Page 20 of Caught By the Ruthless Duke
“It’s the truth.”
Albeitpartially. But it was the truth, nonetheless.
“I’m sure it is,” she drawled.
Theodore absolutely detested how much he couldn’t get anything past her.
She paused, then announced, “She’s lovely.”
Theodore narrowed his eyes at her and declared, “She’s leaving.”
“Yes, I noticed.” Lady Seymore tilted her head. “I also noticed that she couldn’t look at you without blushing, and you couldn’t stop watching her even when pretending to read your paper.”
Theodore’s jaw clenched. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” His aunt’s expression softened slightly. “My dear boy, I haven’t seen you look at anyone like that since… well, in rather a long time.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Of course not.” Lady Seymore gathered her gloves. “Nothing at all.”
But as she swept toward the door, Theodore caught her satisfied smile and knew with sinking certainty that she had seen far too much.
“Mary, darling, must you cause such a spectacle?” Lady Bardwell’s voice cut through the parlor with its characteristic blend of maternal exasperation and studied disinterest.
She didn’t look up from her embroidery, her fingers working the needle with mechanical precision.
But Mary had already launched herself across the room, her arms wrapping around Cressida with a force that nearly knocked them both sideways. “You’re back! Oh, Cressida, I’ve missed you terribly!”
“Mary, honestly.” Their mother finally glanced up, her gaze landing on Cressida with the sort of casual dismissal usually reserved for servants who’d entered without permission. Then, her expression shifted, confusion flickering across carefully powdered features. “Cressida? What are you doing here?”
“She’s home, Mama!” Mary’s grip tightened on Cressida’s arm. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Home?” Lady Bardwell set aside her embroidery, her movements suddenly sharp. “You’re meant to be at Agatha’s. What possessed you to leave without?—”
Her words faltered as her eyes traveled from Cressida’s face down to the traveling dress that Mrs. Agnes had provided. A serviceable garment, certainly, but far too snug across the bodice and hips, and utterly lacking the fashionable embellishments that would mark it as belonging to a lady of quality.
“What onearthare you wearing?That dress is positively plain, and it doesn’t fit properly.”
Lord Bardwell lowered his newspaper with the air of a man presented with an unexpected and unwelcome puzzle. “Cressida? Good God, girl, what are you doing in London? Did Agatha send you back?”
“No, Papa.”
Silence ensued.
“No?” Her father’s face began to mottle. “You mean to tell me you’ve left your aunt’s house without permission? Without?—”
“George, lower your voice.” Lady Bardwell had risen, her complexion paling beneath her rouge. “The servants.”
But Mary was still clinging to Cressida’s arm, her young face creased with concern. “How long have you been traveling? You must be exhausted. When did you leave Aunt Agatha’s?”
Cressida sucked in a sharp breath as she prepared to answer that particular question. “Three days ago.”
“Three days?” Lord Bardwell stood abruptly, his newspaper crumpling in his grip. “It’s barely a day’s journey from your aunt’s estate! Where the devil have you been?”
The parlor door opened again, admitting Peter, who was adjusting his cravat with the self-absorbed concentration of a young man newly returned from university. He glanced toward the assembled family with mild curiosity, then froze when he spotted Cressida.
“Good Lord. The prodigal daughter returns.” His attempt at levity fell flat when he registered the tension in the room. “I say, what’s happened?”
