Page 16 of His Scarred Duchess
“You shouldn’t let them get to you,” Lord Brenton murmured, though his eyes darted nervously around the room. Then, as if suddenly remembering something of great importance, he cleared his throat and said in a louder, more cheerful voice, “Ah, did I mention that Lord Pembrook has acquired a new stallion? Magnificent beast, I hear.”
Adeline bit back a bitter retort. Easy for him to say when he wasn’t the one bearing the brunt of Society’s disdain. Instead, she merely nodded, allowing him to lead her through the crowded ballroom.
For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine a different scenario—one where she entered the room and was greeted with warm smiles and a genuine welcome. Where her wit and charmwould be appreciated, and she could engage in stimulating conversation without the constant, crushing weight of judgment.
But as they approached a group of gentlemen, reality came crashing down. Conversations faltered, eyes widened, and more than one gentleman suddenly found their glass fascinating.
“Lord Brenton,” one brave soul ventured, pointedly addressing her father. “How good of you to join us this evening.”
“Lord Denbrook,” Lord Brenton replied, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Capital to see you, old boy. I trust you remember my daughter, Lady Adeline?”
Lord Denbrook’s eyes skittered over Adeline, barely acknowledging her presence. “Ah, yes. Lady Adeline. How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you, my lord,” Adeline replied, dipping into a small curtsy. “I hope you’re enjoying the evening?”
But Lord Denbrook had already turned back to her father and launched into a discussion about horse racing, effectively excluding her from the conversation.
Adeline stood there, feeling increasingly invisible as the minutes ticked by. She longed to interject, to share her knowledge of horseflesh—gleaned from years of reading and observation—but she knew her contributions would be unwelcome at best and scorned at worst.
“Oh! How clumsy of me!”
Adeline turned just in time to see a wave of red punch flying towards her. She stumbled back, but not quickly enough to save her gown from the splash of liquid.
A hush fell over the nearby crowd as she stood there, punch dripping from her skirts.
Lady Margaret Ashworth, the culprit, covered her mouth with a gloved hand, her eyes glittering with poorly concealed mirth.
“My deepest apologies, Lady Adeline,” she simpered. “How terribly careless of me. Though perhaps it makes your gown look better? A touch of color does wonders, don’t you think?”
Titters of laughter rippled through the gathering crowd. Adeline felt her chest tighten. This was too much, too cruel, even by theton’sstandards.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she choked out, “I believe I need some fresh air.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and fled. She barely registered the whispers and stares that followed her—her only thought was to escape the suffocating air of the ballroom.
She burst through the French doors leading to the garden, gulping in the cool night air as if she’d been drowning. Themanicured paths of Lady Windhurst’s garden stretched out before her, bathed in moonlight and mercifully empty of prying eyes.
Adeline stumbled forward, her legs carrying her deeper into the garden’s shadowed recesses. She found herself beside an ornate fountain, its gentle burble providing a soothing counterpoint to her ragged breathing.
Only then, hidden from view and serenaded by the splash of water, did she allow her carefully constructed mask to crumble. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she gripped the edge of the fountain, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
How much more of this could she endure? How many more snubs, cruel jests, and ‘accidents’ must she suffer before her exile to Scotland? At that moment, the prospect of disappearing into the Scottish countryside seemed less like a punishment and more like a blessed relief.
As her sobs subsided, replaced by a hollow ache in her chest, Adeline straightened. She wiped at her tears, wincing as her fingers brushed against her scars. Those marks that had come to define her in Society’s eyes, overshadowing everything else she was or could be.
For a wild moment, she considered simply leaving—walking out of the garden, away from the soirée, away from London and its cruelty.
Her breath caught in her throat. There, at the far end of the garden, stood a high stone wall. In the silvery moonlight, it looked almost inviting, a barrier between this world of cruelty and judgment and…
Freedom. Escape.
Chapter Eight
“Iassure you, Your Grace, the potential for profit is considerable,” Lord Farrell said, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “With your estate’s resources and my connections in London, we could corner the market in no time.”
Edmund leaned back in his chair, considering the man before him. Lord Farrell’s proposal was tempting, he had to admit. The influx of capital would certainly help with Holbrook’s mounting debts and much-needed improvements.
“Your proposal is intriguing, Lord Farrell,” he acknowledged, his tone carefully neutral. “I’d like to review the projected figures in more detail before deciding.”
