by Jane Goodger
Finally able to navigate past the small group, Rebecca offered one girl a smile. The young lady quickly turned her head. Had she just been given a…cut? Feeling a flush of humiliation, Rebecca continued on her way, that smile still lingering despite her discomfort.
“Harlot.”
She stopped and slowly turned. The group of young women stood still as statues, as if surprised she would have the audacity to turn and confront them. Clearly, that horrible word was meant for her.
“I beg your pardon, but do you know to whom you are speaking?” There, she sounded like a duchess. Almost.
“I am sorry, but no one said a word to you.” This from a girl with dark brown ringlets. Her eyes were cold, her mouth set. Rebecca told herself she should simply carry on and continue to the refreshment table, but she could not. That word, the venom behind it, had clearly been directed at her.
“I am the Duchess of Kendal,” she said, trying in vain to keep her voice level, to sound calm when her instinct was to leap on the girl with the smug face and tear the hair out of her lovely head.
“Are you…quite certain of that?” one of the girls asked with stunning smugness.
“As I married the Duke of Kendal, I would say I am quite certain, yes. Who are you?” Though Rebecca’s heart hammered in her chest and she could feel her face flushing, she was proud that her voice remained level, her expression bland.
“Lady Suzanne Dawson. And you are no duchess.”
One of the girls in the group gasped. “Suzanne!”
Rebecca smiled tightly. “As I said, I am married to the Duke of Kendal, so I do believe that makes me the Duchess of Kendal.”
“If you say so,” the first girl said, as if Rebecca had just told her she was the Queen of England.
Shaking her head slightly, Rebecca continued on, feeling the hated prick of tears behind her eyes and baffled by the strange exchange. The girl seemed so hostile toward her, a person she’d never met before. Why had they come to this stupid, stupid ball? It was clear to her that someone had started an ugly rumor about her. For what reason, she could not fathom. She had half a mind to return to the group of girls and demand to know why they had said such a horrid thing to her. Do not cause a scene. Do not show that temper of yours, Mrs. Habershaw had warned her. It was almost as if she’d known something would happen this evening.
Rebecca stared blindly at the offerings on the table, small pastries that looked entirely unappetizing. Swirling around, she looked around the vast room for Oliver, but he was nowhere in sight. She wanted to leave, go back to their hotel and pretend none of this had happened. Imagine, calling a duchess of harlot. Why? Why would they say such a thing?
Swallowing down a growing lump in her throat, Rebecca made her way to the ballroom’s entrance, feeling stares directed her way, seeing men and women lean toward one another and whisper. What were they saying? Had someone somehow found out how Oliver had married his bride? Mrs. Habershaw had warned her the ton could be cruel to those who did not belong. And Rebecca did not.
She approached a footman who stood at attention outside the ballroom and asked where the ladies’ retiring room was. He directed her down a hall, where Rebecca found herself blessedly alone. Instead of going into the room, she instead sat in a chair in a small alcove beyond the room, quite hidden from whoever was in the hall. Though she knew Mrs. Habershaw would be disappointed in her, Rebecca planned to stay exactly where she was until Oliver came to find her. The urge to flee the house was strong, but hidden in that little space, Rebecca felt safe. As she sat there, she began to feel a bit foolish. Perhaps she had been so nervous about the ball, she’d imagined everything. Perhaps whoever had said the word harlot hadn’t been referring to her. How awful if she had made the wrong conclusion. Still, cowardly as it was, she had no intention of returning to the ball, and tucked her skirts even closer to her just to make certain they could not be seen by anyone passing in the hall.
It wasn’t until she’d calmed herself that she heard the voice of the same girl who had spoken to her earlier and realized her hiding spot was ideal for eavesdropping. Mrs. Habershaw would be horrified by such behavior, but Rebecca didn’t care.
