you were suffering for my mistakes.”
Her heart softened. “I am not suffering.”
