Page 29 of The Broken Marchioness (Lords of Inconvenience #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“A re you ready for this?” Allan asked, offering his hand to her as she stepped down out of the carriage.

“I am.” Frederica smiled with surprising confidence welling up inside of her.

Ever since Allan had come to retrieve her from Cornwall, she had been ready for this, had wanted this moment to come. Now it was here, and she was more nervous. She was facing the prospect of turning her back on her parents for good if they did not accept all that they had done wrong in her life and agree to have a fresh start.

Frederica smiled as Allan took her hand and led her down the path toward the house. When he squeezed her hand comfortingly, she held him tightly back, thrilled at the feelings that were emanating through her body from his touch.

They’d had a very pleasant week indeed. Far from returning to the house in London at once, they had instead spent a few days in Cornwall together. Frederica had shown Allan the local beauty spots which she had fallen in love with so much, and the two of them had made a plan to come back to Cornwall every year from now on.

When they had returned to the house in London, they had shut themselves off from the wider world and chosen just to be together for a few days. In those days, Frederica had discovered even more about Allan. Everything she was discovering was making her love him even more which was something she had not thought possible.

Beside the stoop leading to the front door, she halted, her nerves creeping in again.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Allan whispered in her ear. “We can go home right now. We can go back to making plans for the future and talking about what we want.” He soothingly ran a hand up her spine. She shivered with delight at that touch.

They had spent all morning in his bedchamber, sitting on a rococo settee and planning their future. When Frederica had confessed that she would like children someday, she was shocked at the smile which had spread across Allan’s face.

From now on then, we can keep that door between our chambers unlocked.

She smiled just at the thought.

“If we went home now, what of this moment? I’d be delaying it.”

“I could write to your parents,” he offered, raising his head and looking at the house, “but it would not have the same effect as hearing it directly from you.”

“I know. You’re right. It has to be done.” She huffed, taking a step forward then hesitating again. “Do you think they’ve heard? About Lord Wetherington?”

“I highly doubt it.” Allan shook his head. “His lawyers have worked mighty hard to keep his name out of the papers, an aim which I haven’t exactly gone to any effort to jeopardize. I don’t want our names in the papers, either. Our business is our business; it’s no one else’s.”

She smiled again. The fact that Allan took such care — as well as making sure her name wasn’t in the papers in the morning — was a kindness indeed.

“Right, I am ready.” She turned and knocked on the door with Allan moving to stand behind her.

There was a commotion behind the door. At first, Frederica could make out no words. She and Allan just kept exchanging perplexed looks.

“I’ll answer it. Out of the way.” It was Margaret’s voice. Judging by the commotion, Frederica expected she had brushed the butler aside to answer the door herself. “Sweetheart!” she gushed as she opened the door.

Frederica couldn’t even force a smile at the sight that greeted her.

Her mother was already in her cups with a healthy glass of wine clutched between her fingers and a beaming smile on her lips. Behind her, Ernest was fidgeting like mad. He stood there awkwardly, his eyes shooting straight to Allan.

Frederica looked at Allan with curiosity. Since he had come to find her in Cornwall, she had learned about his meeting with her father when he had gone looking for Lord Wetherington. She rather expected after Allan’s outburst that Ernest was a little frightened of him now.

“Come in, come in,” Margaret begged. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.”

Frederica stepped forward, saying nothing, but clearly, she didn’t need to. In the next moment, her mother had taken hold of her arm and steered her into the house.

“Come, let’s share a drink.”

“Don’t you think you’ve —” Ernest began but was quickly cut off by his wife.

“Ernest,” she snapped.

Ernest fell silent and nodded, hurrying behind them. From what Frederica could see, her father avoided meeting Allan’s eye at all times.

They ended up in the parlor together where Frederica was hastily pushed down into a chair as her mother sat beside her. Ernest topped up Margaret’s wine glass then poured three more. One he passed into Frederica’s hand. Another, he put upon the mantelpiece, close to Allan though he didn’t go near enough to risk the chance of touching him.

“We’re so glad you suggested these drinks,” Margaret said, leaning toward Frederica. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, and that silly misunderstanding last time wasn’t worth us fighting about.”

“Is that what you call it, Mother? A silly misunderstanding?” Frederica asked in surprise.

“Of course. Let us move past it.” Margaret clinked her glass against Frederica’s own as if toasting something then gestured to Ernest. “Now, your father seemed to think some awful tragedy had happened — that you and your husband had split. I am so relieved to see he was wrong about that.”

She looked appealingly at Allan then glowered at her husband as well.

Ernest settled himself in a seat as far away as he could get from Allan, who chose not to sit but continued to stand by the mantelpiece instead.