“What if they are wrong, Suzanne? You may have made a dangerous enemy. Really, you do need to be a bit less awful.” Though the words sounded as if Suzanne’s friend was chastising her, they were said with such glee, Rebecca had the feeling the girl was only having a bit of fun.
“Is calling a duchess a harlot so wrong?” Suzanne retorted. Rebecca’s blood nearly boiled. So, the slur had been directed to her. She balled her fist and prayed for the strength to remain still and silent. The other girls giggled. “She’s a nobody. My maid has more blue blood in her than that pretender does.”
“That is true. Since she’s your half sister.” More laughter.
“Don’t be crass, Mary. There is a reason the classes are separated. If we allow them to mingle with us, it will taint our bloodlines.”
“Now you sound like your mother,” a soft voice said. “I believe that sort of thinking is a bit antiquated, do you not? The House of Commons is filled with commoners, and they are far more powerful than the House of Lords now. Does it really matter who sired her?”
“Cecelia, will you hush? You will never find a husband if you insist on discussing politics. Suzanne is right. We cannot allow such a scandalous woman to walk among us as if she belongs. Calling herself a duchess. Really.”
“Should we not also shun the duke? Is he not just as culpable for bringing her here?”
“Honestly, Cecelia, you sound like one of those awful suffrage women. Such an entirely unattractive group of women has never before existed in England.”
The three voices became muffled as they entered the ladies’ retiring room. Suzanne had called her a “pretender.” That must mean that somehow someone had discovered how Oliver and she had married. Her stomach tightened uncomfortably. How could they have found out so quickly? Had Oliver perhaps told one of his new chums and the fellow had repeated the story? Rebecca knew how things could be twisted about in the retelling. For all she knew, everyone now thought she’d been rescued from the gutters, secretly married to the duke. She could understand a bit of snobbery, and had been prepared for it, but to call her a scandalous woman seemed a bit far fetched. Did the ton really think her marriage scandalous because her parents were not of the aristocracy? And why on Earth had that woman called her a harlot?
Rebecca remained where she was, stiffening when she heard the voices again as the women left the retiring room. This time, they had moved on to another victim, apparently. “She really should do something with that hair. It looks as if it’s made of sheep’s wool.”
“My mother says she should shave it off and wear a wig…”
Once Rebecca was certain the girls were gone, she stood and went in search of Oliver, doing her best to show a calm façade when inside, her nerves were frayed.
Oliver had followed his friend down the hall that led to the billiard room, looking forward to mingling with the men whom he had gotten to know in the past weeks. But when Henley had finally stopped, Oliver had found himself in a study.
“Please, come in, Kendal,” Henley said as he closed the door, the noise from the ballroom instantly muted. “I need to speak to you.”
Curious, Oliver walked into the room, an unsettled feeling hitting him. Henley was rarely a serious bloke, and Oliver sensed something was wrong. “What is on your mind, Henley?”
“Do you mind?” Henley asked as he turned up one of the sconces. He beat a hand softly against his thigh, his expression solemn, and Oliver’s anxiety grew. “This is difficult,” he said finally.
“Should I sit down?”
Henley gave him a small grin. “Perhaps. There is a rumor going around, a vicious one, about you and your wife.”
Oliver grew still. “Go on.”
�
�People are saying Her Grace is in actuality your mistress, that you are not married and you have been parading a soiled dove as your duchess. On a lark.”
Oliver stared at Henley a beat, then burst out laughing. “You must be joking.”
Henley remained solemn. “I am not. The thing with rumors is that they are quite difficult to dispel once they take hold. And this has certainly taken hold.”
Now that he thought of it, he had sensed something strange about the way people had looked at the two of them when they’d entered. He was used to being heartily welcomed, but those who greeted him when they’d arrived had seemed a bit subdued. “Who would start such a rumor? What could possibly be the motive behind such a thing?” Oliver ran his hand through his hair, the scope of the problem beginning to hit him. It was not amusing in the slightest that someone would not only disparage him, but say such awful things about Rebecca.
