Page 39 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

“You must know, Marianne, my civility has limits,” Valentine said to her with arched eyebrows.

Cecilia’s spine went rigid. She turned sharply toward Marianne, willing her to stop talking, but she said nothing yet.

“All I am saying is that if people were whispering, surely it’s because they noticed something. People do talk.”

“Say another word—"he said, “And you’ll find yourself very swiftly removed from this house. You are here because Cecilia extended you the grace of her forgiveness. But don’t mistake her kindness for my tolerance. Because if I were to handle this as I would prefer, there would be nothing civil about it. So if you value the luxury of polite company and an open invitation to this house, I suggest you learn to hold your tongue. Or I will see to it myself that someone holds it for you.”

Lucy shot up from her seat as though burned by something. “Please, this is enough!” she cried, her voice cracking, hands trembling at her sides. “I cannot bear it anymore. I cannot carry this weight anymore.”

Cecilia turned to Lucy with widened eyes, somewhat shocked to have heard her voice when she had been quiet all evening.

“It was me,” Lucy said loudly, shriller this time, eyes wild, face suddenly blotched with emotion. “It wasn’t Cecilia’s fault. The dress, the room, the scandal—it was all me. I did it.”

Lucy was crying now. Not the composed sniffles of a lady caught in embarrassment, but deep, heaving sobs that shook her shoulders.

“I didn’t want to marry him!” she wailed.

“You were all going to make me do it, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t. I was scared. I was so terrified. So I made sure it wouldn’t happen.”

Cecilia’s breath caught. Her spine stiffened, her mouth opened, and closed. It was as though her entire body were fighting itself. Muscles and memory, confusion and disbelief. Her pulse roared in her ears.

She managed, her voice barely audible. “You what? Lucy, what are you talking about?”

“Cecilia, I am so sorry. I told you to try on that gown on purpose,” Lucy said, choking on her tears now.

“The one I had made specifically for you. When I had you try on the gown, I messed with the one you had on. I took it, and I loosened the seams. Just enough to come apart in public. Then I told you your room was at the end of the west corridor, when I knew perfectly well it was the duke’s room.

Third door on your left. You didn’t go into the wrong room. I led you to that room.”

“I told Mama to check on him,” Lucy continued, eyes darting wildly now.

“Because I knew she’d find you with him.

I knew she would make a scene. She has that silly habit.

I knew she’d walk in and see just enough.

Enough to ruin it all. But I thought seeing you with the duke would make them cancel the wedding, not make you marry him.

I never planned for you to replace me, Cecilia.

All I wanted was for Mama to call off the wedding.

But when the duke announced that he would marry you, I froze, and I have been saddled with this guilt that it made it impossible for me to face you. ”

Lucy lurched forward. Before Cecilia could step back, before she could even register the motion, Lucy had dropped to her knees and taken hold of her hands. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” she sobbed. “I never meant to ruin your life.”

Cecilia stood frozen, her breath shallow, her hands held awkwardly in Lucy’s grasp. The carpet muffled the sound of Lucy’s collapse, but the room held its breath around them.

“This wasn’t what I planned. I wanted us both to marry for love.

” Her voice cracked, pleading now. “I didn’t think it would end like this.

I thought if I could just stop the engagement, everything else would work itself out.

That maybe you’d hate me for a time, but eventually you’d understand. That it would all blow over.”

Cecilia looked down at the top of Lucy’s bowed head, her cousin’s hair half-tumbled, her shoulders shaking. A strange numbness had taken root in her chest, like frost spreading through her ribs.

“I’ve been sick with it,” Lucy said, still clinging to her hands. “Sick with guilt. Every day since the wedding. Every time I looked at you, I wanted to tell you. But I couldn’t. I felt so ashamed, and angry that I trapped you in this miserable marriage.”

Cecilia stood still, the hush in the drawing room louder than any outburst. Her arms hung at her sides, cold where Lucy’s tears had soaked her sleeves. Her breath caught, shallow in her chest, and her thoughts, once tethered to the fragile idea of fate, floated like ash.

How foolish she had been.