“There are some rumors, too, about your split. There was an awful tale that you, Lord Padleigh, had had something of a ruckus with Lord Wetherington. I do hope that is not true.”

Allan conveniently hid his hands behind his back. The wounds were mostly healed now, but Frederica was relieved to see he didn’t want to make it obvious.

“Now, let us talk about our plans for the future,” Margaret said with sudden keenness, turning back to face Frederica. “You must come for dinner soon with all our old friends. Lord Wetherington will be there too; of course, you still owe him that apology.”

Frederica had heard enough. She sat forward, catching Allan’s eye, who nodded, urging her on.

“I will not be issuing an apology to Lord Wetherington, Mother. Not today, not in the future. Not ever in fact.” Her words made Margaret halt, the glass going slightly askew in her hand.

Nearby, Ernest rubbed his brow discontentedly.

“If you think I have come here today to play along with the way you have run my life these last few years, then I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

Deciding she needed a little Dutch courage, Frederica took a hefty gulp from her wine then placed the glass down on a table beside her and turned back to face her mother. “In fact, I have come today to ask for an apology from you.”

“From us?” Ernest spoke with more freedom at last. “Whatever for? What did we do wrong?”

Allan tutted, but he said nothing, choosing instead to shake his head. Ernest glowered at him, resenting his condescension.

Frederica stood up and turned to face her parents, finding the extra height helped her to feel a little more control in this room.

“A year ago in this house, I was attacked. A man you called your friend, in fact, a man you were besotted in making a connection with, tried to… tried to force himself upon me. He followed me, isolated me, then tried to make me kiss him.” Her words made Ernest scoff.

He stood and walked around his settee.

“Perhaps you simply do not understand the strength of a man’s affection,” he said belittlingly.

“You’ll find, Father, that I understand what true affection is like.” She didn’t look back at Allan though she felt his eyes on her with the words. “I know it very well, and it is nothing like what Lord Wetherington tried to do me last year.”

Apparently no longer finding an objection to the idea of wine, Ernest poured himself a second glass. The first one had disappeared rather quickly.

“After I was attacked by him, I had no sympathy from either of you. No understanding. There was no appreciation of the fact that I had been forced into a situation in which I did not wish to be. What was worse was the fact that you both insisted that I marry the very man who had done it.” Frederica halted, watching as her mother’s breathing had quickened.

Ernest had turned his back, choosing instead to drink his wine rather than focus on her.

“Did you honestly think that was the right thing to do?” She first addressed the question to the pair of them but seeing that she had no chance of getting an answer from her father — who was doing his best to pretend she hadn’t spoken — she turned to face her mother alone. “Could you really accept the idea of me being bound to a man who… who would…”

She struggled to say the words, but in the end, she didn’t need to. Margaret raised a hand, begging her silently not to say the word.

“I do not believe he would have done it. Not really.” Margaret shook her head with desperation in her expression. “It was just the first pangs of passion. That’s all. He would have been a good man. A good husband.”

“And what in his behavior persuaded you to believe that?” Frederica asked, wide eyed.

“He has always been so charming, so kind… and your father…” She looked around, appealing to Ernest’s back. “He assured me that Lord Wetherington was a man of good spirit. Of honor.”

“Even though they probably met in a gambling hall,” Frederica pointed out.

“That is slanderous!” Outraged and with shining eyes, Margaret moved to her feet. “Your father is not a gambler. Do not believe such a thing.”

“Oh, he is. He is a gambler.” Frederica nodded. “Allan saw him in a gambling hall just last week.”

Lost for words, Margaret turned on the spot.

“Still… still…” She struggled to continue with her argument. “It all would have been fine. It all would have worked out well.”

“Do you believe that? Really? Or is it just your willful blindness of not wanting to believe you were pairing your daughter with a man who would attack her?”

“Please, no more.” Margaret put down her glass and tried to walk out of the room though it did little good. Frederica walked toward her, determined to drive her point home even more now that she had a sign that she was being listened to at last.

“Mother. Were you really so happy to marry me to a man I said I did not want to marry?”

That should have been everything.

Frederica held onto a tight knot in her stomach, knowing this was something she would struggle to ever forgive. It didn’t seem to matter how many times she had told her parents she didn’t want to marry Lord Wetherington; they were going to insist on it anyway. They had no respect for her wishes and no understanding of her fears.

Yet Frederica didn’t get an answer. She saw her mother’s shoulders quake, a sure sign that she was on the verge of tears.

