Page 29 of Ruby in the Rough (Heiress #4)

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

C ordelia dressed in the most scandalous gown she could find among Rosalind’s collection—a daring thing for her, though hardly shocking by the standards of certain ladies in the ton .

Still, the neckline dipped lower than she usually allowed, and the red silk, rich as claret, shimmered wickedly in the candlelight.

The audacity of her husband calling upon Ravensmere that very morning—asking to speak with her after what he had done—was beyond bearing. To bring his mistress under their roof, the same roof that housed his wife and unmarried sister, was a cruelty so cutting she could scarcely believe it.

He ought to be ashamed of himself.

Anger had replaced the despair of last night. She was no longer fragile or tearful, she could not allow him to see how very much he’d hurt her. Tonight, she would hold her head high, dance, and enjoy herself, every bit as much as her husband seemed to enjoy himself with women who were not his wife.

“Are you certain you wish to attend?” Rosalind asked, perched on the edge of the bed as she watched Cordelia’s maid fix the final pins in her hair.

Cordelia lifted her chin. “I am very certain. And I hope I made it perfectly clear at dinner that I do not wish anyone to notify Walpole of my attendance this evening.”

Rosalind’s brow arched, her voice gentle but edged with warning. “He may attend anyway.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together. That was true. She could not forbid him entry, of course. But she could give him the cut direct, and she intended to do so. He did not deserve her words, not even the civility of acknowledgment.

Her thoughts flickered briefly to Jane. Poor Jane. How mortified she must be, learning her brother had housed his mistress under their roof. Cordelia pitied her sister-in-law, yet that pity did nothing to soften the betrayal that clawed at her own heart.

How dare he…

“That does not mean I must endure his presence at the ball,” Cordelia said firmly, rallying her determination. “He may be my husband, but I have family who I hope will support and defend my honor. And even if society demands I return to him, I trust you will not allow it.”

“Of course, darling,” Rosalind soothed. “We would never force you. But if the ton observes you at odds so soon after your marriage, there will be talk. People will question why. That may lead to whispers of what occurred the other night.” Rosalind lifted her hand in quiet entreaty.

“If we remain home, there can be no talk. No one will see anything. Even if the duke appears at the ball without you, no one will think it odd. They will merely assume you chose another engagement, or that you are expected later. But to arrive and to be seen at odds—Cordelia, it will only fan the flames of gossip.”

Cordelia drew in a breath. “I think it best that I attend. I shall dance. I shall drink. I shall enjoy myself. And my husband may go hang.”

“Dearest—” Rosalind’s warning tone pricked her temper.

“Or he may enjoy himself as he always does,” Cordelia said with bitter laughter. “Why should I deny myself amusement? I am married now. If I am discreet, who is to know?”

“You do not mean that.” Rosalind stood and crossed to her, reaching for her hand. Cordelia avoided the touch, moving instead to a chair near the unlit hearth. Rosalind followed, settling opposite.

“You would no sooner take a lover than I would,” Rosalind said softly.

“You are in love with your husband. That he has harbored his mistress in your house has injured your heart. It would injure anyone’s.

But listen to me, Ravensmere told me this afternoon he believes matters are not as they seemed.

Perhaps Walpole wished to explain why she was there. ”

Cordelia shook her head. She remembered how Christian had tried to explain, stammering that his mistress was in some kind of trouble. And she could almost believe it. Women like Hetty must often find themselves in difficulty—life was cruel for those not born into luxury.

She wanted to summon compassion. Truly, she did. But that compassion withered the moment she recalled the woman’s arms wound about her husband’s shoulders. Her face pressed into his chest. Her husband’s slow strokes upon her back in reassurance.

Oh, she wanted to scratch both their eyes out.

“I barely know the duke,” Cordelia whispered.

“How am I to trust his words? Especially after what I saw. They were embracing, Rosalind. Is that not intimate? A gesture of compassion, perhaps, but also of affection.” Her throat tightened.

“He warned me he may not ever love. He told me outright this might come to pass. And I fought to prevent it. Yet it seems I have failed.”

Despair swamped her, and she cleared her throat, blinking hard against the tears. “Of course I shall return home eventually. What choice do I have? Divorce is impossible. But living under his roof does not mean I must respect him. Or be kind.”

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “The marriage he warned me of—the cold, empty arrangement has come to pass. And I cannot see a resolution.”

“All I ask,” Rosalind said gently, “is that you let him explain. If, after hearing him, your heart tells you he lies, then I will support whatever you decide. You are my sister. I will always stand beside you.”

Cordelia’s lips trembled, but she managed a faint smile.

“Thank you.” She rose, smoothing the scandalous red gown.

“Now, shall we finish dressing? There is a ball this evening, and I intend to attend it. I mean to take my mind off the most upsetting event of my life. And if we do not leave soon, we shall be late.”

“Too true.” Rosalind stood also. “I will ring for the carriage and meet you downstairs.”

Cordelia nodded. “Thank you.”

Her gaze drifted back to the cold hearth. How she prayed Walpole would not be at the ball this evening. For all her fiery words, for all her defiance, one glance from him might undo her entirely.

And she refused to be seen as weak, even before a duke.