Across the room, her father stood pouring out two glasses of claret from a decanter, one for himself and one for Lord Wetherington.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Frederica 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?”
