The hour was late. In more ways than one.
As she smoothed out the coverlet, the sparkling light patterns transferred to the back of her hand, brightening her fat, golden wedding band.
Harbury’s band.
She pushed her fingers back beneath the sheets, aching with a deep, visceral longing for her twin, Eliza. Until a few weeks ago, they’d spent every night of their twenty years sharing a bed. Waking alone was still disorienting. Waking alone after having been intimately invaded…
She swallowed roughly.
Harbury’s phantom touch lingered on her skin, inside and out, in visible and invisible places. In fact, a faint twinge of pain was still present in a place she’d never experienced sensation before. Averyprivate place. With a mew of distress, she scooched back up against the headboard, drawing in and holding her legs with one arm while cupping her forehead with her other.
Last night, between the single, distant gong just after Harbury’s departure, to the four she’d counted just before weariness won thebattle with her anger, she’d existed in an unwilling wakefulness, a seemingly endless, liminal void. Since intentionally going out of her mind was not an option—at least not a viable one—she had resolved to make peace with her situation.
To aid her resolution, she’d counted the times Harbury had seen to her comfort during their courtship, even though their courtship was supposed to have been a ruse. She summoned, in detail, the memory of the cool drink he’d brought back to his dark, hot opera box during their first outing together. She relived the moment at the Harbury ball when he’d shielded Eliza from further scandal with a loud, terrible, but effectively distracting jest…a scandal Cassie had unintentionally created.
She further recalled the pained look of self-disgust he’d had as he confessed his long-standing, unrequited attachment to Vivianne, Lady Pennington. That day, he’d transformed in her eyes, from an arrogant duke into a flawed but sympathetic human.
Confiding in her had not been necessary, but he had. And so, at the very least, he deserved her trust. Finally, she came back around to the one, simple, fact she could not deny—she’dbeen the one to propose marriage. A marriage of convenience, she’d called it.
She pursed her lips.
How naive her use of the phrase seemed now.
Conveniencehad nothing to do with the Pandora’s Box Harbury had unleashed in her last night. Skin against skin. Warm breath comingled. A private world’s creation. A world known only to themselves. The experience had left her more vulnerable than she’d anticipated. And permanently altered.
Some small part of her had expected the transformation from wallflower to duchess to end in happy, settled satisfaction, like the resolution of a good novel. But she should have known better. The meat of any story was struggle. Metamorphosis can never be experienced without pain, without bafflement, confusion…and, yes, a touch ofpanic.
And wasn’t the struggle to break free of the cocoon what brings animation to a caterpillar’s new wings? Somehow, she had to force her way through her profound distress.
She must come out stronger.
She mightfeellike her life was at stake, but no one had ever died from what was essentially embarrassment. Nor had anyone, to her knowledge, expired from anger.
So, nothing was to be done but to persevere. She was mistress of Harbury Hall, a place far removed from anything having to do with Vivianne, Lady Pennington.
With renewed determination, she rang for her new maid. Sally appeared almost immediately.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” She came to stand at the foot of the bed. “His Grace suggested you might wish to take breakfast here in your room. Would you like me to go down and make you a plate?”
Already arranging her life, was he? Didn’t the law give him enough power over her?
Despite her intentions, her anger sparked anew.
If he thought he could manage her day without her input, she would quickly disabuse him of the notion.
“No, thank you.”
In truth, shehadplanned to request breakfast in her room.
Moreover, she’d intended to avoid her husband until she mastered schooling her features into appropriate ducal (duchessal?) composure. Her pique, however, caused an abrupt change of heart.
She tossed aside the coverlet and rose to her feet. A beam of light landed on a bright, red stain just to the right of the place she had slept. She inhaled sharply as heat flared up her neck. Sally’s blush was equally dark.
They both turned their backs to the bed.
With forced dignity, Cassie managed, “My yellow morning dress,if you please.”
If she couldn’t feel bright and cheery, at least she could look the part.
