The door crashed open, and Lady Bardwell swept in, with Lord Bardwell close behind. Her face carried fury disguised as maternal concern.
“I heard you yesterday.” Her voice trembled with rage. “With Lady Whitebrook. We heard every word.”
The teacup slipped from Cressida’s grip. She set it down carefully, buying herself a moment.
“What did you hear, Mama?”
“Don’t feign innocence with me.” Lady Bardwell’s hands clenched at her sides. “Complaining about the Duke. About your marriage. Do you have any idea what you’ve jeopardized? What you’ve put at risk?”
Peter stood abruptly, his chair scraping across the floor. “Mother, this is hardly?—”
“Sit down, Peter.” Lord Bardwell’s tone brooked no argument. “This concerns the entire family.”
“Then perhaps the entire family should have a say in it.” Mary’s chin lifted in defiance. “Whatever Cressida said was in private to her closest friend.”
“Private?” Lady Bardwell’s laugh held no humor. “Lady Whitebrook is a marchioness now. Nothing said to her is private. Every confidence becomes currency in the marriage mart, every complaint a potential scandal. Did you think of that, Cressida? Did you consider what your selfish indulgence might cost us?”
The accusation was a backhanded blow to her face.
Selfish.
How many times had she heard that word? When she’d argued against Lord Emerton. When she’d questioned the engagementher parents had arranged without her knowledge. When she’d dared to want anything beyond what they’d decided for her.
“I wasn’t aware that confiding in a friend constituted a crime against the family.” Cressida kept her voice level despite the fury building in her chest.
Her father moved beside her mother. “Your marriage has opened doors for this family. Lord Thornbury’s investment. The Hartwells’ invitation. Lady Pembroke acknowledged your mother at the opera.”
“How fortunate for you, Papa, that my marriage has been so useful.”
“Watch your tone.” Lord Bardwell’s face flushed crimson. “We saved you from ruin. Married you to a duke despite your ruined reputation. And this is the gratitude we receive? Complaints and sulking?”
“Gratitude?” The word escaped before Cressida could stop it. “For selling me to quell a scandal? For marrying me to a man you’d never met because it suited your purposes?”
“We took advantage of the most advantageous match possible!” Her mother’s voice rose. “You became a duchess. We regained our standing. Everyone benefited.”
“You did indeed take advantage. And you clearly do not care that everyone has benefited exceptme,” Cressida retorted.
The silence that followed felt brittle enough to shatter.
“How dare you?” Lady Bardwell’s hands trembled. “After everything we’ve sacrificed for you?—”
“What have you sacrificed?” Cressida stood, the words tumbling out after years of careful restraint. “What exactly have you given up? Because from where I stand, you’ve gained everything you wanted while I’ve been nothing more than a convenient solution to your problems.”
“Cressida.” Peter’s voice carried a warning, but she couldn’t stop now.
“You sent me to Aunt Agatha for two years as little more than a servant. And when I came home, you engaged me to Lord Emerton without my knowledge. You locked me in my room when I protested.”
“That was for your own good!” Lady Bardwell’s face had gone pale. “You had no prospects, no sense. We were trying to help you.”
“Help me?” Cressida’s laugh held no amusement. “You’ve never helped me. You’ve managed me, controlled me, used me to further your own interests. And I believed—” Her voice cracked despite her best efforts. “I believed things had changed. When you came to Ashmere, when we spoke in the morning room, when Papa actually asked about my opinions at dinner. I thought you’d finally seen me as something more than a disappointment or a commodity.”
“Now you’re being dramatic.” Lord Bardwell’s tone dismissed her pain with casual efficiency. “Every parent arranges their children’s marriages. Every daughter serves her family’s interests through advantageous matches. This is how society functions.”
“Then perhaps society is wrong.”
Her father’s expression hardened. “You ungrateful child. We’ve given you everything?—”
“You’ve given menothing!” The words exploded from her with years of accumulated hurt. “Nothing except criticism and disappointment and the constant message that I’m never quite good enough. That I’m too opinionated, too stubborn, too much trouble to be worth the effort of loving.”
