Page 12 of His Haunted Duchess
“Here, perhaps, I can be of assistance in providing an introduction.”
Her curls shook with suppressed fervor, but her tone, at least, was level.
“Your Grace,” she said with a self-control that Caroline, even in the midst of her horror, admired. “I don’t believe you’ve met my niece.”
Caroline curtsied weakly, praying as fervently as she ever had that she wouldn’t fall over. Her head felt light, as if she werefloating over a cliff. What could the duchess think of her, a scarred lady wandering the garden alone with this gentleman? But then, she hadn’t felt so alone when she was with him. It had been pleasant, just for a moment, to find a sympathetic voice, someone who at least spoke past her scars instead of straight to them.
He stood before her now, tall and silent, his face to the crowd. How could he face them with so much composure? She felt ready to fly into pieces or melt into ignominy, whichever element happened first to grasp hold of her quivering frame.
The duchess let out a slow breath. She looked as if she was trying to breathe through a thick, cherry cordial with determined endeavor, however scathing the application.
“Your niece?” His eyes met Caroline’s, and her face softened. “Indeed, I had not yet had the pleasure.”
She inclined her head—slowly, tightly—as if it cost her an effort. The bustle behind her quieted somewhat.
“Lady Caroline,” Aunt Olivia explained, “resides with me. We attend balls infrequently but hoped to make this event one of the few occasions.”
The gentleman who had come to her rescue started and turned to look at her more closely. Caroline lowered her eyes. Perhaps he had not fully realized who she was. That certainly explained his kindness.
“A pleasure, I’m sure, Lady Caroline.” He raised his gaze to the crowd. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me inside? Certainly none of you fancy a gavotte here in the garden.”
Some of the gentlemen smiled weakly. The duchess stepped forward, slipping her hand through the gentleman’s arm. She gestured him inside. The majority of the whispering ladies followed them, raising their voices as soon as they erroneously assumed Caroline was out of earshot.
“… didn’t have much of a reputation to lose, I dare say…”
“Still, it’s a pity. Such a young lady.”
Aunt Olivia stepped to her, taking her hand. Her curls had wilted, drooping like rowan branches in a drizzle. The lines around her eyes had deepened as if a plow had scoured them into furrows.
“Are you all right, dear?”
Caroline shivered. The tears, starved into hiding by the occasion’s first alarm, welled up in her eyes like fissured diamonds.
“Yes,” she half-whispered, half-gasped. “I’m?—”
She couldn’t finish. Emotions rushed through her like rain through a roof spout. Fear, gratitude, reserve, remorse—andabove all, a penetrating self-consciousness made raw by the piercing glances of whispering peers.
A few ladies lingered still with their backs turned to her, glancing, on occasion, back to where she stood. Why didn’t they abandon her to her fate? It was only a matter of time before the gossip spread, and she was outcast—even more so than she had been—from any decent society.
The horror of her situation threatened to swamp and overwhelm her, a dark wave of shame and regret.
Aunt Olivia patted her arm.
“Don’t cry, dear?—”
She stopped and put a hand to her own eyes. Caroline wiped her tears away, brushing the scar on her face and hiding her scarred hand.
“My lady!”
Winifred streaked through the garden like a cannonball. The tassels of her scarf whipped about her like a flail.
“Mistress!” She panted, and noticing the lingering ladies behind them, lowered her voice. “There’s talk in the servants’ quarters—I had to come to you. How?—?”
She caught sight of Olivia and Caroline’s ashen faces.
“Is it true?”
Olivia scoffed, but her heart wasn’t in it.
