Page 93 of Caught By the Ruthless Duke
“Why not?”
“Because I’m married. Because running away doesn’t solve anything. Because eventually, I’ll have to face him again, and I’d rather do it on my own terms.”
Mary nodded, though her expression remained troubled. “Promise you’ll tell me if it gets worse? If he—if anything happens that you need help with?”
“I promise.” Cressida pulled her sister into a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of rosewater and youth. “You’re a good sister, Mary. The best.”
“I know.” Mary hugged her back fiercely. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
They pulled apart, and Mary stood, smoothing her skirts with the same practiced gesture their mother used.
Growing up too fast, Cressida thought. Learning their mother’s mannerisms, their father’s dismissals. Becoming the daughter this family wanted, because she had failed at it so thoroughly.
“Peter’s expected home next week,” Mary informed her. “He’ll want to see you. Probably bore you senseless with stories about Cambridge and his brilliant academic achievements.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Liar.” Mary grinned. “I’ll tell Mama you’re resting. She’ll understand. Or pretend to, anyway.”
She left, and Cressida found herself alone.
The room felt strange—familiar and foreign at once. Her childhood books still lined the shelves. Her writing desk sat beneath the window, ink-stained from letters to Harriet. The wardrobe held outgrown gowns, styles marking her as the girl she’d been before Aunt Agatha, before scandal, before Theodore.
Before she’d learned that love wasn’t enough if the other person couldn’t accept it.
She moved to the window, pressing her palm against cool glass. London spread below in all its sooty magnificence, buildings crowded together, streets busy even at this hour.
Somewhere out there, society ladies were gossiping over tea. Gentlemen were conducting business in their clubs. Debutantes were preparing for the Season. The world continued turning, utterly indifferent to her heartbreak.
At Ashmere, Theodore was probably in his study, working through estate accounts with that focused intensity he brought to everything except their marriage. Or perhaps he was in the portrait gallery, staring at Charles’s uncovered face, drowning in guilt that had never been his to carry. Maybe he’d gone to London to drink with Lord Whitebrook and pretend nothing had changed.
She wondered if he missed her.
She wondered if he’d even noticed she was gone.
She wondered if, somewhere in that great cold castle, he was thinking of her.
The knock came softly. “Cressida?”
Not Mary’s voice. It was lighter, more tentative.
“Come in.”
A maid entered—Betsy, she thought, though she’d been gone so long she wasn’t entirely certain.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but a letter has arrived for you. A messenger brought it just now.”
Her heart lurched stupidly. “A letter?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Betsy held out the sealed letter, before curtseying and retreating.
Cressida turned it over. The seal was unfamiliar, not Theodore’s crest. The handwriting, though, she’d recognize anywhere.
Harriet.
She broke the seal, unfolding pages covered in her friend’s neat script.
Dearest Cressida,
