Page 31 of Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta
Henrietta sat down and sighed in relief. Her hands were shaking, which was surely a small victory given that all her insides felt like they were dissolving into useless mush.
It was painfully awkward to be alone at the head table, not least because she apparently had been deserted by her groom. After hearing all the fussing outside the chapel, she was not really surprised. Eventually, a few couples, probably important people she should know, filled in the spots at the outer ends of the long table, but the chairs closest to her remained unoccupied. At last, a friendly voice addressed her, and even better, its owner sat down beside her.
“You’ve had a quite a day, haven’t you, my dear?”
Relief quickly turned to angst as Henrietta turned to look into the dark steady eyes of her new mother-in-law.
“Yes, Your Grace,” came her stilted response.
“You look absolutely dreadful.” There was no insult in her voice, only something strangely reassuring. “But I blame you not for running, and I applaud your return. Well done, even such as you are.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. You are very kind.” Relief returned as Henrietta considered with surprise that the Duchess might prove to be a friend. She certainly hadn’t expected as much.
Large platters of food arrived, and the noise level rose with the clatter and clang of good silver in use. Henrietta found the duck placed before her temptingly glazed to perfection, but her stomach turned over in warning.
“Will the Marquess be joining us for dinner, Your Grace?”
The Duchess smiled. “At this point, your guess is as good as mine, my dear. I feel compelled to apologize for his behavior. It was most untoward and most unlike him.”
“A man is entitled to his opinions, though I warrant few would bestow such enthusiastic disapproval in such public circumstances. I didn’t mean to be so displeasing,” she finished quietly.
“About that, Henrietta,” the Duchess began carefully, “Ewan has been a bit,” she searched for a word, “unstable of late.”
“But why should he be, Your Grace? I mean no disrespect, but I see a man of privilege, with wealth, education, independence, and every creature comfort at his beck and call. Why should he be sounstableas you call it?”
“My, but you speak your mind freely, child.”
“Forgive me. But given the woeful impression I have already made upon your household and your community, Your Grace, have I really much more to lose?”
The Duchess sighed and then forced a weak smile. “We approach the anniversary of his first wife’s death.”
Henrietta gasped. No one had told her anything about this man or his family. She only knew they were of sound reputation, but the particulars had been nil. In truth, she hadn’t bothered to inquire, but given her recent state of house arrest, what of significance could she really have learned anyway?
“Your Grace, I had no idea. I –” she faltered.
“She died in childbirth,” the gracious lady explained. “He loved her very much.”
“And the –?”
“Yes. And his son. It has been a difficult year for him, for all of us.” The Duchess looked at her plate somewhat vacantly before she looked again at Henrietta. She reached over and squeezed her new daughter’s hand affectionately. Another forced smile. “But here you are. And we are hoping for brighter days.”
“Indeed, we are,” the man in question offered as he slipped into the chair on Henrietta’s other side. A shock of surprise jolted through her before she felt herself stiffen self-consciously. Where had he come from? She watched out of the corner of her eye as her new husband fussed with his napkin and motioned to the steward to bring him a plate of food. She then fixed her gaze straight ahead, unwilling to acknowledge him.
I will not look at him. I will not speak to him. I will not. This will be a very long and quiet meal indeed.
Or so she thought.
Chapter 13
Her appearance shocked him for the second time that day. This time, however, he was in complete control of his faculties and managed his surprise quite comfortably. He entered the dining room without announcement, and as he drew closer to the table where his new wife sat chatting with his mother, he could not help but feel amused by her. Her hair was a beautiful burnished gold, almost bronze, and while earlier in the day it had sat in neatly tamed braided ropes beneath the lacy veil, the abigail’s best work now hung in soft tatters around her pretty face. Something –was it dirt?– left faint streaks upon high cheekbones, beginning just below her eyes and trailing off down the column of her fine neck.
In such a state of disrepair, any resemblance she had to Patricia seemed as good as gone. At least for now. He felt himself relaxing, the tension slowly draining from his body as he took his seat next to her. Truly, she looked ridiculous, but to sit in that chair next to his mother looking as she did was something to consider. This girl was brave to be sure. And somehow, as Averson had suggested, intriguing. Curiosity pushed him to engage her.
He settled his napkin on his lap and motioned to the steward to bring him a plate.
“My Lord has decided to join his wedding feast?” Henrietta managed with soft sarcasm. She kept her gaze straight ahead, apparently determined not to look at him. Though she would not meet his eyes, at least she spoke. He liked the smoothness of her voice. It was distinctly hers.
“My Lady has decided to cease foraging in the wood for her supper?” he countered with humor in his voice. He was remarkably relieved that she had shed the blanket of lace that had covered her from head to toe. Though her escapade had left her dress a disaster, losing the veil was an improvement that allowed him to appreciate her heretofore hidden form.
