“I wasn’t here two days ago!”
Lord Bardwell waved one hand dismissively. “Oh well, what difference does it make? You should be grateful, my dear, that I’ve managed to secure such a fortuitous match.”
“That’s quite enough.” Lady Bardwell rose, steel entering her voice. “You will marry Lord Emerton. The settlement has been agreed upon, and this discussion is finished.”
“Your consent is immaterial.” Her father’s tone matched the one he used when discussing crop yields. “You are four-and-twenty and unmarried, Cressida.”
“Given your propensity for causing scandal,” Lady Bardwell continued, “you’ll remain in your chamber except for meals and approved social outings. Thomas, ensure Lady Cressida’s door remains locked.”
“Mama, surely Cressida should be allowed to see her friend.” Mary’s voice rose with adolescent conviction.
“Mary, that’s enough. Go to your room. Both of you, now.”
Alone in her locked chamber, Cressida pulled out paper with trembling hands.
Dearest Harriet,
I attempted to reach your wedding, though circumstances prevented my arrival. I only wished to ensure your happiness.
If you should ever need anything, I remain your devoted friend.
Yours always,
Cressida.
She sealed it without any mention of her stay with her aunt. Without any discussion of “circumstances” andabsolutelywithout mentioning the Duke. Without admitting how thoughts of him invaded her mind with increasing frequency—his hands on her waist, the heat of his mouth against her throat, the way his eyes had darkened with want.
Heat flooded her cheeks as increasingly wanton images assailed her: his fingers trailing across bare skin, his body pressed against hers without the barrier of clothing, his voice rough with desire whispering her name.
She pressed her palms to her face, mortified.
Her treacherous body remembered the gentle neediness beneath his severity, the poetry on his shelves, the careful way he’d ensured her comfort. The memories grew more vivid by the minute, the unique scent that she still could not place, the strength of his arms as he’d held her, the taste of him that still haunted her dreams.
Stop this, she commanded herself, but her body refused to obey.
Two days later, Cressida attended the Helmsley ball with her family, her new gown a confection of pale pink that made her feel absurd.
They were barely through the receiving line before Lady Helmsley seized her mother’s hands with an enthusiasm that would have been embarrassing if she didn’t know why it was so.
“Lady Bardwell! And Lady Cressida… good heavens, is it truly you? We had quite given up hope of seeing you in town again.” Lady Helmsley’s eyes swept over her with undisguised curiosity. “Two years, was it not?”
“Rather more than that,” Lady Bardwell said smoothly, steering the conversation with the practiced ease of a woman who had survived decades of society. “But Cressida is returned to us now. We are quite delighted, as is Lord Emerton, naturally. The engagement was announced only last week.”
“Oh!” Lady Helmsley’s eyebrows rose with gratifying surprise. “Lord Emerton! Well, how… wonderful.” The pause before ‘wonderful’ was precisely one beat too long. “You must be very pleased to be given such a chance despite your prolonged absence and your… advanced age, Lady Cressida.”
“Tremendously,” Cressida said, keeping a tight smile.
The ballroom blazed with candlelight, each flame reflected in gilt mirrors until the very air shimmered with heat. Her parents moved ahead, drawn into the current of greetings and introductions, and she followed.
Then she saw him.
Theodore stood across the room, his dark evening attire emphasizing shoulders she remembered with shameful clarity. Their eyes met, a collision of recognition and hunger and everything left unfinished at Ashmere. The noise of the ballroom faded to nothing. Her breath caught, her pulse thundering in her throat.
Then Lord Emerton materialized at her elbow, shattering the charged moment.
“Lady Cressida.” He captured her hand with practiced gallantry. “How radiant you look. Pink suits you admirably.”
She wanted to tell him lavender was her favorite, that she felt nothing when he touched her—no spark, no heat coursing through her veins.
