Page 39 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

Whiteport smirks. “Same could be posited to you. I am here to break my fast with her and my sisters. I assume you are here for the same?”

“But of course,” Charles replies. “Why else would I be here?”

Whiteport glances over at me and says nothing, merely stares until I am forced to look away. “No reason. I thought you might have had a previous engagement elsewhere.”

“Flowers, Miss.” A footman steps out into the crowded garden to hand me another set of flowers. This time, they’re just starting to bloom. Almost like the ones currently 0n my windowsill.

“Such pretty flowers,” Whiteport remarks. “No doubt from your besotted intended?”

I glance at Charles and then to his brother. The look between the two is nearly murderous.

“Yes, the flowers are from him. Whether or not he’s besotted, that I cannot speak to. Forgive me. I must put these in water.” I give them all a brief curtsy and flee the tension gathering in the garden.

“Might I join you?”

I look over at the Duchess of Whiteport and loathe her desire to be in my company, but find I cannot turn her away without even more questions being asked of me. “Of course, Your Grace. I would be most pleased.” Thankfully, as she follows me up the stairs, she doesn’t say a word.

As I put the new flowers in water, she examines the others and smiles. “Besotted may be an overestimation, but I do feel as if he cares for you. Such pretty blooms. I do think care was taken when choosing these.”

I force a laugh past my tight lips as I tuck the note away to read later. “He is a male. I think most of the thought included how much coin to part with to show affection, but not so much as to drain him too much.”

She laughs and nods. “Shrewd thinking. I find no fault in your logic.” After a moment, she sobers. “I did want to have a private moment with you to see how you fare. I too was a product of an arranged marriage. I have concern for you.”

“Has your husband uncovered some nefarious plot I need to be worried about?” I ask, taking care to keep the hope out of my voice.

“No. But neither did my late husband. He showed a lovely face to the world but was cruel underneath. I only wish for you to be safe in your matrimony.”

Fear winds its way around my heart as I sit down on the bed, forgetting the grievances my bottom has already lodged against me until it’s too late. With a soft yelp, I stand back up and rub it absently, completely forgetting the duchess in my room.

“Are you well?” she cries out.

“Very,” I reply, thinking as quickly as I can. “I slipped in the middle of the night and smacked my backside against the floor far harder than I would like. It’s yelling at me now for such mistreatment.”

“Should we fetch someone to attend you?” she asks as she studies my face.

Bollocks. I’ve heard tell of her proclivities from the others. Does she suspect the same of me?

“Please, no,” I choke out. “I’ve already injured my pride once. To fetch someone would be to destroy it completely. I promise. I’m fine. Nothing a good breakfast and walk around the garden won’t fix.”

She continues to look at me but says nothing. Soon, she nods. “Very well. But please keep in mind that I am an ally if you ever find that you have need.”

“I will do well to remember. Shall we join the others before they worry as to our whereabouts?”

With a soft smile, she moves her fichu to the side to reveal a mangled scar. “Lewis will never allow me to become lost or in danger. He knows where I am every moment. I do hope you find such a strength and companion in your Henhaven.”

She turns to leave, and I can’t help but sneer in disgust. Henhaven is not my anything. Not that it matters at the moment. For now, I need to put on a brave face and join the others for what will be a most uncomfortable breakfast.

Chapter 18

Cynthia

Sunday – Second Banns

By now, the Barrington household falls into an odd little rhythm. Every day I entertain some manner of cold, aloof attention from Henhaven, and by night, I am tormented with the hot, passionate hands of my duke of choice. Today is no different.

Breakfast, calls, a turn about Hyde Park with Henhaven, the opera, and then Charles forcing me to sing for him in a far different way. Sometimes with wax. Sometimes with his hands. Other times with the tawse.

As I prepare for morning services, I can’t help the clench in my stomach as I look at my reflection in the mirror. Second banns. Second chance for someone to object. Maybe now Charles will have some scandal, some bit of news that proves I cannot marry the viscount?