Lady Whiteridge linked arms with her daughter and began the slow march toward the Serpentine. It did not take long for the stares to begin. Rose felt them as tugs at the hem of her dress, sharp pricks along her neck. She felt her name ripple through the crowd: the new Duchess of Carden. The nunnery girl. The foundling’s mother.
Lady Whiteridge kept up a steady monologue about the proper way to acknowledge acquaintances at a distance, but Rose’s attention was pulled again and again to the ripple of awareness following in their wake.
A pair of young women in matching straw bonnets walked arm-in-arm just ahead, glancing back every few steps.
Rose caught the phrase “out of nowhere” and “plain, really” as they passed.
“Mother,” she whispered. “Why are they staring?”
Lady Whiteridge did not miss a step. “Because you are a novelty. And because the duke’s reputation is such that no one quite believes you managed to catch him.”
“Is that all?”
Her mother hesitated, just for a moment. “They think the baby is yours. They think you are a woman of low morals and uncommon luck.” Lady Whiteridge’s tone was almost admiring. “There are worse things to be.”
Rose felt her mouth go dry. “So, the rumors have already reached London.”
“Rose,dear,” her mother stretched the word out. “The rumors have reached Vienna. I had a letter from Aunt Mayweather just yesterday, full of advice on how to handle a bastard in the family.”
They passed an elderly couple sitting on a bench. The woman glared openly at Rose, then leaned to hiss something into her husband’s ear. He smirked. Rose squared her shoulders and tried to project the unruffled confidence she had watched Felix wear the night before.
She managed three steps.
Lady Rutledge appeared, as if summoned by the tension. The dowager countess looked even more formidable in daylight, her blonde hair a sculpture of braids, her eyes ice-bright above a gown of peacock blue. She glided toward them, a pair of gentlemen in her train.
“Your Grace. Lady Whiteridge,” Lady Rutledge greeted. “How lovely to see you in the park. One never knows if a newlywed will choose to emerge or spend the first month in bed.”
Her mother inclined her head. “We were just admiring the weather.”
Rutledge’s smile widened, all teeth. “You are brave to show yourself, Lady Rose. I would have thought you’d be hiding, what with all the talk.”
“What talk?”
Lady Rutledge fanned herself. “Oh, you know society—such gossips. I myself have never believed a word of it.”
“A word of what, Lady Rutledge?” Rose asked, as steadily as she could manage.
“That you were already in afamily way, of course,” Lady Rutledge said, the words light as down but razor-edged. “And that the duke is merely protecting his own.”
Rose’s face went hot, but she did not drop her mother’s arm. “People may say what they wish. I am not the first woman to be the subject of idle gossip.”
Lady Rutledge leaned in, conspiratorial. “Oh, but you are the first to wear the title of Duchess of Carden with such… history. Most brides do not arrive with a child in tow.”
“Lizzie is my ward. She is the daughter of my husband’s cousin, Michael Greycliff. If you wish to malign her, I suggest you do so directly.”
Lady Rutledge recoiled, only for an instant, but Rose saw it. “I wish her nothing but happiness. Though I must say, she has the duke’s eyes. Most inconvenient, for a foundling.”
Rose smiled, sweet as honey. “She is a Greycliff, my lady.”
Lady Rutledge laughed, the sound ringing across the water. “Of course she is. Well, I shall see you at the Perseids Ball, if you dare to attend.”
“We will be there,” Rose said, surprising herself.
“I look forward to it.” Lady Rutledge departed, but not before pausing for a final glance at Rose.
When they were alone, Lady Whiteridge exhaled. “That was handled rather well.”
Rose stared at the sun flashing on the lake. “Thank you, Mother.” The sudden honesty was surprising even to herself.
