“Forgive me—I quite forgot I must now curtsey to you.”
“Think nothing of it,” Charity replied with a light laugh. “I very nearly curtsied to the countess myself. It is the strangest thing—to be curtsied to rather than offering one.”
“That is the privilege of a duchess,” Eammon interjected smoothly. “Respect is afforded to one of your station.”
And yet, the notion sat uncomfortably with him, for he knew it was but an illusion. If the truth of his past came to light, their titles would be forfeit. But until then, appearances must be maintained. His thoughts veered toward Markham, and his stomach churned.
“It is good to see you, Your Grace,” Millie said, adopting a more formal tone in deference to their surroundings. “I saw your cousin—Lord Marcus—is here.”
Eammon’s smile tightened. “Indeed. Many of my family are present this evening.” His gaze traversed the room and alighted on his aunt and uncle, Hannah and Edwin, engaged in conversation with Thomas across the way.
“Lady Millie, you will excuse me if I steal away my wife for a moment? There are introductions yet to be made.”
“Of course,” Millie said, squeezing Charity’s arm. “We shall speak later.”
Eammon’s gaze sharpened. Speak later? What could they have to discuss? Was Charity unwittingly stumbling on the threads of his deception? No—he must not yield to paranoia. Millie and Charity were dear friends; it was only natural they should have much to say to one another.
Suppressing his unease, he led Charity across the room to where his uncle Thomas brightened at their approach. He was a man of stately figure, wearing a midnight coat trimmed in silver brocade that sparkled faintly in the candlelight.
“Your Grace,” Thomas greeted, bowing slightly. “A picture of beauty and grace.”
Charity blushed at the effusive compliment. “I thank you, my lord.
Eammon turned to introduce his other relatives. “This is my uncle, the Duke of Ashburn, and his wife, my Aunt Hannah, the Duchess of Ashburn.”
His aunt smiled warmly, laughter lines crinkling the corners of her eyes, a reflection of years of kindness.
“Please,” she said, “call me Hannah when we are in private. I am your aunt by marriage, after all.”
“And I am Edwin,” his uncle added. “It is lovely to see that Eammon has found his match.” He chuckled. “And so swiftly, too.”
But Eammon hardly heard him. His thoughts churned. His aunt and uncle knew the truth of his parentage, but not the deception he had since woven. The entire affair was spinning out of control, faster than those terrible storms his cousin David had written about in America.
The sensation was almost like that of a tornado—its fury building up in his chest, a storm of anxiety swirling, threatening to break everything he had carefully built. Eammon’s pulse quickened, his throat tightening as the walls seemed to close in. He could no longer ignore the impending collapse. If Markham succeeded in exposing him, all would be lost. Every falsehood would come crashing down.
Beads of sweat formed at his brow. His chest tightened, his breath coming short. He had to get away—now.
“Excuse me,” he murmured. “I feel a cough coming on. Where are the refreshments?”
With a nod from his uncle toward the smoking room, Eammon strode away, his pulse hammering as though he were being chased by the very truth itself.
CHAPTER23
Charity
She watched him hurrying away, a touch confused by his demeanor. Had she done something wrong? They had seemed to be getting along much better, but he had remained mostly silent during the drive to his aunt and uncle's home, and was leaving her alone now. What a peculiar man she was married to.
“I truly am so delighted that you have joined our family,” his aunt, the Duchess of Ashburn, remarked, reclaiming Charity's focus.
“That is very kind of you to say,” Charity responded, grateful for the warm welcome.
The duchess reminded her of Eammon’s mother—a genuinely lovely woman. So far, she hadn’t encountered a single member of his family who was unkind or in any way disagreeable toward her. His uncle, the Earl of Arlington, had been a bit testy, but she chalked it up to his not being terribly social.
“Shall we take a turn about the room?” the duchess suggested, smiling. Charity recognized that expression as one her mother often used, though it was not frequently heard amongst the younger generation. Nodding, she linked arms with the duchess, leaving the duke behind to mingle as they strolled around the ballroom.
“I have not been here since Christmastide last,” the duchess said. “Oh, what a merry time it was! My sisters and their husbands and families were all in England at the same time, and we gathered here along with Lydia’s sisters for a marvelous feast.” She smiled, but then, darkness took hold as though the memories were not altogether marvelous after all. What troubled her so suddenly, Charity wondered? Charity did not wish for the woman to dwell on whatever it was that had troubled her and thus changed the topic at once.
“Are there only sisters in your family?” she inquired, realizing how little she knew about her new relations.
