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She expected an outburst from the Dowager Duchess, but the old woman just patted Gemma's wrist again.

“Larsen Manor is very beautiful, my dear,” she said, deftly changing the subject.

“The gardens are simply magical. And you will simply die when you see the library. Your grandmother tells me you are very fond of reading.” She squeezed Gemma's wrist and stood up, scooping the dog from the floor and tucking her under her arm.

“Whenever you are feeling up to it, I shall take you on a tour.” She flashed her a final smile before disappearing out the door.

Sandra Felps, the Dowager Duchess of Larsen, sank into her chair at the dinner table.

Though Wyatt and his mother were already at their places, the room was as stilted and silent as a tomb.

The only sounds were the gentle click-click of the servants' footsteps and the soft clinking of plates as they placed bowls of soup in front of each member of the family.

Sandra looked at the empty chair beside Wyatt. “Will Her Grace be dining with us tonight?” she asked her grandson hopefully.

Wyatt tossed back a mouthful of wine, not looking at her. “No. Apparently, she does not wish to eat tonight.”

Oh, this is not good. This is not good at all. I ought to have tried harder to coax her out of her room.

Sandra felt a pang of regret at all she had put Lady Gemma through. But things had to be this way. They just had to do it. One day, she felt certain, Lady Gemma would see that. And so would Wyatt. She just had to give it some time.

Wyatt's mother, Martha, kept her gaze pinned to the door, as though she might will the poor child to appear. “Dreadful manners. Although I suppose we can expect nothing less, given her parentage.”

Wyatt smacked a sudden hand onto the table, making the cutlery rattle. “That is enough, Mother. I have already asked you once to treat my wife with respect. Must I repeat myself?”

Sandra hid a smile. For all his philandering and questionable choices, the boy did have something of a backbone. Just like his father had had.

All those years ago, Sandra had stood back and allowed her son to marry a lady of his choosing.

And she had turned out to be cold and calculating, interested in little more than the title her husband could furnish her with.

Little wonder Martha had selected Henrietta Henford as Wyatt's wife—the two ladies were strikingly similar.

Sandra had made a huge mistake in letting her son marry Martha.

Their marriage had been short and unhappy, the house utterly devoid of warmth and compassion.

There was no way she was going to sit back and watch Wyatt make the same mistake.

She was certain that, had he married Henrietta Henford, her grandson would have become far more reliant on the escape the gambling halls and the taverns could bring.

Sandra knew deep inside herself that her son's unhappiness over his choice of wife had led to his untimely death at the age of just five-and-thirty.

And she had been willing to do anything to stop Wyatt from facing that same fate.

Even if it meant bringing a little shame to the family.

The ton was easily bored. Soon enough, Lord So-and-So would sleep with his scullery maid, or Lady Whatsername would run off with the stable boy, and all the gossip surrounding the Larsens would be forgotten.

Shocked into silence by her son's outburst, Martha brought her wine glass to her lips.

“I have treated your wife with great respect,” she said tautly.

“I have allowed her the entire day to wallow upstairs in her room without interruption. The least she could have done is show her face at the dinner table.”

“Give the poor child some time, Martha,” Sandra hissed. “Her entire life was upturned today.”

Martha snorted. “She ought to have thought of that before she threw herself into my son's arms moments before his wedding like a harlot!”

“Mother!”

Martha lowered her eyes, chastened. She dipped her spoon into her soup and took a silent mouthful.

Sandra glanced sideways at Wyatt, trying to determine how he was faring.

He had a closed-off look about him, his gaze fixed on his bowl, as though deliberately avoiding contact with anyone at the table.

A thick lock of dark hair hung over one eye.

Sandra regretted that she had not yet had the chance to speak to him alone.

But the moment he had finished arguing with his mother that morning, he had squirreled himself away in his study with firm instructions that he was not to be interrupted.

Sandra wondered what he was thinking. Was there a hint of relief there that he might have been spared a lifetime with Henrietta Henford? It did not look that way right now. But perhaps with time…

She was glad when, after a stilted and largely wordless dinner, Martha excused herself and disappeared upstairs. Wyatt stared after her, rubbing a hand absentmindedly across his smooth-shaven cheek.

“How are you, my dear?” Sandra dared to ask.

He turned to face her. “That is a complicated question.” Despite the evenness of his words, his ice-blue eyes were flashing. Sandra knew at once that he was aware of her meddling.

In truth, Sandra had not gone to the wedding intending to overturn it as she had. That morning, she had resigned herself to the fact that Wyatt was to marry Miss Henford. She had resigned herself to the fact that she had lost, and cold, hard-hearted Martha had won.

But then the opportunity presented itself.

When Sandra had seen Wyatt follow Lady Gemma around the back of the chapel, she had felt as though fate was on her side.

She had followed them on a whim, more curious than anything else.

And yes, she knew well that Lady Gemma's fall had been an accident.

But that did not change the fact that she had been firmly encased in Wyatt's less-than-platonic embrace.

And there was no way Sandra was going to pass up on an opportunity like that…

But best to neither confirm nor deny. Best to stay silent, as she had done in the face of Lady Gemma's accusations earlier that day. Let them come to their own conclusions.

“Your wife is a fine young lady,” she told Wyatt. “I believe the two of you can be happy together.”

Wyatt let out a humorless laugh, but Sandra saw something else pass across his face.

The faintest hint of a smile. She thought suddenly of the way Wyatt and Lady Gemma had gallivanted around the place at Miss Henford's party.

They could deny it all they wanted, but Sandra knew attraction when she saw it.

“Go to your wife,” Sandra said gently. “She is overwhelmed and afraid. Let her know she does not have to feel that way.”

Wyatt sighed. “I do not think she wishes to see me.”

Sandra reached over and patted his hand. “Perhaps not. But I am sure it would do her good to hear from her husband, nonetheless. Go to her, Wyatt. Show her you are a good and decent man. Remind her she is not alone.”