She’d told Theodore he was the one who couldn’t trust. What she hadn’t said—what she couldn’t say with him watching—was that she’d been equally foolish. Because despite every warning, despite every moment he’d shown her exactly who he was, she’d chosen to believe in something that didn’t exist.
She was the one who should never have trusted him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Cressida!” Her mother’s voice carried through Bardwell House’s entrance hall with the pitch of someone who had discovered a minor catastrophe. “You’re back. Without the Duke.”
Cressida had barely crossed the threshold before Lady Bardwell descended on her, face arranged into concern poorly disguised as maternal devotion.
The performance might have been more convincing if her mother’s eyes hadn’t immediately traveled past her toward the door, clearly expecting Theodore to follow.
“Where is His Grace?” Her mother’s hands fluttered. “Surely he hasn’t let you travel alone?”
“I had a maid and two footmen with me, Mama. That’s hardly coming alone.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Lady Bardwell’s gaze sharpened. “You were perfectly content at Ashmere three days ago. What has happened?”
Three days. It felt like a lifetime.
Three days ago, her mother had sought her out in the morning room and initiated that surprisingly genuine conversation about choosing battles and being happy. Three days ago, Theodore had walked beside her in the gardens while Mary introduced a toad to everyone. Three days ago, she’d believed they were building something real.
“Nothing’s happened.” Cressida removed her gloves, focusing on the pearl buttons to avoid her mother’s eyes. “I simply wished to visit.”
Her father emerged from his study, already frowning. “Cressida. This is unexpected.”
“Unexpected and irregular,” her mother added, her voice carrying that particular edge that meant an interrogation would follow. “You don’t simply leave your husband’s castle without an explanation, especially not days after we’ve just seen you perfectly settled.”
“I’m not required to explain my every movement.”
“You are when you arrive without your husband, looking like—” Her mother stopped, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been crying.”
“I haven’t.”
“Your eyes are red.”
“The road was dusty.”
“Cressida.” Her father’s voice carried a warning. “What is going on?”
Her parents arranged themselves with practiced synchronization, her mother pouring tea, her father settling into his chair with the expression of a man bracing for bad news.
“Well?” Her mother handed her a cup. “Are you going to tell us what’s happened, or must we guess?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“Don’t insult our intelligence.” Her father leaned forward. “Three days ago, you were perfectly content. Your mother and I spent three days at Ashmere. We had dinner together. We spoke. You seemed happy.”
Cressidahadbeen happy. That was the cruelest part.
“We had a disagreement,” she said carefully.
“A disagreement serious enough to send you fleeing to London?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of disagreement?”
“The private sort.”
“There’s no such thing as privacy in marriage.” Her mother set down her cup with a sharp click. “Especially not when your private disagreements affect this family’s standing. Do you know what Lady Pemberton said to me yesterday? She asked after the Duke in that particular tone, the one that suggests she knows something I don’t.”
“Indeed.” Her father nodded gravely. “Your marriage has opened considerable doors for this family, Cressida. Lord Thornbury’s railway investment, the invitation to Lady Hartwell’s card party, the Pembrokes’ sudden eagerness for our company. We cannot afford for you to jeopardize these connections with marital discord.”
