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CHAPTER SEVEN

T he weather had decided to sympathize with Teresa, a gray, drizzly morning dawning on the wedding day that she had never asked for, yet had accepted as her fate.

In the week since the proposal, such as it was, she had gone back and forth on her decision until her head swam and her stomach had twisted into knots.

Not that she could change anything. Cyrus had written to inform Vincent that a special license had been acquired, naming the church where the wedding was to take place: a church Teresa did not know, and certainly was not the one she had attended every Sunday since she was a child.

What was worse, Beatrice would not be there. Vincent had forbidden it, still holding her somewhat responsible for this turn of events, though she was entirely innocent.

“How about that?” her lady’s maid, Holly, asked with a sad smile. She had just put two small, white roses into Teresa’s braided bun.

Teresa forced a smile in return. “It is lovely, Holly.”

“I have yellow roses, if you’d prefer?” Holly said. “They might complement your dress better.”

“I do not think it matters much,” Teresa replied, catching sight of her sisters in the reflection of the vanity’s mirror.

They stood off to one side, by the bedchamber window, deep in whispered discussion.

Both were already dressed for the occasion, and Teresa watched their animated expressions, struggling to read their lips as they spoke.

Whatever they were saying, it was not good.

Indeed, Prudence looked close to tears, and Teresa could not remember the last time she had seen her younger sister cry.

Nor could she recall a time when anything had scared Prudence, yet fear was etched upon her round, doll-like face.

“My ears are burning,” Teresa said in a falsely cheery voice. “What are you two babbling about over there?”

The sisters—the oldest and the youngest—turned together, mirrored in their unease, both of them looking as tired as Teresa felt.

“I was just telling Pru that Edmund has recently purchased a small residence by the sea,” Isolde said, her words stilted. “I thought, perhaps, you might make use of it.”

Teresa frowned. “For a honeymoon?”

“Um… no, not quite,” Isolde replied. “We… well, we are not certain you should proceed with this. You could live by the sea, and Edmund and I would protect you, and you know what society is like—all of this will be forgotten in a couple of years, and I am certain Edmund and his friends will be able to find someone nice for you to wed, once everything has died down.”

Prudence nodded, fidgeting with the cuff of her long-sleeved dress.

“He is the wrong kind of mysterious, Tessie. If I must give up my own debut into society so that you can be spared, I will do so gladly. Heavens, I will come and live by the sea with you, and we can be merry spinsters together.” Her throat bobbed.

“I would not mind that one bit, as long as you are safe.”

Their palpable fear vibrated through the air, thrumming between Teresa’s ribs to judder against her heart and squeeze her lungs into a suffocating tightness.

All week, she had been coming up with plans of escape, from the simple to the outlandish, but each one crumbled into the same conclusion: she would be dragged back and made to marry him, or jilting him would turn her situation from terrible to catastrophic.

“No one seems to know much about him, so it is impossible to know if he is the ‘wrong’ kind of mysterious,” Teresa insisted, mustering her courage. “He did not have to propose marriage to me, but he did. That ought to say something about his character.”

And he allowed me to speak. He would not let Vincent answer for me. She held onto that kind gesture, for though there had been no warmth in Cyrus’ face or manner, there had been generosity there.

Isolde chewed her lower lip, shaking her head. “I asked Edmund to see what he could discover. He spoke to Duncan and Lionel; he had them investigate too, but nothing could be found out about him. A man who has left no apparent mark on the world is… strange, and I do not like it.”

“One could argue that I have not left much of a mark on the world,” Teresa countered. “Being removed from society is not such a grave concern.”

Prudence folded her arms across her chest, tilting her chin up defiantly.

“Well, I heard Vincent telling the butler that your future husband is dangerous, that he was accused of some crimes when he was younger and disappeared from public knowledge shortly afterward. He has not been seen in society since, not until that masquerade. I do not care for the coincidence, Tessie.”

“Crimes?” Isolde gasped. “You did not mention that before!”

“I should not have been eavesdropping,” Prudence replied with a shrug. “And I suppose I hoped that you would have come to your senses by now, Tessie, and asked us to get you out of here.”

Teresa sat rigid on the vanity chair, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her skull, her stomach churning so violently that she was glad she had had no appetite for breakfast. No one had said anything about crimes or Cyrus being truly dangerous.

Even Vincent had admitted, in the end, that the stories about Cyrus were not worth repeating because they had come through the whispers of society’s worst gossipmongers. So, why had he said one thing to the butler and another thing to Teresa?

“I will not spread rumor,” Vincent had told her, when she had begged to be informed of the mysterious stories.

“There is no evidence to suggest the tales are true, and I suspect they are the desperate conjurations of bored ladies who hate those who shun the very society they thrive within. All I know of the Duke of Darnley is that he did the honorable thing and… he is something of a recluse.”

“Are you making this up?” Teresa asked Prudence.

The youngest sister pulled a face. “Of course not! I would not do such a thing. Well, perhaps I would, but I swear I am not. It is what I heard; I promise.”

“Tessie, that does it,” Isolde said firmly, approaching the vanity.

“I have seen the gentleman. I already thought him intimidating, but now that I am hearing this, I must insist on you changing your mind and leaving before this wedding. He could cause you very real harm, Tessie. If he truly is dangerous, you cannot marry him and go to his residence with him, where we cannot protect you.”