To think this marriage had been destiny. That somehow, amidst all the scandal, something had drawn them together by divine or romantic design. That perhaps she and Valentine had been meant for each other, not thrown into each other’s lives by lies and calculation.

She turned, slowly, toward him.

He was watching her. Quietly. The firelight played against his profile, but his gaze held no warmth. Just the mask he wore when he was unreadable, too composed to be angry, too guarded to be kind.

She felt her stomach turn. Did he hate her? He had stood up for her. Fiercely. Unflinchingly. He had defended her honor in front of her entire family. Did he regret it? She flinched inwardly, ashamed of the thought.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Howard snapped, advancing toward Marianne.

“All this time you’ve paraded about the place whispering about impropriety and scheming, when it was your own daughter who orchestrated the whole thing!

You stood in judgment of us, Marianne, you mocked our name, and for what?

Because you fancied yourself clever? Because you thought your daughter was humiliated by the duke? ”

“Howard—” Marianne tried, lifting a hand.

But he did not let her speak. “Your bitterness, your gossip, your absurd obsession with social one-upmanship have ruined Lucy, and you’ve nearly dragged Cecilia with her. I cannot stop thinking about all the bitter things you said about us. You are a truly horrible person.”

Cecilia barely heard them. She should’ve felt vindicated. Relieved, even though the truth had come out, all she felt was a slow, spreading guilt. Valentine hadn’t asked for any of this.

She glanced at him again, really looked at him.

His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his shoulders straight.

Still and formal. But not indifferent. He looked tired.

Not in the physical sense, but in the way a man looks when the ground has shifted beneath him too many times to bother finding balance again.

“Would you both stop fighting, please!” Lucy yelled, rising to her feet. “Please! Let’s stop.”

“I believe this gathering has gone on long enough,” Valentine spoke, quietly but with unmistakable authority. The words were calm. But they held the crackling charge of a drawn blade.

Everyone turned.

“Hawkins will show you all to your rooms. You will all retire for the night. Please. I need to speak to Cecilia in private.”

There was no room for argument. Marianne, white as her pearls, moved first, practically dragging Lucy by the arm with her. Howard followed without another word, lips pressed tight as if he knew better than to push any further. Then Emma, Solomon, and Norman followed suit.

Cecilia remained where she stood, her spine rigid though her breath betrayed her.

She turned slowly, catching Valentine’s gaze entirely focused on her.

Cecilia’s thoughts swirled in chaos. Her hands, still cold from the shock of Lucy’s confession, hung limply by her side. She did not speak. She could not.

She could only brace herself.

For whatever he was about to say next.

“Are you miserable, Cecilia?”

The words left him before he could stop them.

He stood with his back to the hearth, hands clasped behind him like they might steady the storm inside.

Across the room, Cecilia hadn’t moved since the door clicked shut behind the last guest. Her face was pale, her hands clasped tightly in front of her skirts.

She didn’t answer.

That silence. He’d heard it before. In those first few weeks of their marriage, when her smiles were forced and her voice clipped, and again tonight, when Lucy’s trembling confession poured across the room and collapsed everything he thought he knew.

He had been in complete disbelief at the mess of Lucy’s tears, her words, and her guilt, but the only part that rang again and again in his mind was that she thought Cecilia was trapped in a miserable marriage.

Not unhappy for a time or struggling. Not uncertain. Miserable.

“I asked you a question,” he said, softer now. “I would appreciate an honest answer, Cecilia. Do you wish you’d never married me?”

She drew in a breath, and he watched her fingers tighten. “How am I supposed to answer that, Valentine?”

“You could start with the truth.”

Her eyes flew up to meet his, her spine straightening in something like defiance, but he saw the tears gathering there, and he hated himself for putting them there.

“No,” she whispered. “No, I do not regret marrying you, Valentine. However, I might be miserable for other reasons. But I do not regret marrying you.”

“Why?” he asked and crossed his arms.

Cecilia squinted her eyes. “Why do I not regret marrying you?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of question is that? Do you want me to regret marrying you?”

He turned away, unable to face the wreckage in her gaze. The confession sat heavy in his chest. Why would she not regret it? Why would she not look back on all of this and wish for another path, a simpler one, untouched by scandal, untouched by him?