Page 78 of Unmasking a Wicked Marquess
She waited a beat, then shook her head, fearing the guilt that would soon arrive.
“I know you like him,” she whispered. “I know he is your heir. You probably thought it apt indeed the idea of me marrying Arthur and someday becoming mistress of this house.”
“That pains me.” Robert grimaced and released her, sitting back in his chair. “Not only to hear I am so transparent but when such thoughts are repeated back to me, how … pointless they seem.” He shook his head. “You could be happy as mistress of any house, Juliet. It is not the building that makes one happy but the souls within it. And plainly, Arthur is not that soul you seek, is he?”
“No,” she whispered again. Tears pricked her eyes once more, but she forced them away. She had cried so much over Edward, over missing him, still loving him, and the prospect of marrying Arthur that she was shocked any tears were left in her body. She thrust away the sensation and turned to her note. “I … I don’t think I can marry him.”
“I know.” Robert leaned forward and rested a hand upon her arm. “Then you write a note to him and explain. I shall deliver it, and I can explain, too, why I only want to give my daughter to someone who will truly make her happy. I’ll make him understand,” he assured her, his voice soft. “Leave it to me.”
“Thank you.” She wrote a note, hurriedly now, struggling to explain herself, but with her father beside her, he took away the pressure of needing to explain fully. She finished the note in haste and sealed it with wax, then handed it to her father.
Robert stood then bent towards her, kissing her on the forehead softly.
“I just want you to be happy, Juliet. That is all.”
“Thank you.”
They shared a sorry smile before he left the room with the door open behind him. As he parted, Juliet turned to look out of the window of her bedchamber. She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, but it was not enough. The pain was still there, cracking her heart into pieces.
“Edward,” she murmured his name aloud.
Chapter 25
“My Lady? Lady Clarence?”
Cecily lifted her head from where she was pruning the garden shrubs. It was a task that the gardener should have done, but she had such fondness for doing it herself she quite insisted.
“Lady Clarence!” a familiar voice cried again.
Placing her shears in her basket, Cecily stood and removed her gardening gloves, stunned to see that Juliet’s maid, Meg, was running towards her. She tottered on her feet, running in haste and looking quite ready to fall into the flower bushes she passed.
Cecily smiled a little.
At least here is some distraction.
All morning, she had not stopped thinking of Juliet and, of course, of her conversation with Amelia too. She was so grateful that Amelia had met her in the park, and in their conversation, they had both discovered that they shared a suspicion – that there was some sort of attachment between Lord Ashton and Juliet. Maybe the pair of them had taken pains to cover it up, but both Cecily and Amelia were quite convinced something was there.
The two had parted on good terms, agreeing to offer support for their children if they decided they wished to be together and brave the disapproval of their husbands. All morning, as she worked in the garden, Cecily had been debating how to go about this, and here Meg had come to disturb her thoughts, and she was grateful for the change.
“What’s wrong?” Cecily asked, turning towards the flustered maid. Pink-cheeked, she tossed back her hair that was falling out of her updo.
“She said his name. Oh, she sits in her chamber and murmurs his name. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see another young heartbroken so.”
“Meg, I do not understand you.” She took hold of the maid’s hand and drew her to a stone bench nearby, urging her to sit down. “Come, calm yourself now, and tell me everything that is upsetting you.”
“It is the Lady Juliet. She is lovelorn, My Lady. Lovesick. However you wish to declare it.” Meg grimaced in great pain, then blinked madly, clearly holding back tears. “I know the feeling. I … I had the feeling once.” She clutched a hand to her breast. “Nineteen years ago. The man I thought I was to marry, the groom at the Duke of Lantham’s stable, ran away, after he … we …”
Cecily didn’t need to hear more on that subject. Just her expression and those few choice words were enough to hint to Cecily that perhaps Meg and this groom of whom she had spoken had indulged in something that would make her believe they were to marry.
“Wait, the groom at the Duke of Lantham’s stable? You were to marry him?” Cecily asked, leaning forward in surprise. “Which one?”
“The one who spoke to your husband that day. That fateful day where everything changed.” She held a hand to her lips, stifling a cry that threatened to escape her.
“Breathe, take your time,” Cecily urged, not letting go of the maid’s other hand.
“His name … was Wally Matthews,” she murmured between stuttered breaths. “The Duke of Lantham had fired him a few days before that horrible day at Ascot. The duke told him he did not take care of the animals enough, and Wally … oh, My Lady, he was so furious. He vowed revenge on his master, and … and … I only found out later how it occurred.”
Cecily felt a darkness swaying in her chest. She felt she knew what poor Meg was going to say before the words could even come.
