Page 71 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

To buy extra time, I move slowly, putting each piece back in the box, layering everything with the cloth. I suppose I could beg off to use the privy, but that might make everything even more awkward. Heat infuses my face as I fuss with the box, straightening the cloths.

Still, they lie there in haphazard lumps. Why will they not lie flat? It doesn’t make any sense. The maid remains at the door, watching silently. There’s no judgment in her gaze, only mild curiosity. Though, with her training, she says nothing.

The silence only makes all this even worse. Groaning, I cast the box aside with gentle movements and rise, smoothing down my morning dress with my hands.

“Must I go?” I whimper as my stomach churns.

She gives me a sympathetic look. “I cannot order you to do anything. If it pleases you, I can tell them that you are ill and have taken to your bed?”

The idea does have merit. However, I’ll have to face them sooner or later. I’d rather now before the wedding so that this nasty business doesn’t spill over. Shaking my head, I make my way to the door, my steps stilted and odd.

I’m not sure how I’ll be able to walk to Charles tomorrow and have no one know. This should be good practice, even if it is humiliating because it’s my parents. Groaning, I place a shaky hand on the banister and make my way down.

As I reach the parlor, I look inside. Father sits there, his demeanor calm and placid. Mother, however, paces to and fro, her cheeks already pink from the anger I know is boiling inside.

“Miss Campbell,” the footman announces, drawing their gaze up to me. As if he needed to declare my presence at all. The moment Mother knows I’m there, I’ll not need anyone telling her.

“Cynthia Margaret Campbell,” she screeches, storming over to me. “What were you thinking?”

“Now, now,” Father soothes. “Give our daughter a moment to collect herself. I imagine it’s been a few days fraught with unease.”

I cast my father a soft, grateful smile, but he does not return it. He must be quite wroth indeed. Looking down at my waist, I pick at the small threads coming undone, giving my fingers something to do.

“Well?” my mother demands. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“There is no defense. I- I’m not really sure how it happened. It was all so fast-”

“Fast. Exactly what a whore would say.”

I reel back, her words stinging me as if she had struck me. Father continues to sit there, hands folded over his stomach, saying nothing. Tears spring to my eyes, but I hold them back.

“I did nothing untoward.”

“Nothing? A perfectly viable match sends your father a missive in the morning saying it is impossible to marry you. That’s nothing? Unless there are other secrets you keep hidden that we don’t know about. Is that it? Did he ferret out something that makes you unable to marry?”

Off in the distance, Thomas wails, putting into sound the way my soul screams to the heavens. “But I am able to marry. The duke-”

“The duke who ruined you? The duke who is only marrying you because society dictates it? That duke? How could someone in his position possibly want someone like you?”

Her words stab at my heart, and I raise my hand to place it on my chest, doing my best to staunch the pain. There are no words I can give. No defense I have to offer.

Didn’t Charles make it a point to not be by my side? To not ask for my hand in the beginning when we both seemed to crave each other? Is it possible Mother knows something I don’t? I didn’t think Charles was a man who’d move out of guilt, but it would explain most everything.

But the letters… No one marrying just for guilt would write such missives with that much passion. That, and the only other thing I can cling to is knowing he asked for my hand well before this. It has to mean something. Right?

“But he asked-”

Mother strides over to me, her eyes narrowed. Leaning forward, she sniffs, then backs up, looking at me with such hatred and horror that it makes my blood run cold. Before I can ask her what the matter is, she smacks me hard across the face, sending me sprawling to the floor.

“Harlot,” she spits out. “You’ve trapped him.”

“Harriet,” Father growls, yet doesn’t condemn her.

“That is quite enough,” a loud roar greets my ears, causing me to turn in on myself as I make my body as small as possible. Unfortunately, it causes the dilator to shift a bit and rub against areas of my internal anatomy that should not feel this good during such a circumstance.

I hold my whimpers at bay as Joseph Harding strides into the room, his body bristling with full Alpha fury. “You will hold your hand and your tongue if you know what’s good for you,” he snarls.

At this, Father finally leaves his chair and stands between him and my mother. “You will not address my wife like that, Your Grace. What happens between us and our daughter is no concern of yours.”