Closing her eyes, Teresa drew in a slow breath, holding it in her tight lungs for ten seconds, before exhaling just as slowly. As she did so, she tapped her fingertips against her knee, focusing on the rhythm, letting it calm her.

Perhaps Vincent said that to the butler before he knew better, she told herself, switching knee.

Opening her eyes, she looked at her beloved sisters.

“I do not believe the Duke is violent. Where no one else seems to have any evidence of his past or his character, I do.” She paused, steadying herself.

“He could have inflicted harm upon me when I caused this scandal, but he did not. He did not so much as push me. And though he intimidated our brother, he was… a gentleman to me.”

Indeed, the only thing he wounded was my pride. She thought of the list, and how casually he had dismissed her name without knowing a single thing about her.

“He is, perhaps, infuriating,” she added, “but infuriating does not mean dangerous. Besides, if he is a recluse who loathes society events, then I cannot think of a better match. Maybe, that shared perspective might blossom into something more when we are married: two hermits falling in love in the peace and quiet of their marital home.”

She surprised herself, raising her eyebrows. Actually, that sounds rather romantic…

Indeed, she wondered if there was some secret benefit to having lived most of her life in a world of imagination and fantasy.

No matter how dire a situation seemed, she could get her mind to turn it into something better, bending it to her dreamy will.

It would be enough, at least, to get her through the wedding.

Prudence matched her sister’s surprise, though her singular raised eyebrow was one of pure suspicion. “Do you actually like him, Tessie?”

Teresa coughed, cheeks blazing as she hurried to look away from her younger sister. “I do not know him. How could I possibly like or dislike him, when he is essentially a stranger?”

She thought it best not to mention that, between the peaks and troughs of her panic and doubt, she had spent the last week acquainting her imagination with the new and improved Captain Frostheart.

Her daring, chivalrous, morally ambiguous, wildly entertaining, romantic hero with the face and stature and allure of Cyrus Deverell.

“Prudence, do not encourage her,” Isolde chided, shaking her head. “We are supposed to be planning a way to get her out of this marriage, not putting her head in the clouds.”

“Look at her cheeks, Izzie!” Prudence protested, pointing at Teresa.

“She is blushing! In truth, I suppose it was a stupid question, asking if you like him—you almost kissed him, after all, and won him as a husband in the process. Sneaky, really. I would applaud you vigorously if I thought you had done it on purpose.”

Isolde paused, tilting her head, peering at Teresa with a frown. “Why did you do it?”

“I told you,” Teresa mumbled. “It was a fleeting madness.”

She had not told her sisters about the list; it was far too mortifying to reveal.

Rather, she had given them a more favorable version of events, where she seemed foolish, but not desperate.

Nor had she mentioned Beatrice’s suggestion about relieving her curiosity, not wanting any of the blame to fall on her when she was not at fault.

“I had lost my way, trying to escape Mama, and I stumbled into the room he was in,” she added, her face flushing even hotter.

“I could hear the music coming from the ballroom, I was… alone for the first time with a gentleman who did not turn his nose up at me, and… before I could stop myself, I was… closer to him than I should have been.”

Prudence sidled up to her sister, bending her head until her chin rested on Teresa’s shoulder, gazing at her through the mirror’s reflection. “If he had not been wearing a mask, would you still have approached him like that?”

“What do you mean?” Teresa replied, understanding a moment later. “Are you referring to his scars?”

Prudence nodded. “They make him look rather… threatening, do you not think?”

“That is rather unkind. He cannot help that he has scars,” Isolde said with a disapproving look, but the anxious chewing of her lip suggested she was in full agreement with the youngest.

Puzzled, Teresa shook her head, nearly dislodging one of the white roses in her hair.

“I did not find them scary or threatening. I confess, I was… fascinated. Of course, considering he had come to propose, I did not think it appropriate to ask where he gained them, but I hope that I will get the opportunity after we are married.” She shrugged, glancing down into her lap with a little shyness.

“If anything, I thought they added to his charm.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her sisters exchange a bemused glance, as if they thought their middle sister had gone completely mad. But as they both shrugged at each other, something akin to relief relaxed their expressions, bringing small, hopeful smiles to their lips.

If Teresa was not afraid of him, perhaps they had realized that they did not have to be, either.

But you do not know him. How can you be so certain you have no reason to be scared?

Dread pooled in her stomach, hardening to ice.

In order to make it through the day, she had let her wayward mind take the reins, turning every hurdle and worry into something more palatable, more optimistic.

If she truly stopped to think about the enormity of what she was about to do, and what it would mean for the rest of her life, she would be stuck to the seat, unable to move a muscle, incapable of taking a breath, much less making her way down the aisle.

A knock came at the door, Teresa jolting in fright.

Julianna entered, smiling from ear to ear. “The carriage is waiting, darlings. Quickly, before your brother starts shouting.” She glanced at Teresa, her smile faltering for a fleeting moment. “You look lovely, dear. Yes… very lovely indeed.”

Her grin returned, so stiff it made her look half-mad, and clapped her hands. “ Now, everyone! Move yourselves!”

Prudence and Isolde weaved their arms through Teresa’s, helping her up off the chair, and as Julianna swept back out of the room, the three sisters followed silently.

And though she tried to fight it, Teresa could not rid herself of the feeling that she was being marched toward something altogether less pleasant than her imagination had let her believe.

Once I see him again, all will be well.

She clung onto that fragile hope with everything she possessed, fearful that their reunion might shatter it instead.