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If I were destined to be jilted, I’d look my best in the process. It was petty, especially since this situation was not entirely her fault, but imagining Miss Whitehall seeing me dressed like a goddess of the underworld offered a twinge of satisfaction I desperately needed.
Grandmama continued scanning me, her expression impossible to decipher. I straightened under her scrutiny, hoping I appeared less nervous than I was. Her gaze was watchful and sharp like a hawk’s. And I was done feeling like prey.
“How was your trip?” I asked sweetly. “It’s been a while since you’ve returned to India.”
She motioned with a gnarled hand to come closer, as if she hadn’t already inspected me within an inch of my life. Arthritis had plagued her for years and now seemed to pain her greatly. After each movement, I noticed a flash of a wince.
“You look as if you’ve been sent to chop onions as a punishment. Your eyes are too red.” She grabbed my collar, tugging me close enough to sniff dramatically. “You smell like lemon verbena. And sorrow.”
“I drank a cup of tea in my rooms,” I lied. “It scalded me.”
We stared at each other a moment, her brown eyes rich as mocha. I caught a whiff of the peppermint candies she was fond of sucking on, the scent bringing me straight back to my childhood. Looking into her lined, light brown face, it seemed a lifetime ago.
“How did you sleep?” Liza asked cheerfully, trying to shift the subject. I dared a glance around the room. Aunt Amelia had the social graces to stare into her cup of tea, pretending nothing was amiss and a wedding hadn’t been ruined and my grandmother wasn’t interrogating me. In this moment, I felt like hugging her. “Would you like me to make some of that herbal tea you like?”
“No, thank you.” I smiled wanly. “I’d like some gingerroot. My stomach is a bit queasy this morning.”
Liza’s gaze dropped to my stomach, as if she might locate the cause of my ailment through careful analysis. My suspicions regarding her herbal blend had been correct. I was heartbroken, not with child. Aunt Amelia clucked, swatting at her daughter’s hand. “How’s your mending coming along? I’d like to visit the orphanage this morning.”
“Honestly, Mother?” Liza asked, exasperated. “Are we going to carry on as if nothing upsetting happened yesterday? Audrey Rose needs our support.”
I poured myself some tea and added a scone from the sideboard to my plate, slathering it generously with clotted cream and raspberry preserves before joining them at the table. I wasn’t sure what it was about them, but sweets always seemed to go down easily, no matter how much one’s heart ached.
“Actually,” I said, between bites, garnering a swift look of reproach from both my aunt and my grandmother, “I’d much prefer to pretend nothing happened.” I glanced around the room, relieved it was only the four of us. “Where is everyone?”
I silently hoped Miss Whitehall had had a change of heart during the night and withdrawn her end of the betrothal. Perhaps Thomas, Daciana, and Ileana had been kind enough to send her and her trunks back to England. Alone.
“Your father had business to tend to; Jonathan is in the study—throwing books around if the noise is any indication.” My aunt pressed her lips together; clearly she disapproved of such antics. Father’s business was likely an excuse to be free from Grandmama’s scowl. She didn’t care for the Wadsworth side of the family, and not much had softened her over the years. Honestly, I never understood why she’d disliked my father. It certainly wasn’t because he was English. She’d married an Englishman herself, after all. “Thomas and his sister, as well as Ileana, left in a coach this morning. They only said they’d return this afternoon.”
I considered the odd combination of relief and disappointment I felt. It was maddening how I could experience both in equal measure. A treacherous thought elbowed its way into my mind. I wondered if they had gone to call upon Miss Whitehall. Then I wondered where she’d gone after the chaos she’d unleashed.
Truthfully, I hadn’t paid attention to anything other than remembering to breathe. I imagined like in most cases of trauma, once the initial shock wore off, I’d need to face plenty of unpleasant questions. A few snuck through the barriers I’d erected, bringing with them a sudden renewal of fear. Was Thomas trying to dissuade her from their betrothal? Or had he decided to do as his father bid? It felt as if the walls were sliding closer together. My head swam with worry.
I concentrated on breathing, though it did little to slow the rapid pounding of my pulse. I knew my family was pretending not to notice, and that only made me feel worse. If I could not act decently in front of them, I shuddered to think how I’d be around Thomas.
I pushed a piece of scone around the clotted cream.
“Stop frowning,” Grandmama scolded. “You won’t accomplish anything but wrinkles.”
My aunt harrumphed in agreement and I almost rolled my eyes. It was shaping up to be a tremendously long day and it wasn’t much past nine. Perhaps escaping upstairs to mend socks would be fun after all. I sipped my tea, focusing on the spicy flavor of ginger.
At least Grandmama managed to distract me from my growing internal hysteria. I could feel her probing stare and pretended not to notice. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years and—just as I know I haunted my father—I probably reminded her too much of my mother. The older I got, the more I bore a striking resemblance to her.
“Who is this boy who’s betrothed to another?” she finally asked.
I set my cup down, the porcelain clinking in the sudden quiet. “His name is Thomas Cresswell,” I said primly. It was best to answer with as little detail as possible.
Grandmama struck her fork against the teapot, the clanging loud enough that my aunt jolted in her seat. “I asked who he is, not what his name is. Do not toy with me, girl.”
I followed her gaze as it landed on my cane. Without really thinking of the symbolism, I’d grabbed the dragon’s-head knob today. I flicked my attention up to hers. Grandmama truly missed nothing. Thomas had some competition in the deduction area. I couldn’t decide if it would be interesting or downright terrifying when they finally interacted.
I looked at my aunt and cousin, both of whom were politely sipping from their cups, appearing to have intensely taken up the art of tea-leaf reading. Though I knew they were listening with keen interest. Thomas’s lineage was his story to tell. He’d been careful with what people in London knew, and I didn’t wish to be the one who divulged his secret. I still had much to learn about his family. My aunt meant no malice, but she enjoyed chatting with acquaintances over tea. I did not want her to inadvertently make Thomas the center of more gossip.
“Well?” Grandmama pressed. “Will you tell me who he is before I go to my grave?”
“He’s the son of a duke.”
Her eyes narrowed. Though she’d fallen in love with an Engli
