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“No doubt.” Abbott offered his sister his arm and a smile. “I’ll send them all to Sussex and let Father sort them out.”

The siblings moved ahead, and he heard Ella and Mother emerging from their rooms behind them. But he was more concerned with the way Rowena had shifted. Some of that stiff elegance had seeped out, and her eyes were on the ground again.

He leaned close so he could speak to her alone. “What is it, darling? Are you all right?”

Perhaps it was a foolish question, given the conversation in her room. But it wasn’t that. These were her old reactions, not those new ones. Fragility instead of confidence.

Which was the real Rowena, and which the one fashioned by pain and hardship?

Or really, at the core, was there a difference? Perhaps they were none of them more than what their darkest moments made them . . . and how they emerged from it when day came again.

Thirteen

R
owena’s hand rested on her husband’s arm, his opposite fingers resting on hers. Whenever the crowd would jostle around them, he would tighten his grip on her, as if afraid the sea of people eager to ingratiate themselves with the Duke of Nottingham might sweep her away.

She had lost count of how many times she had been introduced by the title that still felt so odd, of the times she had met lord after lord and lady after lady.

And she had wilted a little more with each appraising gaze that swept over her. She tried—she did. She tried to stand tall for Brice. For the Kinnairds. For all she was and all she had been and all she’d become when Brice slid that golden band onto her finger.

But oh, the biting whispers she heard from one set of new acquaintances while Brice introduced the next.

“Lochaber? I heard his daughter was such a disgrace he’d never even bring her to London. What do you suppose is wrong with her?”

“For the life of me, I don’t know why some of those Highland lords refuse to educate their children properly. I could scarcely understand a word she said.”

“Where do you suppose he found her? Hiding in a sheep pasture?”

No one ever argued with the catty ones, either. They’d titter right along with them and then they’d smile at her husband, say something clever, and ignore her very existence. Brice tried to include her in the conversations—she must be fair and grant him that. But what was she to say to these people?

Her husband’s fingers tightened around hers, and he leaned close so he could speak into her ear. “Are you all right, darling? You’re so quiet.”

She summoned a smile. “Well enough. Although . . . I must tend to a personal need. Will you excuse me for a few minutes?”

He frowned, probably seeing right through the flimsy excuse to her actual need for a moment away. “I’ll walk you—”

“I can manage,” she said on a chuckle that she nearly felt. Nearly. She may never have been in society, but finding a lavatory was something she had experienced even in the Highlands.

Brice pressed his lips together for a moment. “At least have a maid show you the way—these hallways are a maze.”

“I shall.” If she went any farther than the hallway this room was connected to, anyway. Hopefully she could find the quiet she sought without losing sight of the doorway. She covered his fingers with hers and stretched up to feather a kiss over his cheek. More to spite the spiteful women than for any other purpose, it was true.

Her husband probably divined her purpose—and no doubt it was why mirth lit his eyes. “Hurry back, darling.” He kissed her knuckles, lingering over them, and then released her.

How many times had she put on a show for the clan gathered round the fire at Castle Kynn? So many evenings she had worn a smile she didn’t feel, had curled up to listen to McCloud on his pipes when she had wanted nothing but to escape her father’s presence. So many times she had played the part of the Kinnaird’s daughter when she had felt herself little more than a prisoner.

But she had played the part. She could play it again now, holding her head high as she wove her way through the crowd of hateful gossips, all of whom looked on her with disdain. Normally she would have thought it her gown. Her hair. But she was decked out in the finest of fashions, her coiffure similar to every other lady’s. It had to be she herself that they took such issue with.

Her shoulders slumped the moment she cleared the doorway, and she paused with her back pressed to the wall just outside the door. Dragged in a long breath.

“There you are, Duchess.”

She jumped at the voice, her eyes flying open from their overlong blink and her gaze latching upon a lavender-bedecked figure.

Lady Pratt—and she smiled with warmth that looked completely genuine. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you. When I saw you slip away I thought I would see if you needed any assistance. And I’ve been meaning to visit with you. You looked a bit lonesome by your husband’s side.”

She should be on her guard. Demur and slip away, find Ella or Charlotte. Or cut a swath back to Brice. She should certainly
not
be having a conversation with the woman her husband was convinced was a criminal.

Although, hadn’t he said his whole point for the visit was to sound her out? Try to learn what she may be up to?

Perhaps Rowena could discover something. Make herself useful, aid him in his plan. Or at the very least, keep from tipping his hand with rudeness. She summoned a smile and focused on that comfortable place at the lady’s shoulder. “I confess ’tis a bit overwhelming. Since we married, I have met only the duke’s family, never so many people at once.”

“Mm, I understand what you mean.” Lady Pratt smoothed a curl and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead for a second. “This all seemed like a marvelous idea when I was sending out the invitations—the perfect ending to my first season back in society. But after so many months of quiet, with no one but the servants and my baby for company, my brother from time to time . . . all the noise and activity can be suffocating, can’t it?”

“Aye.” She, too, had a baby? No one had mentioned that. And Rowena certainly hadn’t heard any crying. “But they are all your friends.”

Lady Pratt’s shoulders sagged a bit, which brought Rowena’s attention up. Her face had sagged a bit, too, and the turning of her lips looked sorrowful. “They are all my something. I don’t know that
friends
is the best word. Honestly, Duchess, after all my husband put me through, I don’t have much by way of friends. I’m either a sensation, if one believes me innocent of involvement, or a scandal, if one thinks I’m guilty. But never just
me
anymore. Pratt stripped me of that when he kidnapped my cousin.”

