Page 41 of A Lady of Means (Roses and Rakes #1)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Devyn,

We were a good lie. The sweetest kind of lie all doomed lovers believe, until the bitter truth sinks its teeth in: all lovely things die. It’s the uglier things that are harder to kill.

But I can’t stop reliving our death. Bitter though it may be, I savor it.

The last fleeting hours before the funeral, holding a solo vigil for all we could and should and would have been.

How do I bury a love so young and beautiful?

All I have is the ashes of us, these letters an urn, my black crepe-shrouded heart your shrine.

I suppose now I am the lie. The smiling, dancing future duchess clutched with silent grief. At least here to you on these pages I can admit, I’ll carry every memory preserved like flies in amber, flowers pressed in a page until I die.

But they don’t get to know what’s in my heart if I can’t say it to you one last time.

I love you. It’s you that I love. It has always, ever, only been you. Only you could make me keep writing torturous prose in these letters for weeks on end with no reply.

M

* * *

Over three years ago, Marcus had made the whole ballroom go silent at a ball his mother was hosting.

“This is it,” she’d thought, squeezing her mother’s hand. “He’s going to announce our betrothal, or he’s going to propose.”

Instead, he’d toasted a business venture with Viscount Lynwood, Kathleen’s first husband, and several other noblemen that would turn out to be false. “To endless returns and smooth seas for The Thorne’s Blade!”

Moria had yawned, pretending that all the talk of shipping investments and a ship Marcus boasted about but she was pretty sure didn’t exist, bored her, giving her mother a pinched smile as she made her way to the ladies retiring room. It was there, that night, that she’d met Gretchen.

Now, she was looking at George Worthington, Duke of Andover, as he clinked a fork against a champagne glass, seeking his guests’ attention.

Their engagement had already made the rumor mills, the gossip sheets, even The London Times had printed a large column about her engagement.

She’d thought before that this would be a glittering culmination of all that she’d strived for.

Her first public appearance as the fiancé of a Duke was overshadowed by the dark specter of her lost love, her silent grief.

“My ladies and gentleman, I thank you for joining us for a fine evening celebrating what’s sure to be one of the best decisions I took far too long to make,” the Duke said, standing on the orchestra’s circular stage, to general amusement and smiles, a few laughs.

Noelle reached for Moria’s hand, Moria tipped back her champagne flute.

Fitz took Noelle’s hand instead to cover the snub.

Gretchen, on her other side, met Moria’s eyes, remembering their meeting, and stepped closer to her till their skirts brushed.

“Luckily enough, this particular lady is a very patient and forgiving woman, as well as beautiful,” the Duke reached his eyes and his hand toward her.

Moria had to cross several groups of people to reach him.

He took her gloved hand in his, squeezing it once.

Moria tried to tell if his emerald eyes were a little pinched or were they glassy?

Shouldn’t she know more about his face than the fact that it was handsome?

Anyone could know an incontrovertible truth like that simply from looking.

She blushed, ducking her head, like the praise was too much. Humble and dutiful, that was the part they all wanted her to play.

“So, I request your assistance in raising a glass, a toast to my future wife, the incomparable Lady Moria Pembrooke. To Lady Moria!”

Hundreds of glasses raised in unison, her name on their lips. Some contorted into a smile, others a thin line.

Hundreds of pairs of eyes on her, all looking at the diamond they thought they knew, in a bright pink dress, her gloved hand held in a Duke’s. None of them were the eyes she wanted to find, because they had closed for the last time, on some distant battlefield.

It felt like she’d come so far and fallen so short all in the same half-second.

George tipped her champagne flute with his, his eyes drinking her in like she was the champagne in his glass. When Moria drained her glass, he took it from her and handed it to a waiter.

“Moria Pembrooke,” George said, taking her hand and ushering her to the dancefloor where couples parted around them.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look,” he angled his head to the side like he needed a better angle to study her, “Like you’re either very happy or very nervous with all the praise.

” He let out a little boyish laugh. “Although, one would not usually associate you with the latter, would they?”

