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Chapter Twelve

W yatt stepped into the parlor, his heart thundering.

What is the matter with me? I am a grown man!

He found his mother perched on the edge of an armchair, a look of unwavering ferocity fixed onto her steely features.

And yes, Wyatt acknowledged, Martha, Duchess of Larsen was something of a terrifying creature, with her severe gray hair and narrow, angular face.

In a gown of such dark blue, it was almost black, she looked more like she was dressed for a funeral than her son's wedding.

Perhaps she had had a premonition of what was coming…

His mother did not turn as Wyatt stepped into the room.

She took a colorless blob of pastry from the plate beside her and bit into it with more force than necessary.

“Rabbit croquettes,” she said tautly. “The cook made sixty of them for the wedding breakfast. It seemed a shame for them to go to waste.” The words came out dripping with coldness.

Wyatt rubbed his eyes, his thoughts knocking together. How was he to begin this conversation?

“Explain yourself,” Martha snapped, putting a merciful end to Wyatt's dithering.

He was not sure he had ever heard his mother speak with such a brusque and unfeeling tone.

Before he could open his mouth to respond, his mother said, “I have never been more ashamed in my life! How can I ever show my face among the ton again? Can you imagine what people are saying about our family?” She shook her head.

“Thank heavens your father was not here to see this.

He would have been horrified. And to think that now you've latched yourself to that…

that… vagrant's daughter!” She shook her head in disgust. “How could you have been so foolish to let yourself be taken in by her? How could you not have seen what she was playing at?”

Wyatt felt a sudden flicker of anger at hearing his mother speak of Gemma in such a way.

Does she truly think Gemma did this on purpose? One glance at his wife's tear-streaked face would surely convince her otherwise.

“None of this is Lady Gemma's fault,” he said firmly. “Believe me, she does not wish to be here anymore than you wish her to be.”

His mother huffed. “I doubt that very much.”

Muscles tightened in Wyatt's shoulders as he felt a sudden protectiveness toward his wife.

My wife! — The reality of it would almost be laughable if it weren't so… real.

“How long were you planning this?” his mother asked.

“Planning this?” Wyatt repeated incredulously.

“Yes. You do not truly expect me to believe Lady Gemma just happened to fall into your arms moments before your wedding, do you?

Did you hatch this foolish plan the night you were running around the Henfords' home like street urchins?” She threw a hand up in dismay.

“I know you had no fondness for Miss Henford. But I never imagined you might stoop to something so… underhand.”

Wyatt drew in a breath, forcing himself to keep his composure.

He fixed his mother with cold eyes. “There was no plan , Mother. But you are right about one thing. Lady Gemma did fall into my arms. I simply caught her on instinct to prevent her from hitting her head. As for the rest… well…” You can thank my grandmother for that.

But something stopped Wyatt from saying it.

Not because he had any doubt about the Dowager Duchess's utter engineering of the situation to suit her own agenda.

But because he felt oddly reluctant to throw his grandmother into his mother's line of fire.

The house was feeling like enough of a battlefield already.

Nonetheless, that underlying sense of dread that had been tugging at him since he had been betrothed to Miss Henford had disappeared. And in spite of the scandalous—and utterly ludicrous—situation he now found himself in, Wyatt could not deny he felt something bordering on relief.

In truth, he had not had the time—nor the will—to explore how he truly felt about having Gemma Caster as his wife. But the fact that he was now free of Henrietta Henford had loosened a knot in his stomach that had been there for so long he had almost ceased to become aware of it.

“In any case,” he said firmly. “I will not have you breathe a word of these accusations to my wife, do you understand? To suggest that she was responsible for this is completely unfounded.”

Martha huffed. “I should have known something like this would happen,” she said, with a faraway look in her eyes.

She took a savage bite into another croquette.

“I never should have allowed you to run about the city for so many years. Look what it has turned you into. I should have forced you to marry the moment you returned from Eton.”

Wyatt sighed. He knew there was little point trying to reason with his mother right now.

It was like trying to wrestle with an angry crocodile.

