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Gemma's two weeks as the Duchess of Larsen seemed to have gone on forever. Hardly surprising, she reasoned, given how much she had dealt with. And how much her life had changed.

“It feels as though it has been years,” she admitted.

Veronica squeezed her hand. “How are you? Is married life truly as terrible as you feared?”

Gemma let out a breath and turned to glanced out the window as the coach rolled back through the gates of her childhood home.

She looked away hurriedly, not wanting to examine the missing roof tiles and overgrown garden too closely.

The sorry state of Volk House was a reminder of all the issues Gemma had left her sisters to face without her. “Gemma?” Veronica prodded.

Gemma shook her head to try and clear her mind of her guilt. She forced herself to focus on her sister.

Veronica's was the most complicated of questions.

Gemma had to admit, married life was not as terrible as she had feared.

Not even close. She had discovered, rather begrudgingly, that there was more to her husband than the caddish rake she had known him as, and despite the Duchess's best attempts, Larsen Manor had even begun to feel a little like home.

And that, she knew well, was in no small part due to the passion she had succumbed to.

When she and Wyatt were in bed together, it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away, and she wanted the feeling to last forever.

But the moment they finished, Gemma's mind flooded with his plans to send her away, and she felt the protective walls she had built around herself fly back into place.

She knew she was in danger of growing feelings for her husband.

And that could never be, especially now she knew what he intended for her once she had delivered him a son.

“I am managing,” she told Veronica, not wanting to go into details—largely because she had no idea of how to express the chaos of emotions roiling her heart.

Veronica nodded. “And His Grace? Is he good to you?”

Gemma was unable to hold back a wistful sigh. “Yes,” she admitted. “He is very good to me. He is very kind. Thoughtful.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Veronica's bright smile made her blue eyes shine. “And I hear he has also been kind enough to fund a brand new wardrobe for you.” She giggled. “Which I must say is long overdue.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “You sound like my mother-in-law.” Reluctant as she was to admit it, she was looking forward to spending the day shopping with her sister on Bond Street.

The Dowager Duchess had recommended a seamstress for Gemma to visit; an older woman Her Grace had been going to for years.

The perfect person, Wyatt's grandmother had promised, to make Gemma a wardrobe befitting a duchess.

“But only if you wish it, of course, my dear,” the Dowager Duchess had said hurriedly, always one to make sure Gemma felt comfortable and welcome in her new life.

Gemma had agreed to visit the seamstress, telling herself that a new wardrobe would at least give her mother-in-law one less thing to criticize her over.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that was not the only reason she was doing this.

In spite of herself, Gemma had found herself imagining how Wyatt might react when he saw her in her new gowns.

Treacherous thoughts, of course. Thoughts that would get her hurt.

Nonetheless, they were thoughts that were getting harder and harder to tamp down with every night her husband visited her bed.

“I sound like your mother-in-law?!” Veronica whacked her playfully on the arm.

“I am going to ignore that dreadfully insulting comment on account of how happy I am to see you.” She looped her arm through Gemma's and turned to look out the window.

An enormous four-horse coach rattled by, and Veronica pressed her head against the glass, trying to catch a glimpse of who was inside.

“I am also under strict instruction from Grandmother to intervene if it looks like you are even thinking about ordering anything brown.”

Gemma laughed. “I am sure.”

In the bright summer afternoon, Bond Street was awash with people.

Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen strode between shop fronts and tea houses, and coaches jostled each other for space on the road.

The air was filled with chatter and the constant rattle of hooves, punctuated by the calls of the newspaper boy on the corner.

The moment she stepped out of the carriage, Gemma felt nerves tighten her stomach.

This was the first time she had dared set foot out of Larsen Manor since the wedding.

The first time she had dared show her face in public since becoming the scandalous Duchess of Larsen.

She found herself scanning the street, searching fearfully for faces she knew.

Veronica caught her eye and gave her a reassuring smile. “It's all right, Gemma. Truly. No one is looking at you. Let's just have a nice time, shall we?”

