Page 12 of Courting the Wrong Duke

Her mother's face crumpled.

The sight struck her harder than she'd expected. Since Papa disappeared, her mother seemed to age a little each day. There were shadows beneath her eyes that no amount of powder could disguise.

“They are saying he ran away with another woman.”

Her mother turned away. “Enough.”

“No.” Rosalind's own temper finally broke through the grief. “It is not enough. He did not leave us.”

“We do not know that.”

“Yes, we do.” Her voice echoed against the marble floor. “I know him.”

“And I knew my husband.”

The quiet certainty in her mother's voice stole the breath from Rosalind's lungs.

She had expected anger. She had not expected doubt.

She looked back at her daughter, tears shining in her eyes. “But every day he stays gone…”

She couldn't finish the sentence. Neither of them could.

The silence between mother and daughter felt wider than the entrance hall itself.

Somewhere deeper in the house, a door closed softly. The familiar sound only made the silence between them feel larger.

Finally her mother drew a slow, unsteady breath. “You are twenty-three. The Season is nearly over.”

“Mama…”

“If this scandal continues, no respectable gentleman will come near you.”

“I do not care.”

“You must.”

“I care about finding Papa.”

“And I care about preserving what remains of this family.”

For one terrible moment, Rosalind wondered whether those had become two different things.

Her mother turned away first. “I cannot do this again.”

“Mama—”

“No.” She lifted one trembling hand. “I have spent every waking moment these last ten days answering questions, receiving callers, pretending to believe that everything will be well.”

She laughed softly, though there was no amusement in the sound.

“I scarcely know whether I am trying to convince them or myself.”

Rosalind's anger faltered.

She had never seen her mother look so diminished. She had watched her mother weather disappointing Seasons, illness, and family funerals with quiet dignity.

None of them had changed her like this. The woman standing before her no longer looked like the composed Countess of Eastmere. She looked like a wife slowly being hollowed out by waiting.