Page 27 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

Cynthia sits there, nibbling at her food, barely touching it, her eyes wet with unshed tears. Just like with this morning, hardly anything goes into her stomach. Nerves, no doubt. But this certainly won’t do.

Glancing back at my sisters, I give a decisive nod. “Miss Campbell is not at liberty to give you a spot in Henhaven’s box. That is his decision and his alone. However, if you are most desperate to show off your new frock, I suppose I can take you three.”

“Really?” Penelope cries out as she claps her hands.

“Do you even know what is playing that evening?” Georgiana asks as she brings a forkful of dinner to her lips.

“Does it matter?” Penelope preens. “I get to see and be seen.”

Sophia ducks her head a touch. “Seems like it might be awfully crowded.”

Penelope, of course, waves her concerns aside. “We’ll be in Charles’s box, silly. No one else will press upon you. Even if it’s a crush, we will be safely ensconced away where no one can touch you.”

“I suppose…”

“You never said what opera,” Georgiana insists.

“La Clemenza di Tito,” Cynthia murmurs over her plate. “At least, that is what the invitation said. Mozart, I believe.”

Georgiana looks back at me, her face beaming. “I am much enamored with Mozart. Thank you so much for letting us go with you! I shall endeavor to let this influence my own playing.”

Penelope scoffs as she nudges her with her shoulder. “Careful. Men don’t like women who are smarter than them. A musician will certainly fall into that category.”

“Not that you care about anything more than if you’re dressed better than them or not,” Georgiana counters. “Some of us like intelligence and men who are not scared away by it. Just look at Alessandra.”

“Yes,” she counters, “but Portswell is a musician himself. That’s the point.”

“Girls,” Mother cuts in, her voice sharp but kind. “Enough prattling on about men. There will be more than enough time for that come the next Season. Right now, you should be focused on Miss Campbell and giving her companionship until she walks down the aisle.”

“Yes, Mother,” they say in unison.

“Forgive me, Cynthia,” Penelope murmurs. “I got caught up in the excitement.”

“No need to apologize. I am happy there is excitement enough for the both of us.”

She gives Cynthia an odd look. “You are not excited?”

When she raises her head a moment, the misery on her face nearly guts me. I want nothing more than to order everyone from the table so that I may hold her in my arms and reassure her of the lie we both know hangs heavy in the air.

“I will be excited,” she says. “I promise. I’ve just had a tiring day. If you’ll excuse me.” She rises and gives us a curtsy before striding out of the room. Her face looks a little pinched before she turns around.

“But wait!” Georgiana calls after her. “You’ve barely touched your food!”

“Let her go,” Mother says as she pierces me with an all-too-knowing stare. “She will be fine. Just let her go.”

If only I could.

Silence fills the room as we continue eating. Only the clinking of silverware on dishes makes any noise. Each of us seems caught up in our own thoughts, but none of them are transparent. At least not to me. But then, I don’t want the others to know what I’m thinking.

Once I’ve waited long enough for it to be proper, I take my leave and take Erebus back to my town house. Cynthia should be here. She should be on my arm as I take her inside to defile her. It should be me bringing her to the opera. I should be the one parading her around Hyde Park.

Arlo Mathews, Duke of Dunton, wagers Finnley Riley, Viscount of Glendale, the sum of one hundred guineas that the Duke of Norhaven shall make his intentions toward Miss Campbell of Kirden known before her wedding to the Viscount of Henhaven.

The words pound through my brain as if emblazoned thereon. Fucking Arlo Mathews. Only here to cause trouble. What next? Is he going to pretend to compromise Cynthia at a ball or some such nonsense?

Anger and exhaustion war in me as I brush past the footman to head to my study. I’ve already had one letter from the blackmailer today. Hopefully, there’s not a second.

I sink into my chair and wait until the butler hands me the stack. Nothing amiss. Nothing untoward. No word back from my correspondents either. Rage floods my soul as I drag my hands across my desk and cast the contents onto the floor.