Rowena searched the tone for deception, for manipulation. She found only the oh-so-familiar exhaustion that came of battling for one’s very right to be oneself. “It seems we’re all judged by our associations.”

“So true.” Lady Pratt’s smile didn’t brighten, though she turned it fully on Rowena. “Yours are, at least now, brilliant. Married to the Duke of Nottingham, who has long been London’s favorite. And friends with the Staffords—the most illustrious and sought-after couple in England.” She tilted her head, sending curls onto her shoulder . . . and making the shadows beneath her eyes stand out. “Which means, in turn, you have been fed their side of the story. So perhaps I am wasting my time trying to make friends with you. Heaven knows they’ve never a kind thing to say about me.”

Rowena nearly stepped forward to put a reassuring hand on the lavender glove. Nearly rushed to assure her that she wouldn’t judge based on gossip. She tucked her hand to her side but allowed herself to say, “To be quite honest, my lady, the Staffords didna mention you to me at all, nor your husband. What little I know came from mine, not them.”

Patronization colored the edges of Lady Pratt’s smile. “With all due respect, Duchess, if your husband told you any of the story, it was in their words. I daresay you noticed how . . .
close
he is to my cousin Brook.”

Rowena’s throat tightened. “They are very good friends, aye.”

Lady Pratt’s smile went close-lipped now, and a little snort of incredulity barely reached Rowena’s ears. The lady looked out at her ballroom, green eyes sweeping the floor but not settling anywhere. “Oh yes. They have long been
friends
. We were still close when he first came to call, you know—Brook and I, I mean. I heard all her tales of how Stafford had kissed her before he ran off to Africa to see to business. How Nottingham—Worthing, at the time—made her all a muddle with his smiles and flirtation. I confess, I was jealous. Not because of the attention of the dukes, but because Pratt was on her list of admirers too.”

Here she sighed, and her eyes slid closed. “I know now, of course, Pratt was after what she had, not
her
. But at the time . . . I’d loved him all my life. Thought for certain we would marry, be blissfully happy. But the moment she showed up . . .”

She opened her eyes again, shook her head, and her smile went sad, a bit sheepish. “It’s no wonder my cousin doesn’t like me any longer. I said some cruel things. Let her
think
some terrible things, just to spite her when I saw how Pratt fawned on her. I was jealous, pure and simple. And now that she’s the toast of society, I’m paying for my jealousy. Will likely pay for it for the rest of my life.”

Rowena looked away from the earnest expression, through the doorway and toward the crowd around Brice. She could barely glimpse him through the throng of people surrounding him, but she caught enough of a glance to see that he was laughing again. He said something to one of the women, and she blushed and fanned herself. Having been by his side for the last hour, she knew that he could elicit such a reaction with the most innocent of words. Innocence, it seemed, didn’t stop the ladies from reading meaning into it.

What was it Brook had said? That she had entertained a notion for a few seconds, but that Brice never had. Perhaps she was wrong, and he had dreamed of her, too, before she and Stafford settled things between them.

Or perhaps this was just his way. Making
every
woman entertain wishful thoughts of him. Never feeling anything himself. Perhaps he found his joy in the hunt, in the chase, in the game of flirtation. Perhaps he didn’t
want
love, didn’t know, even, what it was or how to lay hold of it. Perhaps he merely used the word like any other—to get his way, earn himself adoring admirers, make young ladies flush in pleasure and all but fall at his feet.

Her fingers dug into her side. She had used to dream of love, of a husband. She had thought it Malcolm who would make those dreams come true, aye, but even taking him out of it . . . she had wanted someone who looked at her as though she were the only woman in the world. Someone who understood her every thought. Someone who made her feel . . .

Who made her feel like more than she was.

Brice smiled at something one of the ladies at his elbow said, flashing dimples sure to make a muddle of the woman’s stomach. Was Rowena anything more to him than another of the throng? His words were always right, when he spoke them. Promises of what they could have. Encouragement to embrace all he made her.

But what had he made her, other than more of an outcast than ever? And how was she to believe his promises of eventual love, when he hadn’t even respect enough for her to tell her of all that drove him?

She turned away, called up a smile. “You say you’ve a child?”

Lady Pratt’s face lit up like a luminary. “Little Byron. Viscount Pratt, but I can’t bring myself to call him such, with his father’s doings still shadowing the name. He is up on his hands and knees now, rocking. He’ll be crawling soon, and the world will never be the same. We’ll have to lock up everything of value.” She laughed, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Already he reminds me so much of his father. The Pratt I knew when we were children. So curious, so observant, so determined.”

Rowena needn’t feign her smile now. Whatever Lady Pratt may have done or not done, the love of her child was absolutely genuine. “He sounds delightful.”

“I was actually just about to go and say good-night. Would you . . . would you like to meet him?”

She shouldn’t. Brice would have a fit. Ella would squeal in horror. Charlotte’s eyes would go wide and hard, her lips pressed together.

But why should she dislike someone, distrust someone, solely because
they
did? From what she could see, Lady Pratt was merely a widow who knew well she had made some mistakes, but who was tired of being judged by them. Tired of being only what a man’s decisions had made her.

From what she could see, Rowena had more in common with Catherine, Lady Pratt, than she did with Ella or Brook. She smiled. “I would love to meet your son.”

Her decision sat easy on her when relief softened Lady Pratt’s gaze. This was obviously a woman who knew well the fear of rejection. Something neither Ella nor Brook had ever experienced.

Something Rowena knew far too well.

“We’ll hurry—I’ll have you back before they miss you, I promise.” Grinning, the lady took Rowena by the hand and pulled her along the quiet corridor.