Gemma nodded. Veronica was right. Everyone was just going about their own business, lost in their own thoughts and worlds. If anyone on the street had recognized her, they were clearly not bothered by it. Gemma let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. Perhaps she was overreacting.

She followed the directions the Dowager Duchess had given her to the seamstress's parlor, inexplicably nervous.

Would the seamstress take one look at her dowdy grey day dress and wonder what on earth had possessed her husband to marry her?

Then again, no doubt she, like the rest of London, already knew exactly how Gemma and Wyatt had come to be married.

Stop! Gemma shook the thought away. If she did not want to become a complete hermit, she would have to get a hold of her runaway mind.

It was the loss of control she hated the most, Gemma realized.

For so many years, she had prided herself on presenting herself as a fine, upstanding member of high society, even in the face of her father's disgrace.

But she had no doubt that gossip about her was now flying around the ton and that stories with absolutely no truth to them were being whispered from one ear to another.

She wanted to stand up in front of the entire ton and put them straight.

Tell them what really happened behind the chapel that day.

But of course, that was not an option. All she could do was let people say what they would and try to weather the storm.

“Ah, Your Grace!” the elderly seamstress gushed when Gemma stepped inside the shopfront and asked after her appointment. The woman bobbed a clumsy curtsey. “I am so pleased to see you! You're just a beautiful as your grandmother-in-law said.”

Gemma felt color rising in her cheeks. “Thank you,” she managed, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment.

The seamstress beamed. “And what is it you are after today?”

“An entire new wardrobe,” Veronica put in before Gemma could open her mouth. “And nothing in brown.” Gemma shot her sister a glare.

The seamstress grinned. “I see.” She ushered Gemma and Veronica deeper into the salon. “Perhaps we might begin by looking at some designs? For inspiration. I am quite sure you will find many of my pieces to your liking…”

Some hours later, they emerged from the seamstress's parlor, with Gemma having made orders for several new gowns and day dresses.

Plus, on an impulsive—and now rather mortifying—whim, she had also found herself purchasing a nightgown of the finest—and flimsiest—silk.

At the time, she had found herself overcome by thoughts of how Wyatt might react when he saw her in such a thing.

Now, she just found herself horrified by what Veronica and the seamstress might think of her.

“I must say, Gemma,” Veronica began, as they began to walk back down the street, “I am rather surprised.”

“Oh?” Gemma prayed very desperately that she did not mention the nightgown.

“I liked all the pieces you chose very much. It seems you have more fashion sense than I gave you credit for.” Her eyes sparkled. “Or is it just that you are only starting to bother yourself with what you wear now you have a gentleman to appreciate it?”

Gemma snorted. “I am not doing this to please my husband.”

Veronica laughed. “You are protesting just a little too much, my dear.”

“I am not protesting. I just…” Gemma was suddenly aware of voices behind her.

A faint giggle. She whirled around, coming face to face with a group of young ladies, close to her age.

They had a vague familiarity to them, and from their fine silk day dresses and elaborately decorated bonnets, Gemma could tell they belonged to the ton .

She felt the muscles in her neck tighten.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” chirped one of them. “I do hope you're well.”

“It is rather warm today,” added another, giving Gemma a broad smile. “You must be careful not to spend too long in the sun. I would simply hate for you to get dizzy and fall.”

A twitter of laughter went up among the group.

Gemma clenched her hands into fists at her side, trying to tamp her anger down. Veronica pressed a light hand to her arm. “Just ignore them,” she murmured.

“Do tell me, Your Grace,” the first young lady spoke up again, fluttering a fan in front of her face, “what does your husband think about having the Earl of Volk as a father-in-law? I heard His Lordship made quite a scene at White's last week when he got into a fight with one of the dealers.”

Her friend looked at Gemma with sparkling brown eyes, clearly relishing the telling of the story. “They say he tried to throw a punch but was so drunk he just ended up on his own backside. Can you imagine?” The young ladies bubbled with laughter. Gemma felt Veronica's grip on her arm tighten.

“How dare you spread lies about my father like that?” Gemma hissed. “Have you no shame?”

The first young lady threw her head back with laughter, making the feather in her bonnet bob up and down.

