Page 19 of The Broken Marchioness (Lords of Inconvenience #3)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

F rederica couldn’t move as Lord Wetherington moved to his feet. He didn’t accept his glass of claret straightaway but moved towards her, his eyes so fixed on her that all she longed for in the world was for the ground to open up and swallow her down to the depths of hell.

“Lady Frederica.” His voice was deep. He didn’t use her new title, but her old one, clearly choosing to ignore the fact entirely that she was married.

“Is this not lovely?” Margareet said gushingly, taking another hearty gulp from her champagne.

The blindness of her mother made Frederica only feel worse as she stared at Lord Wetherington. He bowed deeply, never taking his eyes from her face.

“I am so glad you could come tonight,” he said, his voice practically a hissing whisper as he moved towards her and tried to take her hand. He spoke as if it was his house. She tried to avoid giving him her hand, but he somehow won that particular battle and raised it to his lips.

She hoped her hand was cold and uninviting, but he didn’t seem to notice as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

“I…” She snatched her hand away, clearing her throat as she struggled for words. “Mother, you did not mention in your letter that Lord Wetherington would be here.”

“Didn’t I?” Any degree of acting skill Margaret may have had was foiled by her drunkenness. She took another big sip and moved toward her husband, evidently attempting to mask the fact that she had left Lord Wetherington’s name out on purpose.

“Yes, we are glad you could come, Frederica,” Ernest said rather nonchalantly, taking a sip from his claret. “We thought it time amends were made.”

“Amends?” Frederica spluttered. Judging by the way her parents were looking at her, and the hungry look in Lord Wetherington’s eyes, none of them were on the precipice of apologizing to her.

Lord Wetherington gestured for her to take a seat with a wave of his hand. He kept his back to her parents at all times, clearly hiding his expression that made her feel so terrified.

She didn’t move an inch. She was not at his beck and call.

“I am fine where I am, thank you,” she murmured in a rush.

“Amends indeed,” Margaret seconded her husband’s words, apparently not having seen the way Lord Wetherington stepped toward Frederica, intently gesturing to the chair again. To avoid him touching her, Frederica was forced to move aside. Lord Wetherington stepped in the way of the door, blocking her exit.

“Yes, we have brought Lord Wetherington here, so you can apologize to him.” Ernest gestured to with his wine glass.

Frederica’s jaw dropped so far that she felt something click in the top of her cheek.

“I beg your pardon?” she managed after a minute of staring at them all.

“An apology, not only for the scandal but for disappearing for so long. The poor man has been in bits worrying about you,” Ernest said with clear admonishment. “He has spent this last year in fear for what has happened to you.”

“It’s true.” Lord Wetherington spoke with an air of great pain. “Night and day, I have been worried about you.”

He stepped toward her. She purposefully put an armchair between them, gripping rather tightly to the reticule she had brought with her.

She didn’t doubt he had been thinking of her though she doubted very much it amounted to anything like worry. Judging by the narrowed eyes he now offered her, still not turning so his expression could be glimpsed by her parents, he had actually spent the last year in perfect fury.

“Now, there cannot even be a wedding as you have married another,” Margaret said, waving her glass rather too animatedly because of her drunkenness. A little champagne spilled over the side.

“Funny,” Frederica murmured. “I had a feeling you two would be rather happy about me marrying a marquess.” Her apt words made her father glare, but her mother was too drunk to notice what she had said.

“It’s time.” Ernest stepped forward, his voice somber. “Apologize to Lord Wetherington for the pain and consternation you have put him through.”

“I will not.” The words sharply left her mouth before she could stop them.

The silence that followed was explosive. Every pair of eyes was turned to her in alarm. She could feel the rage pumping through her veins, her heartbeat erratic in her chest, but she refused to be cowed. After all Lord Wetherington had put her through, she was not going to apologize to him.

“He is the one who owes me an apology,” Frederica went on, taking advantage of the silence.

“How dare you!” Ernest’s voice boomed. “You speak to a gentleman in this way in our home?”

“Your home, not mine,” she reminded him though he pushed on regardless.

“One apology.” Lord Wetherington held his finger in the air. She actually flinched, for the movement was so sharp, she wondered what he intended to do with that hand. “Do I not deserve it?”

She saw with disgust that he was relishing this moment. He wanted her to beg for his forgiveness, to be at his mercy.

I will not give him the satisfaction.

“No,” she said sharply.

“Frederica!” Her mother and father declared together.

“Is this what you think of me?” She rounded on them though her gaze went to her mother. Margaret was always the one she had stood the most chance of earning love from. That was why it hurt even more now to know such a hope had been foolish. “Am I worthy of so little, so worthy of nothing in your estimation, that you would make me apologize to a man who attacked me?”