“Well,” he said sharply. “What's done is done, Mother. And nothing is going to change that. Lady Gemma is my wife. The new Duchess of Larsen. And I expect you to treat her with the same respect you did Miss Henford.” He held her gaze, despite the fierce urge to look away from her scrutiny. “The respect due to a duchess.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the room before she could respond, surprised when her fierce eyes did not turn him to ash.

Gemma splashed her face on the washstand, gasping at the feel of the cold water against her cheeks. The chill of it went some way toward steadying her. Anchoring her in the moment, before she was swept away in a torrent of grief and overthinking.

She had heard the voices and knew the Duchess and Dowager Duchess had returned from the chapel.

And the knowledge of that terrified her.

She did not know who she was dreading facing more: the younger Dowager Duchess, who had made her fury at the situation painfully apparent at the wedding; or the elder Dowager Duchess, who had used Gemma as a pawn to craft her grandson's life into the shape she wanted.

A knock sounded at the door and Gemma looked hurriedly into the mirror of the dressing table, doing her best to smooth her flyaway hair.

There was little point trying to make herself presentable, she decided.

Her blotchy cheeks made no secret of the fact she had been weeping, and she could smell her own musky scent on her skin.

She had hoped she might be able to hide away at least until Ivy and her belongings showed up.

“Who's there?” she called.

“It's me, my dear.” Gemma clenched her hands into fists at the sound of the Dowager Duchess's voice. “May we speak?”

She gritted her teeth. The last thing she wished to do was speak to the lady who had upended her entire life. But she knew she could not hide herself away forever. And she had already determined that this second-story window was far too high to jump from…

She opened the door an inch, greeting the Dowager Duchess with a steely expression. The old lady offered Gemma a smile. It was a smile she had seen around the dinner table at Volk House many times, and she longed suddenly for her own grandmother's embrace.

“May I come in, Your Grace?” asked the Dowager Duchess.

Reluctantly, Gemma opened the door, allowing the Dowager Duchess inside. Her brown and black terrier darted in ahead of her and began trotting around Gemma's bedchamber, nose to the floor.

In a warm, familial gesture, the Dowager Duchess perched on the edge of Gemma's bed and gestured for her to sit beside her. In spite of herself, Gemma sat. She folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them.

“Come here, Lucy,” the Dowager Duchess cooed to the dog. “I believe Her Grace could use a little affection.”

At the sound of her mistress's voice, the dog scampered over to the bed and let the Dowager Duchess scoop her into her arms. Unceremoniously, the old woman planted the dog on Gemma's lap.

She felt its wet little nose nuzzling against her hand.

She allowed herself the faintest of smiles, which disappeared the moment the dog leaped back off the bed to inspect the fly tapping against the outside of the window.

“Your grandson did not take advantage of me behind the church, Your Grace,” Gemma said. “He did not sully my honor. But I suspect you already know that.”

The Dowager Duchess opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, as though thinking better of it.

Speak! Gemma wanted to cry. Admit this was all your doing!

It would make little difference to anything, of course.

But some part of her—the part that had spent her entire adult life trying to be as decent and upstanding as possible, even in the face of her father's drunken gambling—wanted to hear the Dowager Duchess say she knew Gemma's decency was still intact.

“I know this is not the life you had planned,” the Dowager Duchess said finally.

“And I am sure all this is quite a shock to you. But my grandson is a good man. And he will treat you well. I am sure of it.” She reached out and pressed a soft hand to Gemma's wrist. Despite her anger at the old woman, the gentle touch brought fresh tears to her eyes.

“He will be a good husband to you if you let him.”

Gemma shook her head. No , she wanted to say, I know what kind of man your grandson is. The entire ton knows what kind of man he is. He is the kind of man who warms his way into ladies' beds uninvited… And now they all thought her as indecent and improper as him.

Her tears spilled down her cheeks and she wiped at them quickly. “I am sorry, Your Grace,” she said. “But as far as I am concerned, your grandson will never be my husband. Not in anything more than name.”