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Gravenstones’ Ball
The next night
Heart and feet leaden, Rayne descended from the coach. She wrapped her gold-and-white satin cloak more snuggly around her as if she could ward off the stares and curious looks. Or as if she could guard her fractured heart against further pain.
Fletcher hadn’t come after her. Hadn’t sent a note. Hadn’t sneaked into the gardens, at least she didn’t think he had. She’d pleaded a headache and spent the afternoon crying, and by evening she had resolved to put him from her mind and heart.
Far, far easier said than actually done.
“You do know, do you not, Miss Wellbrook, that my son has vowed to only marry a Scotswoman and never, under any circumstances, an Englishwoman?”
Those spiteful words shredded Rayne’s heart and dignity, her hopes as well, every time they replayed in her mind. Which—God curse her for a weakling—was far too often.
What had pained her far worse was when she’d turned to Fletcher, expecting him to disavow his mother’s claim, and she’d seen the stark, undeniable truth reflected in his brilliant eyes.
He had said those very words.
That was the what else he’d not told her that day he’d first kissed her in the arbor. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to marry Lady Cecelia Sheldon-Furnsby. Fletcher didn’t want to marry any Englishwoman.
Oh, dallying with them, sneaking into gardens and kissing them, stealing their hearts was perfectly acceptable.
Except—
She almost missed the first step, so distracted was she. Once she was steady on her beaded satin slippers once more, she returned to her reflections. Except, she’d never have believed it of him.
How could she have been so wrong about Fletcher?
Why was he opposed to wedding an Englishwoman?
His own mother was English, for pity’s sake.
For the first time in her two-and-twenty years, Rayne had not been afraid of a man who touched her. She most assuredly hadn’t been revolted by Fletcher’s kisses the way she had been when that fat, degenerate pig had attempted to steal her virtue in the library when she was fifteen.
A bronze candlestick thwacked on the side of his balding head had dropped Sir Lester Dryden like a boulder. From then on, whenever her uncle entertained, Rayne had stayed locked in her chamber, a chair propped under the door handle for good measure, and the candlestick nearby… Just in case.
She’d peek through the draperies at the arriving men and women, most of whom appeared perfectly proper and normal. But the perversions that had gone on inside Keighsdon Hall had been anything but proper and normal. Even as a young girl, she’d been aware of the hedonistic degeneracy.
More than once, those first few months, she’d gone one or two days without eating, so fearful was she of leaving her chamber until the last guest departed. She’d learned to keep a stash of non-perishable foods—nuts, apples, dried fruit, and the like—tucked into the back of her armoire for those Friday to Monday licentious revelries.
That was a polite way to describe the debauchery and depravations.
As she followed Everleigh and Griffin up the steps, Rayne kept her gaze directly ahead, her expression benign. She’d perfected indifference and was very good at disguising what went on inside her.
Hadn’t she been doing so for seven years?
Initially, she’d intended to beg off attending the ball, but an inner resilience and newly found defiance wouldn’t permit her to. Wouldn’t allow the vindictive Duchess of Kincade to succeed in breaking her or humiliating her.
Though Rayne had been born a commoner, she possessed qualities many of the haut ton lacked—basic decency, for one. No one, especially someone as despicable as Fletcher’s mother, would make her cringe in shame.
Rayne had no control over her humble origins, but only an idiot wouldn’t feel unease about others uncovering the truth of her common birth. Others meaning the razor-tongued ton. Her dearest friends wouldn’t care two pickles about her birth, though. That was how it should be amongst friends.
She mightn’t have any influence on the behavior of other people, but she did have control over her character and how she treated others. And by God, come hell or high water, she would continue to be kind, considerate, and thoughtful.
Renewed determination winged through her, and Rayne edged her chin upward a notch.
No, she would not flee London as had been her first instinct. They—the duchess and her ilk—would not chase her away. Make her flee like a criminal.
She would stay and attend every single rout, ball, musical, and other gatherings Everleigh and Griffin were invited to, and therefore her by default as well. Head high, she would smile and carry on as if her heart hadn’t been ripped from her chest and mashed on a grinding stone.