“Attacked?” Lord Wetherington actually had the gall to laugh. “It was hardly that, Frederica.”

“Lady Padleigh. That is my title now,” she said coolly. “I will not apologize. I no longer have need of dinner either.” She turned sharply and moved toward the doorway, somehow managing to slip by Lord Wetherington’s shoulder and back into the hallway.

“Frederica?” Ernest shouted after her. “Come back here this instant!”

“Allow me, My Lord,” Lord Wetherington said with smoothness.

Disgusted, trying her best to ignore the words that were following her, Frederica reached for the door and flung it open, stepping down into the street outside the town house.

She saw her carriage pulled up at the side with the driver and footman smoking clay pipes. When they saw her, they dumped the ash and hastened back to their positions.

“We’re leaving, now, please,” she called, racing toward them.

Fast footsteps behind her made her move quicker still though she was not swift enough. She was still a distance away from the carriage when Lord Wetherington appeared before her, making her halt and jump back to avoid a collision.

“You are running away again, little Frederica?” he said, that relishing and sadistic smile back in his face.

“From you? Always.” She tried to step around him, but he moved in her way again. “Let me go.”

“You know you can never escape me completely.” He stepped toward her, forcing her back, for his face came so close to hers that his wretched cologne made her nose curl. “You can keep running, but I will keep finding you. You are mine.”

“I am not,” she spat. “In case it has passed you by, I stood up in church and vowed myself to another man. I have promised my life at his side, and I intend to see that vow through.”

“Vows can be broken,” he snapped sharply.

“Not by me.”

“Then we’ll have to find another way for the marriage to be over, won’t we?” he hissed.

Bile rose in Frederica’s throat as she stumbled away, gripping the black railing that surrounded the townhouse.

Is he… threatening Allan? No, surely even he wouldn’t make such a threat!

Yet he had already threatened Dorothy. What was to stop him now from making another such threat?

He stared at her, unblinkingly, his eyes wandering up and down her in such a way that she had never felt so small and unworthy in her life.

“I cannot believe my parents asked me to apologize to you,” the thought escaped her. “They think so little of me and so much of you.”

“You know I think a lot of you. You want that love? You wish to know what it is like?” He moved toward her.

“I don’t want to know anything from you!” She threw the words at him and ran, sprinting around him as best as she could and heading for the carriage.

The footman, clearly worried for her, opened the door hurriedly and shut it before Lord Wetherington could possibly follow her inside.

“My apologies, but this carriage is for Lady Padleigh only,” he said, stepping in Lord Wetherington’s way. “Goodnight.” He jumped onto the back of the carriage, and the driver flicked the reins. At once, the carriage leapt forward, leaving Frederica to peer out of the window to where Lord Wetherington stood watching her go.

Hot tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

“I’m such a fool,” she muttered aloud, throwing herself back onto the cushioned seat. “How could I think they’d change? How could I think they would apologize to me?”

More than anything, she had learned something tonight. She was not worthy of an apology, just as she was not worthy of happiness.

“I am worth nothing.”

* * *

Allan looked over the notes he and his steward had made for changing some of the grounds. He was so focused on his work that it had managed to distract him of thoughts of Frederica for a little while though he couldn’t deny she was always at the forefront of his mind.

Every now and then, he looked at the clock, trying to make a guess at when she would return from her dinner with her parents. What shocked him most of all was when he heard a carriage scarcely an hour after she had left.

“What the…?” Allan muttered to himself. He grabbed the nearest candle and hastened to the window, peering out to see it was indeed Frederica’s carriage.

She didn’t wait for the footman to open the door but practically fell out of the carriage. She was crying heavily, trying to dry the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

Allan took off at a run, leaving his candle behind. He shot through the dark corridor, reaching the front door in seconds and flinging it wide.

Frederica was so busy attempting to dry her tears, she hadn’t yet noticed his appearance. She moved toward the house, looking quite lost, unable to watch what her feet were doing. On the top step, she missed her footing and nearly fell.

Allan reached out and grabbed her hand, steadying her as swiftly as he could. She looked up, her eyes finding his. They were red and puffy, and her lips were parted in surprise.

“Freddie?” he whispered. It was the first time in days he had used that name.

Her crying came harder. She moved inside the house, and he helped her, taking her away from the darkness outside.

Rather than take her into the parlor, his study, or any other room where they could be found, he led her up the stairs toward her chamber.

“What is it? What has happened?” he pleaded, steering her across the corridor.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Knew what?” He opened her chamber door, leading her inside.

“You knew they were not going to apologize to me. When they spoke of amends, it was nothing so benevolent as that.”

He didn’t answer. It had been his suspicion when he read that letter. He had not wanted to stifle Frederica’s hope, but in Allan’s experience, people didn’t change much. He highly doubted one sharp conversation from him would overhaul Lord and Lady Campbell’s attitudes which had consumed them for a lifetime.