“Can you believe it? Lady Highbrow is accusing us of having no shame, after what she did to poor Miss Henford.” She took a step closer to Gemma.

“You know dear Henrietta just has not been the same after what you did to her. I do not know how you can look at yourself in the mirror each morning.”

“Let's go, Gemma,” Veronica murmured, taking her sister's hand and pulling her hurriedly away from the group.

Gemma could feel tears of shame burning behind her eyes.

She blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall.

They turned in Marylebone Lane, escaping the bustle of Bond Street and the judging eyes of the young ladies.

Gemma stopped walking and sank back against the wall of the apothecary they were standing outside.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled. She regretted making a scene. Knew she should have just walked away. If word got back to the Duchess, there would be no end to the hounding she would give Gemma for acting in such an unladylike fashion.

“There's no need to apologize to me,” Veronica said gently. “But do try not to let them get to you.” She gave her a pale smile. “They are just petty gossipers. They are not worth it.”

Gemma sighed. She knew her sister was right. But it did nothing to still the anger and shame that was still roiling inside her.

“Tea and cake?” Veronica suggested.

Gemma nodded faintly. “All right.”

Veronica took her arm again and led her back in the direction of Mayfair. “I know of the most gorgeous new tea shop,” she told Gemma. “My friend Sarah showed it to me last week. I know you will just love it.”

Gemma trailed her sister through the narrow lanes—a route neatly chosen to avoid re-emerging onto Bond Street—and into a small corner tea shop.

“Oh look!” said Veronica. “There's an outdoor table free! They are ever so difficult to get!” She hurried toward it, but Gemma held her back.

“Please can we sit inside?” She nodded to a small table at the back of the shop. “Away from the window?”

A look of disappointment fell over Veronica's face, but she acquiesced without a word, and they were soon settled into their table in the dingy back corner of the shop, with tea and scones laid out before them.

Gemma sipped her tea slowly. Though the cream-laden scone in front of her looked divine, she could barely muster a scrap of an appetite.

“Is it true what they said about Father?” she asked Veronica finally. “That he got into a fight at White's?”

Veronica put down her scone and sighed. Her disconsolate expression was all the answer Gemma needed.

“His old friend Lord Huntingdon brought him home that night,” she told Gemma sadly.

“He ran into Papa at the Whist tables. Saw the whole thing, apparently. In the morning, Papa denied it, but I saw the state he was in when he arrived home. Besides, what reason would Lord Huntingdon have to lie?”

Absentmindedly, Gemma dragged a spoon through the pot of cream. The thought of her father misbehaving so publicly made her stomach roll. How much shame could one family take? “Why did you not tell me earlier?”

Veronica sighed. “I did not want to worry you. I know you have had so much to deal with of late. Besides, you have your own life to live now.”

Gemma reached out to cover her sister's hand with her own. “You and Father will always be a part of my life. Grandmother and Jane too. You do not have to keep all this to yourself, Veronica.”

Her sister nodded faintly.

Gemma squeezed her hand. “Promise you will come to me if anything like this happens again. I want to know about it. And I want to help you all as best I can.”

Veronica nodded. “All right. I promise.” She sipped her tea with a faraway expression. “He has been getting worse,” she admitted sadly. “He is out drinking and gambling most nights these days. Honestly, I do not know how we would survive if it weren't for the money your husband has been giving us.”

Gemma blinked. “What? Wyatt has been giving you money?”

“Oh yes. Once a week, ever since your wedding. He has been most generous.” Veronica frowned. “He did not tell you?”

“No… I…” Gemma closed her eyes, suddenly overcome by a great rush of affection. No doubt Wyatt knew such a thing would only embarrass her, so he had sought to keep it a secret. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and never let go.

Where on earth did that thought come from?

She shook it away hurriedly and gulped at her tea, muttering under her breath as the hot liquid scalded her tongue. “I will be sure to thank him when I see him this evening,” she said instead.

But she caught the faintest hint of a smile on Veronica's lips and knew that for a second, she had let her buried affection for her husband escape to the surface.