Page 42 of His Haunted Duchess
Esther’s voice floated over to them.
“The dress, too, will fit her perfectly and draw attention away from those irksome scars.”
Caroline froze. She covered, instinctively, her scarred hand, even though her glove obscured the mark.
Frederic raised his voice, calling over his shoulder.
“Careful, mother—” he said, turning to look at her. “Remember that Lady Caroline will be a duchess soon. Be careful how you speak of her.”
Philip stopped chewing his sandwich. Esther paused then laughed.
“I daresay you’re right.” She curtsied to Caroline. “No offense meant, my lady,” and she continued with her conversation.
Frederic turned back to his plate. Caroline waited a moment before she could trust her voice to stay steady.
“Aunt Olivia,” she called, “Philip has expressed a desire to see the stables and its inhabitants, and I thought you the most qualified. Would you oblige him?”
Aunt Olivia beamed.
“Another enthusiast, have we? Come, sir, come—there’s an Arabian here you’ll love to meet.”
She and Philip headed off in the direction of the horses. Caroline turned to the basket.
“Would you like a bit of salmagundi, sir, or perhaps a fruit tart? We have plenty here.”
Frederic looked at her, and his eyes locked with hers.
“You shouldn’t let anyone insult you,” Frederic whispered to her. “Not even my mother.”
Caroline opened her mouth and closed it again. He—it wasn’t—bits of broken excuses floated through her mind, bouncing like bits of metal against the bell of internal truth: it did hurt. She looked down at her hands. The comments—especially from those who knew or were coming to know her—cut her like shards of glass.
Frederic’s eyes hadn’t left her face. The heat of his gaze warmed and flustered her in waves.
“There will be comments as there always have been—if not from within the family, then definitely from within the ton. Don’t heed them.”
He sat up, brushing crumbs from his jacket. Caroline’s heart skipped a beat. His face was so ardent and so very close to hers.
“It is up to you to dissuade them—to limit what you will accept of their behavior by your manner and comment. You will be a duchess.” He stood up, brushing off his trousers. “Let that be your armor.”
He walked down toward the lake and waved to Philip, who had just emerged from the stable, riding the Arabian. Esther eyed the horse nervously.
“Is it quite safe? I’ve heard alarming tales of Arabians and their ilk.”
“I daresay it’s safer than the monkey.” Winifred, wearing a fresh pinafore and a straightened cap, grumbled behind them. “More tea, m’lady? I’ve just brought a fresh pot.”
Caroline stood up. A well of warmth had cracked open inside her.
“Not for me, Winifred, thank you.” She watched Frederic as he strolled down to the water. “I’ve had enough.”
Something about that sunlight on the man to whom she would be married caught her fancy. The moment lodged in her memory like a wax stamp on an envelope, a seal on a memory she’d carry with her through showers and dark days.
He was right. It would be different after the wedding—she would be different. She could feel it coming in ways she couldn’t quite explain, but her heart deeply understood.
When she entered a room, she would not enter as Lady Caroline, the cursed lady to whom whispers and hearsay clung like webs in an attic. She would not cower in corners, anxiously wondering how soon she could take a carriage home. She would enter as the Duchess of Blackmore—the wife of a duke. Her duke.
Frederic patted the neck of the Arabian, complementing Philip on his seat and Olivia on the richness of the horse’s coat.
Caroline took off her glove and looked at the scar on her hand. It was her decision—her memory. There wasn’t much she could do about the curse, aside from maintaining appropriate distance from distressed parties, but she could share her story—her grief and her isolation—hopefully if not to perpetrate truths, then definitely to slay falsehoods. Not all would respond as well as Philip when she told her story, but her own voice ought to—and could finally—be heard.