“Rest yourself,” he pleaded, urging her to sit in a chair in the room. He hurried around her, lighting candles from a tinder box, and calling for a maid, asking her to bring tea.

“Not tea,” Frederica said from her seat.

“Brandy?” he offered instead to which she nodded. Brandy was quickly procured and offered to her. Once the maid had left, Allan dragged forward a footstool and sat before Frederica, keen to be close to her but not so close that she would retreat from him again. “What happened?” he asked softly, presenting her with his handkerchief, so she could dry her tears properly.

“He was there,” she whispered.

Allan sat straight. He didn’t need to ask who. Judging by Frederica’s obvious pain, he could take a good guess.

“The man who tried to force himself,” he muttered darkly. She nodded. “God’s death.” He jumped to his feet so restless that he couldn’t possibly be still.

He had a good mind to go to Lord Campbell’s house at once and demand to know what he was thinking. Maybe this man would even be there now. If he was, Allan might well attack him for what he’d done to Frederica.

“Wait… were they waiting for him to make amends to you?” Allan asked, turning to face her. When her breathing heaved, he had his answer. “They wanted you to apologize to him?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God.” Allan moved away to the door.

“What? Where are you going?”

“To your father’s house, to see this man myself.”

“What? Allan, no!” she cried out so loudly that he couldn’t help freezing, his hand on the door handle.

“Freddie, this is disgusting,” he said darkly. “How can I stand by when you are treated this way?”

“I will not go there again,” she pleaded, “but please, do not go to them. Do not see him.”

“Why not?” Allan turned to face her sharply. She had half risen out of her chair in her panic, the brandy glass shaking in her hand. “He deserves pain for this.”

“Not from us —”

“Then who else from!?”

“Allan, please!” she begged, her voice reaching new octaves of panic. “Please, just stay here. I implore you, stay here.”

When she begged him, he couldn’t refuse her. What kind of husband would he be then?

He released his hold on the door, and she capitulated back into her chair. He moved toward her, taking the stool again though he struggled to sit still.

“You should not be made this miserable, least of all by your parents,” he grumbled.

“It is the way of things.”

“How can you say that so nonchalantly?”

She sniffed but didn’t answer, mopping her cheeks instead.

“Freddie,” he began slowly. “Please don’t go there alone again. Who knows how many times he will go to that house with a plan to get you alone.”

“I promise not to go again.” She nodded hurriedly. “I have no wish to, definitely not alone.” She raised her glass to her lips and took another shaky sip. “That will teach me to hope, won’t it?”

“Hope?”

“To hope for understanding between me and my parents, to hope that I would be worthy of something in their eyes.”

“Please don’t talk in such a disparaging way.” He leaned toward her, but when he noticed her wide eyes, he retreated again.

She was like a spooked mouse. Every time he tried to get near her, she pulled back from him. It made him yearn to protect her even more than before, to somehow snatch all the pain and darkness away.

How I wish I could see her smiling again.

“You deserve to be happy,” he whispered to her, speaking slowly, for he feared her reaction. “You deserve their apology, too. If I could cast a spell and make them give you that apology, believe me, I would.”

She smiled, ever so slightly though it faded fast.

“You are too good of heart, Allan.”

“Too good? Surely such a thing doesn’t exist,” he laughed gently. That happy air between them was momentary though. It soon faded to something serious in the quiet. “I want you to be happy here, so I beg you, do not dwell on your parents. Think of other things, do things that make you smile, and forget them and this man.”

“You think I could?”

“Of course, I do, and another thing…” He took the risk and leaned forward an inch in the hope of catching her gaze. It worked, for she looked up from the brandy glass and stared straight back at him. “If you ever see him again — if he ever frightens you again — tell me.”

She didn’t nod right away, but eventually, she did.

“Good.” He sighed and leaned back again. “Another?” He motioned to the brandy glass. She offered it forward, and he topped it up from the carafe the maid had brought for them.

“One thing,” she whispered as she took the glass back from him. “What would you do, do you think? If you ever met him?”

Allan poured out a second glass of brandy for himself, buying himself some time, so he could debate his answer. He lifted the glass to his lips and knocked back a large gulp.

He could picture in his mind all so easily what he would do. He imagined some nondescript gentleman before him, probably clothed completely in black, with a mean face. Allan would have struck up straight on the jaw then again on the nose. With the man prostrate on the ground, gripping to a broken nose, that would just be the start. If he had his way, the man who hurt Frederica would never be able to walk or touch another woman with his hand again, and perhaps then he would have felt some satisfaction in life.

A little justice would be served.

“I don’t know,” he lied to her. “Let’s hope we never have to find out.”