“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I have tea and sandwiches brought up to your room?”
“Thank you, yes. That would be lovely.” This time, she knew the tremor in her words had betrayed her. But to her relief, Mrs. Walsh did not react. She simply bobbed another curtsey and disappeared, closing the door behind her.
The moment the door had clicked into place, Gemma's tears spilled. Usually, she was not one to cry, but if there were ever extenuating circumstances that might allow for such a display of emotion, surely this was it.
She longed to see her sisters. Her father. Her grandmother. Longed for her cozy, worn blankets on her bed in Volk House. She longed for her old, simple existence when she had had nothing more than the life of a spinster laid out before her.
And heaven on earth, she longed to get out of this damn dress and into a change of clean clothes.
But right now, none of that was happening. Some distant part of her knew that the simple life of spinsterhood in Volk House was gone forever, but it was a reality she could not yet allow herself to go near.
Right now, all she had the strength for was to curl up on her bed and cry.
Wyatt found himself pacing his study, a glass of whisky firmly in hand. Well, this was his second glass now, but who was counting?
The thought of his wedding day had always elicited a faint pull of horror. But he had never imagined it might turn out like this.
He was acutely aware of her—his wife—in the rooms designated for Henrietta Henford.
I ought to go to her. Make sure she is all right.
Wyatt felt fairly certain he was the last person Lady Gemma wanted to see right now. But he could only imagine how she must be feeling. This whole chaotic turn of events had felt completely unmooring for him—how must she feel, having been torn from her family, her home, without even a hint of warning? And, he acknowledged distantly, without a scrap of it being her fault.
Tossing back the last of the liquor for courage, he shoved open the door of the study and strode down the passage toward the other wing of the house. He paused outside the door of Lady Gemma's bedchamber.
Is she crying?
Inexplicably, the thought made something ache in Wyatt's chest. He knocked gently. “Lady Gemma? May we speak?”
There was a moment of silence, then sharp footsteps clicked toward him. The door, however, remained closed.
“We have nothing to speak about, Your Grace,” came her taut reply.
In spite of himself, Wyatt let out a chuckle. “I really don't think that is true. Do you?”
There was another silence, and just as he was about to give up, the door opened. Lady Gemma's eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her face blotchy with tears. Her dark hair was rumpled, stray strands clinging to her wet cheeks.
“You are upset,” he said stupidly.
Lady Gemma snorted. “No, Your Grace. These are tears of joy.”
In spite of himself, a faint smile flickered in the corner of his lips. Though he hated seeing her so upset, there was something about her feistiness he could not help but be drawn to.
“May I come in?” he asked tentatively.
“No,” she snapped. “Of course, you may not come in.” She met his eyes in a gesture of challenge. A look that said she knew she was out of line in speaking to her husband, the Duke, in such a manner. And a look that said she could not have cared less.
Wyatt looked past her into the room. It had been decorated in shades of cream and pale pink, at Miss Henford's request, no doubt. He found himself wondering what Lady Gemma thought of it. A teapot and an untouched plate of sandwiches sat on the side table. “Perhaps you ought to eat something,” Wyatt said, grappling at something to break the icy silence.
“I am not hungry,” Lady Gemma replied brusquely.
Wyatt sighed. “Very well then.” Clearly, the conversation he had hoped to have, about how they might go about making the bestof this situation, was not going to happen right now. “Your belongings shall be here shortly. Along with your lady's maid. You shall have plenty of time to tidy yourself before dinner tonight.”
At the mention of dinner, Lady Gemma's eyes widened slightly, and he detected a faint hint of horror in them.
I don't blame her. I am dreading it too.
Wyatt had no idea how he was going to face his mother and grandmother, especially not with his surly, sour-tempered new wife at his side. His mother would still be fuming, no doubt. And as for the Dowager Duchess, well… There were a few choice words Wyatt wished to hurl at her too. After all, this nightmare was all her doing.
