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Chapter Thirty-One

G emma opened her eyes as the first glow of dawn broke through the gap in the curtains.

She sat up awkwardly, realizing she had fallen asleep in the chair beside her father's bed.

She stretched her aching neck and rubbed her eyes.

Her heart clenched painfully as recollections of the previous night returned to her with force.

She was still in her blue silk ballgown, she realized.

The one that Wyatt had loved so much he had carted her off into his bedchamber and ravaged her against the door.

In the thin threads of daylight struggling into the room, she could see the gown was splattered with water marks and grass stains and a black smear of charcoal.

How exhausted she must have been to have fallen asleep still laced tightly into her corset.

She had not heard a word from her husband all night. It seemed he had not made even the slightest effort to track her down, or even to express his regret for doubting her. Not even so much as a note of apology.

It is all for the best , Gemma told herself. Best that she knew now the kind of man Wyatt Felps really was, before she lost her heart to him completely.

That irritating voice at the back of her mind whispered to Gemma that it was too late; that she had given Wyatt her heart long ago. She shook her head, willing the voice to be quiet.

She got to her feet, careful not to wake her father, whose chest was rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths.

She would find Ivy and have her help her out of this ridiculous gown.

The men would be here to claim her father's debts soon, and she needed to be at her best in order to face them.

But before she could even set foot into the hallway, the pounding of the knocker at the front door echoed through the house.

Gemma froze, her heart jolting in her chest. A second knock came almost immediately, fast and impatient, booming through the passages like a funeral knell.

The butler's footsteps scurried towards the door.

At the sound, Gemma's sisters and grandmother hurried out from their bedchambers, all of them still in their nightclothes.

Patch the terrier scampered out of his mistress's bedchamber, yapping furiously.

The Dowager Marchioness hurriedly knotted her robe and strutted down the passage.

She wore a fierce, businesslike expression that commanded respect, even dressed as she was in her nightgown, with her grey hair hanging in a plait down her back.

She lifted her chin and gave Gemma's hand a squeeze.

“Everything will be all right,” she murmured. “Somehow.”

Gemma nodded. Right now, there was not a single part of her that believed her grandmother's words.

Her heart felt as though it was being crushed, and she felt too exhausted to even cry.

But she had survived everything else that had been thrown at her these past few weeks.

She had survived Henrietta Henford and Martha, Duchess of Larsen, and she was surviving—just—the pain her husband's betrayal had inflicted on her heart.

And if her family was about to lose their home, then she would survive that too.

I will not let Wyatt's betrayal rob me of my strength. Because that is all I may have left.

Gemma took the first step onto the staircase, but her grandmother reached out an arm, holding her back. She scooped the dog under her arm and looked pointedly at Gemma. I will go first , her eyes seemed to say. You may be a duchess, but you are still my grandchild.

Gemma gave her a tiny smile and followed her grandmother down the staircase towards the entrance hall, Patch still barking furiously.

Gemma felt like an utter fool, about to confront these men in her crumpled ball gown.

The fallen Duchess… But she knew there was no time to change.

She gripped the stair rail so hard her knuckles whitened. But she kept walking.

As the staircase wound around itself to reveal the entrance hall, the Dowager Marchioness froze. “Your Grace,” she stuttered. “You came.”

Gemma halted mid-step. And as she looked past her grandmother, she felt something wash over her that was either relief or dread. Because it was not her father's creditors standing in the entrance hall, ready to empty Volk House. It was her husband.

Wyatt took a step forward, clasping his hands together in front of him. He did not miss the icy tone in the Dowager Marchioness's tone. Or the fierce look in her eyes. It was not hard to see where Gemma got her feistiness from. He swallowed heavily, knowing he deserved every inch of her sharpness.

“Lady Hilt. I apologize for the early arrival.” He was dimly aware of just how ridiculously fast his heart was thumping.

The Dowager Marchioness let out her breath.

