“Considering I was ruined by scandal and abandoned by my betrothed, you mean?” Cressida drawled.
Her father had the grace to look uncomfortable, though it passed quickly.
“What matters is that you’ve made an advantageous match, despite the unfortunate circumstances. Your duty now is to be a good wife. A good duchess. Don’t embarrass him as you’ve embarrassed this family in the past,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact in a way that would have been insulting if she were not already used to it.
She absorbed the familiar sting and lifted her chin. “I shall endeavor to meet your expectations, Papa,” she replied, barely managing to rein in the affront in her voice.
“See that you do. This connection to Ashmere will serve our family well in business and society.” He patted her shoulder with the affection one might show a promising investment before moving away, already turning his attention to Theodore across the chapel.
Mary launched herself forward before Cressida could fully process her father’s words, the embrace nearly knocking them both sideways.
“I’m going to miss you terribly!” Mary’s voice was muffled against Cressida’s shoulder, thick with genuine tears. “You must write constantly. Every single day, promise me!”
“Mary, darling, that might be excessive?—”
“I don’t care if it’s excessive! You’re leaving for that enormous castle, and I’ll be stuck here with Mama’s dramatics and Papa’s lectures about propriety.” Mary pulled back, her young face fierce with emotion. “Promise you’ll at least try to be happy. Or if you can’t be happy, promise you’ll write and tell me everything so I can at least live vicariously through your adventures.”
The earnestness in her voice, the genuine affection unmarred by calculation or social maneuvering, made Cressida’s chest ache.
“I promise to write regularly. And I promise to try.”
“Good.” Mary swiped at her eyes. “Because if he makes you miserable, I’ll come up there myself and give him a piece of my mind. Duke or not.”
Despite everything, Cressida felt genuine warmth spread through her. “I believe you would.”
Peter appeared as Mary reluctantly stepped aside, his expression carrying that particular blend of fraternal concern and masculine discomfort with emotional display.
“Well, Sister.” He rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back in unconscious imitation of their father. “That’s quite the elevation in circumstances. From spinster to duchess in the span of a fortnight. Rather impressive, even for you.”
“Don’t start, Peter.”
“Start what? I’m merely observing that you’ve managed to outdo even your most dramatic tendencies.” His lips quirked up with suppressed amusement. “Running away from Aunt Agatha’s, getting caught in a storm, staying unchaperoned with a duke, causing a scandal that shakes the very foundation of London society, and now marrying the said duke in a hasty ceremony. What’s next? Leading a military campaign against Napoleon’s ghost?”
Despite everything—the chaos of the past weeks, the uncertainty of her future, the weight of the ring on her finger—laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest. “You’re impossible. And Napoleon’s been dead for years.”
“Exactly my point. You’d have to resurrect him first, which would only add to the drama.” Peter’s expression turned more serious, though amusement still danced in his eyes. “Though I must say, for someone who spent years lecturing me on the importance of rational decision-making and careful consideration of consequences, you’ve displayed a remarkable talent for impulsive behavior lately.”
“I seem to recall,” Cressida countered, warming up to the banter, “that you’re the one who got sent down from Cambridge last year for that incident with the dean’s carriage and the flock of geese. Don’t lecture me on impulsive behavior.”
“That was different,” Peter said loftily. “That was youthful high spirits.”
“That was you getting drunk and making spectacularly poor choices.”
“Fair enough.” Peter grinned, then sobered slightly. “But truly, Cress. If he proves difficult, if this marriage becomes something you can’t bear, you send word. I may only be at Cambridge most of the year, but I have connections now. People who know people. Lords and such.”
The offer was ridiculous. Her brother’s ability to intimidate a duke was roughly equivalent to a sparrow’s ability to threaten an eagle, but the sentiment behind it, the genuine concern beneath the teasing, warmed her nonetheless.
“Thank you, Peter. Though I suspect your ‘connections’ are mostly other students who drink too much and gamble poorly.”
“You wound me.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I’ve become quite respectable. Haven’t been sent down in almost six months.”
“A stunning achievement.”
“I thought so.” He smiled, then pulled her into a brief, awkward embrace that felt more genuine than any of their father’s calculated gestures. When he released her, his expression had turned serious. “Joking aside, you’re the cleverest person I know, Cressida. If anyone can manage a difficult duke and an impossible situation, it’s you. Just… don’t lose yourself trying to be what everyone else expects.”
The words, so unexpected from her often frivolous brother, settled somewhere deep in her chest.
“I’ll try not to,” she answered, doing her best to keep her lips from quivering.