She gave him the small laugh he was aiming for. “For a moment, I wasn’t sure what you were about to say. I would have been very cross with you if you had stood up there to announce you bought a new racehorse or something.”

He tilted his head back on a laugh as he spun her in a turn of the dance, his legs brushing her skirts through layers of fabric.

“You stole my idea for an engagement gift, now I’ll have to resort to jewels then.”

“I suppose I shall have to shoulder the burden. I’ll put on a very brave face,” Moria said, lifting her chin. She was relying on humor in another situation she had been unprepared for.

His ducal hands braced her as she spun into his chest. He steadied her with a hand on her hip, his warm, champagne scented breath at her ear. “You don’t have to, not with me. I am beginning to think I like all your faces.”

When his other hand grazed her hip, she suddenly felt a jolt, a spark, a flicker of want. But for another man. Another man had conducted her hips in a way that she wasn’t sure any other man ever could, even this one who was built like a Greek god, if gods liked fencing and rowing.

When the dance ended, she was greeted by The Duke’s mother and sister.

Moria bowed deferentially to the two equally beautiful women, the younger with skin the same bronze shade as her brother’s, their mother’s more the rich color of tea before you put your milk and sugar in.

They both shared the Duke’s emerald eyes.

“My dear,” his mother said, taking Moria’s elbow. “You look radiant. George, you’ve taken her for a dance, let the young lady have a moment to breathe.”

Moria’s eyes filled with tears, she didn’t know why. Something about having a protective, motherly voice and warm, encouraging eyes looking out for her.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly feeling like she wanted to hug this woman and run from her at the same time. “Your Grace.”

“Oh, mother,” Lady Geneva said, towering over Moria and looking into her tear-flecked eyes, “I think she’s a little overcome.”

“It’s a good thing I’m here, my lady,” the Dowager said, a hand at Moria’s back. “You’ve had a very big night, yes?”

Moria nodded, meeting her eyes.

“My son told me that you lost your mother. Are you missing her tonight?”

Moria only gave her an answering smile in return, words felt so hard to form. She was missing so much more than just her mother.

The woman’s face betrayed no emotion, but her eyes were kind. “The retiring room, then. Eva?”

“I think I need to cast up my accounts! I must have had a bad shrimp or two,” Lady Geneva said in a loud voice, looking between her mother and Moria with a hand covering her mouth.

Moria had been on the receiving end of Lady Geneva’s cold shoulder in the past, but decided in that moment she liked this girl.

Surprisingly, she reminded her of Olivia.

Where Olivia was fair-haired and fair-complected, as well as petite, this girl was her mirror opposite, but matched her for spirit.

The two of them would be unrivaled co-conspirators.

Moria let Lady Geneva loop her arm through hers, following the Dowager Duchess to the Ladies’ retiring room, until she saw it. Red hair, a grim smile. Moria stopped in the hall just outside of the retiring room, pulling Lady Geneva with her.

Aware of precedent, Kate bowed to the Dowager first, then Lady Geneva, and Moria last with a mockingly short bow. A reminder, lest she forget, there were still others above her.

“Lady Moria, congratulations to you on your splendid match,” Kate Herring said, leaning to kiss Moria familiarly on both cheeks. Next to Moria’s ear, Kate whispered, “When you aim high, make sure you arm yourself.”

When Kate looked back to Moria, Moria realized that the other woman was returning her words from that day they’d run into each other at the modiste a few months prior.

Shit, Moria really had made it seem like she was encouraging the woman to seek a match with the Duke, when Moria had been in love with another man.

Had been? A voice mocked her somewhere in the general vicinity of her conscience.

When Kate departed company, the Dowager asked in a lowered tone, “Should I have left her off the guest list, my dear? My son assured me that the two of you were friends.”

Did he, just? Moria pondered.

“A lady of Lady Moria’s caliber and means, mama,” Lady Geneva supplied, “Must always keep her friends close and her more envious friends on a tight leash.”

If only Moria had listened.