Page 32 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
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“Would it have killed ourMadameto have given us a surname? An initial? Really, she is overly zealous with every detail except that which matters?”
Violet was pacing the length of the drawing-room, shaking her head and muttering, “This cannot be, this simply cannot be!” until the words had lost all meaning. Her red gown followed after her, and the sound of it dragging along the carpet was doing little to soothe Edna’s nerves.
“It does not matter whose family she belongs to,” Edna mumbled from where she was sitting in the darkest corner she had found. “It does not matter who she is at all. What good will it do us to know who the Marquess favors over me? It does not erase his shame.”Or his betrayal.
She had not expected total transparency from Albert. She had not expected anything at all. But to have gone against his word so brazenly as to be picked up by a rumor mill, as to be published by the leading scandal sheet author in all of London… To have done so after his second kiss, after he had wormed his way into her affections with his games and his rowing and all his charm. It was quite cruel, truly, and it hurt her more than she could say.
“It does matter,” Violet said, and her lips were pressed so tightly together that all color had washed from them. “It matters because if we can deduce who has captured his attention, we can squash her. Squashit.”
“It, meaning his infidelity?” Edna confirmed, and the word made her tongue numb. She was walking the line between artifice and real hurt, and the two were bleeding together and making everything so much worse. She toyed with a stray ringlet as Violet proceeded with her tirade.
“Do not use that word,” Violet said, rushing over to her and seizing Edna by the shoulders. “Do not breathe life to it and debase yourself. He is a scoundrel if this is true. He was lucky to win you over in the first place. If there is any decency left in him, he will call this all off.”
Edna’s breath hitched, and her corset felt suddenly too tight. “No!” she cried despite herself. She could not bear the thought of them ending their agreement so early, not while the Duke was still on the prowl and ready to snap her in his maw—not while she was so surprisinglyheartbroken. “I…love him still,” she stammered a lie. “I do not care one bit for his betrayal. We do not know that it is even real.”
Violet stepped back, her hand pressed over her bosom in shock. “There will be other men—”
“Not for me!” Edna was on her feet suddenly, giving what felt like the performance of a lifetime. But somehow, it did not feel like a piece of theatre at all. “Albert is kind and brave and heroic. He has been my knight in shining armor. If there is any truth to this at all, I have no doubt it has been blown so far out of proportion as to be…as to be…” She sighed. “Pantomime.”
Her godmother’s eyes were wide with frenzied care. “Edna,” she cooed. “Edna, think rationally.”
And so, Edna thought rationally, for the first time since she and Albert had hitched their mad plan. Itwasa mad plan, and it would all end in tears. She began crying. “This has all been a mistake.”
Violet drew her in close, and her perfume was so strong it all but dazed Edna for a moment. And then she was back, and ithurt.To be trapped between a rock and a hard place—and infidel and infidel’s son. She had been right: they were as bad as each other.
Fool me once, she chastised herself inwardly, shame on you. Fool me twice…
“Shame on me,” she wept. “Shame on me for ever believing in him.”
* * *
The next morning, Albert rode with as much power as he could muster. His mare thundered down Curzon Street past Green and St James. Round he went, not thinking anything beyond Edna as he had all night long.
In what felt like the blink of an eye, he arrived before the Worthington homestead. He hopped down from his horse and barreled toward the door. It was open before he could knock, and their proud butler was standing to attention.
“The Marquess of Remington,” he greeted between clapping bursts of breath. “I must see Miss Worthington in all haste.”
The butler parted his lips to speak, his eyes dancing with disapproval, but before he could eventhinkto turn Albert away, Violet shimmied past him. “Turn away, My Lord. Miss Worthington is out of your reach, now.”
Albert hung his head, feeling suddenly quite sick. “I need,” he said, still panting, “to speak with her. To explain.”
Violet scoffed, whipping out her fan fromGodonly knew where. It was dark and matched her dress—an outfit close to half-mourning. Mourning what exactly, Albert did not know.
“Madame Murmurington has explained all you could not. We shall not accept your call, and I should ask that you do not bother us again for some time.”
Albert let out an audible groan. “Lady Rees,” he called as she turned from him, and a name had never sounded quite so pleading. Like a lifeline. “You may think me largely capable, andculpable,of betraying Miss Worthington’s trust. You may think that because I am my father’s son. But your thoughts are not true. I am not that man. I would never lucidly do her harm. I swear it to you as I will swear it to her if you simply…” His face contorted for his begging. “Give me a chance.”
Lady Rees looked away over his head to the park. Albert could not fathom what she found in that space, but she dropped her fan and softened. Wordlessly, she turned around, and Albert trailed after her.
She led him into the drawing-room where his uncle sat wringing his hands together.
“Uncle?!” Albert gasped. “What—”
“I thought you might come here and would need me in your corner.” He flashed red as he looked at Violet, quite the schoolboy. “I have told Vio—Lady Rees that these sheets are simply wrong.”
“They are,” Albert interjected, his feet crunching nervously on the carpet. “They are absolute fabrications—trite of the highest degree.”