“I have no idea, but the rumor has been running like a wild fire.”
His white brows snapped together. “I fear I am not well-schooled in how to address this sort of thing. Simply denying it will do nothing.” He let out a puff of air. “Shall I have to produce our wedding license? Good God, what is wrong with people? And just when I was beginning to feel a part of society. This is rather disastrous, isn’t it?”
Henley gave his friend a helpless look. “I have never encountered such a sordid rumor in my experience, and certainly not one directed against someone of your status. But if is it a lie, it can easily be proven false.”
“If?” Oliver asked, irritated with his friend—until a terrible thought struck him. If Oliver could have grown paler at that moment, he would have, for he felt the blood drain from his face. “My God.”
“What is it, Kendal?” Henley asked, stepping forward, clearly concerned.
Oliver gave his friend a steady look. “What I am about to tell you must never leave this room. Swear it.”
“I swear,” Henley said.
“Rebecca and I were married by proxy. My former guardian, Mr. Winters, was there in my stead. I was reluctant to travel at the time, a bit of a recluse. I saw a portrait of her and instructed Winters to marry her.”
“Marriage by proxy is unusual, but it is perfectly legal,” Henley pointed out.
Oliver was silent for a long moment. “I’ve never actually seen the marriage certificate.”
Henley inhaled sharply. “Are you saying there is a possibility you are not married?”
Oliver felt like hitting something, preferably Winters’s face. A rage was building inside him, one that was nearly blinding. With a sharp nod, he acknowledged that there was a possibility he was an unmarried man. The thought that Winters would do something so nefarious made him nearly sick.
“Bloody hell, Kendal.”
“Mr. Winters made it clear from the beginning that he did not approve of my marrying Rebecca.” The betrayal he felt at the possibility that Mr. Winters was behind these rumors nearly drove him to his knees. The man, for all his flaws, had been like a father to him. Certainly, he had been misguided in his attempts to protect Oliver from harm, but would he go as far as to stage a false wedding? To deliver a girl to him who had been duped into thinking she was marrying a duke? It was all too possible. “I have to leave. I have to find Her Grace and remove her from this place.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I am sure she has not received a welcome here. By God, if anyone has hurt her, I shall wring their necks, lady or no.”
Henley laid a steadying hand on his shoulder and Oliver resisted the urge to knock it off. The urge to strike something was nearly overwhelming. “Settle down. When you leave this room, you must act as if nothing has happened. Do not glare at anyone, do not say a word. It will only fuel the rumors and completely destroy whatever standing you have in the ton. Look bored. Look anything but what your expression is now saying.”
“I am not certain I can do that.”
“You must. I shall accompany you. Oliver,” Henley said, and Oliver looked at his friend, “I shall be there for you no matter what. If this rumor is true, I know you were duped. You can make this right.”
“Of course. I’ll marry Rebecca in a traditional ceremony immediately.”
Henley dropped his hand and sighed. “I am not certain that will do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your wife, if this is true, has been ruined beyond repair. She would be seen as a woman who has been living in sin with a man. No better than a whore.” Henley put up a staying hand when Oliver let out a low growl. “As unfair as it is, the ton will never accept her after this. And if you marry her, I do not believe they would accept you, either.”
“And you, Michael?”
“I have said I will stand by you. But you should be prepared that no one else will.”
“If Winters knowingly did this thing, it will be a difficult thing not to kill him,” Oliver said.
“Another poor idea. Come on, Kendal, let us find your wife and get her the hell out of here. Be calm, man. Are you ready?”
Oliver took a deep, shaky breath, and schooled his features.
“Your fists, Kendal. Unclenched might be better.”
At that Oliver had looked down, slightly bemused, for he hadn’t realized he’d been clenching his fists. Now, as he released them, his hands ached from the effort. Fencing had taught him to hold in his temper, and he sought that training. “I am ready.”
“I see that you are.”