Slowly, Margaret moved further away from her across the room. She went instead to Ernest’s side and laid her hand against his shoulder. He angled his head around, in acknowledgement of her reaching out towards him, though he offered no comfort with words, nor did he raise a hand towards her.

“Well, Father?” Frederica pressed. An apology from either of them would mean the world at this point, some acknowledgement that they had done wrong.

Silence extended across the room. All of their glasses lay forgotten and neglected. This was not the ‘happy drinks’ her mother had been hoping for, but it was right. It had to be done, and Frederica knew she would feel happier for it once it was.

The night before, after dinner, she and Allan had sat together outside in his rose garden, watching the sun set. His arm was around her as she laid her head on his shoulder, and he had asked her what would finally make her feel free from the sadness her parents had imposed on her life?

Frederica’s answer had come swiftly.

“If they understood.”

She had spoken of how, in a dream world, she would have an apology from them though she truly believed such an apology would not be possible in this lifetime. Maybe, at least, they could understand the pain they had put her through.

“I wonder, Father.” Frederica changed tact, moving to stand beside her husband as she brought up a subject she knew would cause pain. “Did you ever miss your sister when she went to Cornwall?”

Ernest’s head jerked up. Slowly, he turned around to face her.

“Or did you write her off as a scandal, too? Someone with whom you just didn’t want to trouble yourself? Did you ever ask her what led to that scandal? What drove her to run away to Cornwall?”

She had never seen this expression on her father’s face. It was a mixture of guilt and abhorrence.

“I will not discuss this subject with you,” he seethed under his breath.

“Because that is how you handle anything difficult, isn’t it? You pretend it hasn’t happened.” Frederica shook her head.

She realized now just why he never wanted to talk about Honora. It wasn’t so much that the scandal had happened in the first place; it was the fact he didn’t want to talk about or deal with the fallout. It was a constant reminder. A constant disappointment.

“I think I’m ready to leave now,” Frederica whispered to Allan, turning to face him.

“You haven’t got what you wanted yet,” he murmured back so that only she could hear him.

She shook her head, showing that she knew it would be a losing battle to fight it anymore. Her parents had retreated into complete silence. They may not speak again for the rest of the evening.

“A little more yet,” Allan said, taking a step forward. He cleared his throat, addressing her parents. “Your daughter is waiting for her apology.”

Ernest shifted his weight between his feet.

“For what?” Ernest grunted. “For trying to protect her?”

“No, that was not what you did. You tried to protect her reputation, not her. The two are very different things, aren’t they?” Allan protested. “If you wish to see your daughter again under our roof, then you will apologize to her.”

Margaret jerked her head up.

“We’re sorry,” Margaret said at once.

“She doesn’t mean it,” Frederica whispered, taking Allan’s arm, intent on leaving at once. If her mother had meant it, she would have said it sooner without the threat of never being welcomed into their home.

“No, I do mean it,” Margaret said hurriedly, stepping forward. “I am sorry. I am. I was just trying to make life simple. I did believe him to be a good man. I really did, Frederica. Please, believe me in that.”

Frederica looked to her father to see if he would second his wife’s words, but he didn’t.

“Maybe this will help,” Allan said with exasperation. “Lord Wetherington has been arrested for assault.”

“Truly?” Ernest muttered in alarm. “He’s going to prison?”

“He is.” Allan nodded. “My wife’s testimony along with my own of what he told me about the matter is enough, not to mention a letter she wrote to a friend about the incident. Lord Wetherington will lose any respect he once had in the ton. You can depend on that.”

“So, the authorities… they call it assault?” Ernest looked shocked at the idea. His hand trembled around his glass as he looked at Frederica.

He believes me now.

She could finally see it, like a great veil being lifted.

“I’m sorry I did not listen to you.” His voice was somber. That apology, even more than her mother’s, meant everything. It was the understanding she had been searching for.

“Thank you.” She couldn’t smile but nodded. “I think that’s enough for one night.”

“Good. Shall we?” Allan offered his arm to her. She gladly took it, her fingers hooking around the crook of his elbow as he led her out of the room.

Frederica glanced back just once in the doorway. She saw her mother was now in floods of tears. Margaret flung herself into Ernest’s chest and buried herself there as Ernest raised his arms and wrapped them around her.

Strangely, the sight gave Frederica some comfort — not to see their pain but to see the regret and that Ernest had enough compassion in him to comfort his wife after all.

Numbly, Frederica walked out with Allan. He helped her into the carriage, and she sat on the bench for a minute alone as Allan went to tell the driver where they were going next.

As she sat alone, Frederica hung her head in her hands. The first trilling sound was much like a gasp, like that of tears.

“Freddie?” Allan said in panic. “Are you crying?”