“Your early arrival is the least of our concerns, Your Grace.” She lowered the wriggling dog to the ground, and he scurried across the tiles to sniff Wyatt's shoes.

Lady Hilt's face softened slightly. “I must say, I am very glad to see you.” Up close, Wyatt could see her eyes were underlined in shadows of exhaustion. He could tell she had slept little.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “All of you.” But as he spoke, his eyes drifted past the Dowager Marchioness to alight on Gemma.

At the sight of her, Wyatt's heart lurched.

She was still dressed in her blue silk ballgown, now rumpled and stained.

Her dark curls hung messily over her shoulders and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

She had obviously spent the night doing far more crying than sleeping.

Never again will I make her cry. The thought swung at him suddenly.

But just like her grandmother, Gemma's eyes were hard and unforgiving.

The wall of ice she had hidden herself behind in the early days of their marriage had been resurrected.

And perhaps it was too late, Wyatt thought sickly.

Perhaps he had already shown his wife enough about the kind of man he was.

Perhaps Gemma had already decided on her own accord that she would never again allow him to make her cry.

Wyatt's stomach rolled. He wanted nothing more than to sweep her away from all this and tell her how desperately sorry he was for not trusting her. But he knew that right now, there were other matters that needed to be addressed.

“Lord Volk,” he said. “How is his health?” Wyatt realized that Gemma's two sisters had descended the stairs and were now huddled behind their grandmother. Both looked tired and pale with worry.

Though Wyatt had directed his question at Gemma, it was the Dowager Marchioness who spoke. “The physician believes he may recover with time. But right now, we have more pressing issues. The men Lord Volk owes money to heard about the theft and?—”

“I know,” Wyatt cut in, eager to save Lady Hilt the shame of speaking the words.

“The Duchess told me everything.” His eyes drifted to Gemma, and though her glare was fierce, he did not turn away.

“I regret I did not act sooner. But I hope it will please you to know that the Earl's creditors have been found and paid. They shan't be bothering you anymore.”

Something softened behind Gemma's eyes. Something faint, almost imperceptible, but something that gave Wyatt a scrap of confidence that he might be able to resurrect what they had once had.

But before he could get a word out to his wife, Lady Hilt charged at him and threw her arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you, Your Grace. I knew you would come through for us. I just knew it.” The dog leaped up on his hind legs and pawed at Wyatt's breeches, as though trying to get in on the fun.

After a moment, the Dowager Marchioness took a hurried step back and smoothed her robe.

She cleared her throat, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

“Do forgive me, Your Grace. I do not know what came over me.”

Wyatt chuckled. “It's quite all right, Lady Hilt.” He looked back at Gemma. “But if you will all excuse me. I need to speak with my wife. Rather urgently.”

Gemma led Wyatt through Volk House towards the drawing room, away from her prying eyes of her sisters, who were staring after them and whispering to each other like children. She heard her grandmother hiss out an admonishment and herd them off upstairs.

Gemma pushed open the door of the drawing room. Shame crowded her as she took in the peeling wall paper and discolored curtains. Though the morning was chilly, the maid had clearly been instructed not to light the fire in here, and the room was shadowed and cold.

What must he think of us? Of me?

But he was here. He had come. And in his infuriatingly arrogant and ducal way, he had swooped in and saved them. Gemma did not know whether that made her furious or giddy with relief and joy.

All she knew was that she was finding it nearly impossible to look at him.

She was afraid of the judgment she might see in his eyes.

And she was also afraid of how her deceitful heart might respond if she looked up into his handsome face.

She knew that if he said the right things in the right way, she would capitulate and forgive him.

And she did know if that was what she wanted.

Gemma rang for the maid and requested a tray of tea and biscuits.

In truth, her stomach was roiling far too violently to even consider eating or drinking, but she felt an irrational need to keep up appearances.

How foolish she was being, agonizing over something as insignificant as a pot of tea in front of the man she had let ravage her body over and over again.

But speaking to the maid at least gave her an excuse not to look Wyatt in the eye.