Page 39 of A Lady of Means (Roses and Rakes #1)

Chapter Thirty

All of polite society uttered one word following the announcement of the betrothal of His Grace the Duke of A to Lady M, all for different reasons: Finally.

- Scandalous Lives of London scandal sheet

* * *

Once, when Moria was very small, she’d followed her brothers out to the lake to skate on the ice.

Jasper, ever the leader of the family, had tried to caution her about patches of thin ice.

She hadn’t listened, she’d thought that she knew better.

She’d been skating in a circle when the ice had cracked around her.

Lawrence had been close enough, fast enough to get to her before she was submerged.

But her clothes had been soaked through.

Had she also been skating around thin ice these past few months, ignoring the signs until, tonight, she’d been submerged?

The evening’s events were holding her under.

A hammer was striking an anvil in her head that she felt everywhere.

Her lips and fingers and extremities trembled.

Hands enveloped her, grasped her and carried her up flights of stairs, pushed her hair back from her face.

A warm cloth was laid on her temple. Someone was speaking gently and softly to her as they undressed her from her gown and helped her bathe.

The same voice was feminine and kind, dismissing the servants.

As she was helped in the tub, even the warm water didn’t slow the cold seeping past her bones into her blood. Rosemary and lavender soap filled her nostrils and replaced the smell of fear.

“Here. For your nerves,” her sister’s voice cut through, wrapping her hand around a wine glass.

Moria drank, letting the bittersweet tang of a cabernet soothe the clamor inside of her. She peaked her toes out of the bubbles, stretching her body against the cold spreading through her. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the tub until she was warm again.

She was helped out of the tub, the softest robe she’d ever felt draped around her and those hands again- wringing the water from her hair. Dressing her. Applying lotion to her skin and chapped lips.

What had happened? Why did she feel this hollow? Would she ever feel warm again?

When she laid in her bed, she turned to lay on her side, curled up in a great ball like a cat. A soft, warm body lay behind her and wrapped an arm around her that smelled like citrus. A strand of red hair fell on her shoulder. This time, it wasn’t her mother, it was Kathleen in her place.

Moria had fallen through ice of a different kind than when she was eight.

How did she get here?

“He’s gone,” her voice broke on the words. Were they statement or question?

You’ll possess me in body and soul until I’m nothing but dust and bones.

Her sister’s hands drew circles on her back. “I’m afraid so,” her voice broke too.

Salt streamed out of Moria’s eyes, into her ears, and onto her pillow. For once, she didn’t immediately try to wipe them up, they kept flowing. It wasn’t just sadness she felt, it wasn’t numbness anymore, it was anger.

How was he gone? Why did the ones she love go where she couldn’t follow? Why did everyone always leave her? Was loving her some sort of punishment that deserved a death sentence?

How could anyone let something like death keep them away from a face like yours?

When she laid a hand beneath her cheek, she felt the press of her betrothal ring against her skin. She pulled her hand back to look at the Duke’s ring, the glint of a diamond bringing back the night’s events and the decision she’d made.

There was anger with nowhere to go but heat her bones. She felt the layers of ice inside of her thaw. A cool resignation settled upon her as she drew the counterpane further around her: The man she loved was gone and she was to be a duchess, the wife of another man.

* * *

“Your friends have been asking after you.”

It was Noelle’s voice above her, the sounds of morning around it.

“Which friends?” Moria pulled her blankets higher, the plush counterpane blocking out the sunlight. How many days had passed her in her grief?

“Lady Carina and Gretchen brought a gift for you.”

Moria pulled back the covers to see Noelle holding out a pink box, a miniature pink wedding cake inside decorated with little flowers, one large bite missing. Fitz didn’t meet her eyes, shrugging unapologetically under Noelle’s glare.

“And the redhead,” he added. “Miss Herring called as well. There’s something about her that feels a little…off.”

He handed her a message from Kate, one that she immediately balled up and threw into the wastebasket under the window without a second thought. She didn’t care what Kate thought of her actions. Couldn’t.

“And the Duke came to call,” her sister laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Henry and Fitz and Jasper told him that you caught a chill from being on the balcony with him at the ball two nights ago.”

Moria caught the hint in her sister’s words. So it had been two whole days.

“What did George say?” Moria sat up a little against the silken pillows behind her.

“That he’d like to see his fiancé for himself,” Fitz answered.

“Jasper told him you were still resting. That when you roused, we would send for him.”

Moria curled her legs beneath her. “Thank you. I’m sorry I just can’t face him right now.”

Fitz plopped down beside her, fully dressed, resting his head on his arm behind him.

“Oh, my dear girl, anyone who wants to survive in this family has to be well-versed in Greek drama.”

Moria wanted to cry, and she wanted to laugh at the same time.

She burrowed her weight into her brother-in-law, her childhood friend.

Fitz kept one hand in Noelle’s and wrapped his other arm around Moria before she crumpled.

Moria sobbed into the lapels of his jacket.

Noelle was on the other side of her now, soothing trails down her back.

Moria pulled away. “I’ll ruin your coat.”

“It’s alright. Your sister hates this coat. She’ll be thrilled. You were just saying this morning how hideous it was, right, princess?” He looked to his wife, who nodded as she wiped her eyes.

“I guess I should have seen it coming, you all said I’d be a duchess one day. Suppose it was meant to be this way.”

Noelle laid her head on Moria’s pillow, still holding her hand. “You don’t have to be resigned about it. You’re allowed to be upset, disappointed, angry, sad, even.”

“What would be the point in that? It isn’t going to change anything,” Moria said, staring at the pink cherubs in the Rococo style painting on her ceiling.

Noelle tugged on her hand, forcing her to meet her eyes. “It won’t. But admitting how you feel, sitting with it, not pushing it away, it keeps the grief from choking the life out of you.”

Moria curled her head in her sister’s lap and tried not to think of him until she fell asleep again.