Page 11 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
The clandestine meeting took place in the blue parlour.
Lady Blanche Ipswich, known for her impeccable reputation and social standing, now finds herself teetering on the precipice of scandal.
Lady Wickford’s voice, shrill and cutting, pierced through the air. "Blanche Ipswich, explain yourself! What in the name of decency is this abominable scandal?"
Her mother's eyes bore into Blanche's, demanding answers that seemed impossible to provide.
“I… I cannot account for it,” she managed to say, her voice a whisper beneath the weight of mortification.
“You cannot account for it?” Isabella’s tone rose sharply. “You left a public assemblyalone, Blanche! Without so much as another lady to attend you! What possible excuse have you for such shocking impropriety?”
Blanche's thoughts scrambled, sifting through the haze of the night before — the sudden search for smelling salts, the confusion, the ill-timed encounter in the parlour... and now this. She had only meant to help.
“I was looking for what you requested — the salts,” she said, voice trembling. “You were unwell, and I… I acted in haste. I did not think—”
“No,” Isabella snapped, her fan snapping shut like a verdict. “You did not think. Not to ask Miss Penelope to accompany you? Not to pause long enough to remember even the simplest rules of decorum? And now see what has become of it — your namedragged through the mud before half of London can even finish breakfast!”
Blanche felt her composure begin to crack beneath the force of her mother’s scorn. The accusations bit deep, and though she knew she had acted from concern, the misstep now loomed large.
“I only meant to return quickly,” she murmured. “I did not know anyone would follow… or that the Duke would—” She stopped herself. There was no use explaining what could not be undone.
Isabella turned away with a sharp exhale, her fingers tight around the crumpled paper in her hand.
Blanche stood in the silence that followed, her face burning. She had made a mistake — a small one, in her mind — but in the eyes of society, and more damningly, in her mother’s, it had become a catastrophic fall from grace.
Lady Wickford threw up her hands disparagingly, her eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and disappointment. "You have been recklessly foolish, Blanche! Your previously respectable reputation is now in tatters because of this apparent impropriety."
The words landed like heavy blows, each one chipping away at the fragile facade of Blanche's social standing. "I do not know what it is that we can do from here. This is truly a disaster."
"I did not know the Duke would also come into the room…"
"And yet, once he did enter, you did not have the sense to remove yourself immediately. This story makes it seem like you remained in that room with the Duke for far too long, which is what I cannot wrap my head around. I have never known you to be quite so foolish."
Blanche clasped her lips together in shock.
That was true; she had not run, but she had not wanted to.
Something she now truly regretted.
The scathing beratement continued as the viscountess, with a mix of disdain and theatrical lamentation, berated her daughter. "What possessed you not to be more cautious? Allowing yourself to become trapped alone in a room with a gentleman, and a duke, no less! Have you no sense of the consequences of your actions? Can you not see how much damage this has caused? I do not think we will be able to recover from this."
Blanche, feeling as if her world were crumbling around her, tried to defend herself some more, even if it was useless. She wanted her mother to believe her, even if the rest of the world did not.
"Mother, it was not intentional. I genuinely thought you were unwell. I had no reason to suspect such a scandal would ensue. I had no idea another person would arrive in that room, and we merely began speaking of the artefacts. My necklace… the Duke noticed my pendant, and everything seemed to happen from there. I did not instigate anything. I would never—"
The viscountess, however, would hear none of it. Her voice, sharp and unforgiving, cut through Blanche's feeble attempts at explanation. "No matter how innocently it began on your part, the damage is utterly done. Word of your indiscretion is spreading like wildfire, tarnishing your name and our family's standing. Do you comprehend the gravity of your thoughtless actions?”
She exhaled sharply, her anger barely restrained.
"And to think this all began over those wretched artefacts. How many times have I warned you, Blanche? You must never waste time indulging in such nonsense—never. And last night, I gave you one simple instruction: to remain silent. Yet you could not help yourself, and now—now, we find ourselves in ruin."
The gravity of Mother’s words settled heavily on Blanche's shoulders. The tendrils of gossip, fueled by sensationalism andhalf-truths, had woven a tapestry of scandal around her. The breakfast table, once a symbol of familial unity, now served as the stage for a mother's stern rebuke and the crushing reality that Blanche's reputation, painstakingly built over the years, lay in ruins. As the weight of societal judgment bore down upon her, Blanche could not help but wonder if the damage inflicted upon her name could ever be mended.
What on earth am I to do now?
Is there any way out of this?
It was unlikely that her mother would ever trust her again.