Henley led him out of the study and toward the ballroom, where Oliver did his best to lazily scan the crowd for Rebecca. Even with his spectacles, it was extremely difficult to see across the room. Everything was a foggy blur. “Do you see her?”
“No,” Henley said, then, “There. She is standing alone near the entrance. In a deep red gown, is she not?”
“Yes.” Red. The color of a fallen woman, and Oliver wondered if Mrs. Habershaw had somehow conspired against Rebecca. Swallowing down the rage that threatened to erupt, Oliver began a slow stroll toward his wife, Henley by his side.
“Steady, Kendal,” he said, sounding very much like a man trying to calm a nervous stallion.
As he made his way toward her, Oliver nodded politely to those he passed, for all the world looking like a man who had no care in the world. When he reached Rebecca, he knew instantly that she was aware something was terribly wrong.
“We must leave,” she said calmly, and his heart ached for her. She was being so very brave.
“I agree. But first, we must dance.” He leaned toward her ear so that no one nearby would be able to overhear his words. “There is a terrible rumor going about. We shall dispel it and act as naturally as possible. Then we shall leave.”
Rebecca looked at him, her eyes wide, and he could tell she was trying very hard not to cry.
“Be brave, my love.” He gave her a smile. “I shall explain everything when we are safely alone in the carriage.”
As the orchestra began playing one of the more popular waltzes by Johann Strauss, Oliver bowed to Rebecca and held out his hand. He knew very well how to act the gentleman at a ball, even if this was his first such event. Rebecca placed her gloved hand in his and they calmly walked to the dancing area and began moving to the music.
“I am very proud of you, my love,” Oliver said softly.
She gave him a tremulous smile. “Please do not be kind. It will only make this more difficult.”
He grinned. “Very well. Shall I step on your toes, then?”
That produced a small laugh. “Then I can claim my tears are of physical pain,” she said, and he found it exceedingly difficult not to draw her closer to him. But for this dance, they would maintain the utmost decorum.
When the music ended, Rebecca placed her hand in the crook of his arm and he led her from the floor. Both held their heads high, their expressions bland, even as they were aware they were
the center of everyone’s attention—whether discreet or not. They sought out their hosts, Lord and Lady Greenwich, who were gracious when they announced they were leaving the ball.
Outside, the temperature was frigid, their breaths making plumes in the air as they waited for a footman to lower the steps of their carriage. The horses stamped impatiently, no doubt wanting to get out of the cold and back into the relative warmth of their stable. Rebecca pulled her ermine wrap tighter around her, grateful for the warmth of the fur.
Once they were both inside the vehicle, Oliver immediately went to her side and pulled her to him. “That was an unmitigated disaster,” he said against her ear. “Do you know what is being said about us?”
Rebecca shook her head, unable to talk past the lump in her throat.
“It is upsetting, but it is something that I am hopeful can be set to rights. Apparently, someone has started a rumor that we are not married, that you are my mistress only, and that I have been passing you off as my duchess on a lark.”
Rebecca pulled back and stared at Oliver to judge whether he were joking with her. “You are serious.”
“Yes. Mr. Henley is the one who told me.”
“That explains those horrid women,” she said, her sadness quickly giving way to anger. “One called me an unpleasant word and hinted I was not the duchess I claimed to be. Who would circulate such a terrible lie?” Oliver looked away, and something in his pensive expression set off alarms bells. “Oliver?”
“It may not be a lie.”
Rebecca felt as if her blood froze in her veins. “What can you mean?”
“Mr. Winters. He was against our marrying. I would not be surprised if the proxy marriage was somehow illegitimate. Do you recall signing any documents?”
Rebecca thought back to that day. She had felt ill and lost, and probably more frightened than she had ever been. “I’m not certain. I was in such a state. Oh, Oliver, what if we are not married? It would mean I have been living with you without the benefit of marriage.” She shook her head. “No wonder that woman called me a harlot.”
