He’d used her.
That’s what it was. He had used her to win his never-ending battle with his father.
And it hurt far more than she would ever have dreamed.
She kept telling herself she was being silly, that she was splitting hairs. Shouldn’t it count that he liked her, that he thought she was clever and funny and even occasionally wise? Shouldn’t it count that she knew he would protect her and honor her and, despite his somewhat spotted past, be a good and faithful husband?
Why did it matter why he’d asked her to marry him? Shouldn’t it only matter that he had?
But it did matter. She’d felt used, unimportant, as if she were just a chess piece on a much larger game board.
And the worst part of it was—she didn’t even understand the game.
“That’s a rather heartfelt sigh.”
Hyacinth blinked her mother’s face into focus. Good heavens, how long had she been sitting there, staring into space?
“Is there something you wish to tell me?” Violet asked gently.
Hyacinth shook her head. How did one share something such as this with one’s mother?
—Oh, yes, by the by and in case you’re interested, it has recently come to my attention that my affianced husband asked me to marry him because he wished to infuriate his father.
—Oh, and did I mention that I am no longer a virgin? No getting out of it now!
No, that wasn’t going to work.
“I suspect,” Violet said, taking a little sip of her tea, “that you have had your first lovers’ quarrel.”
Hyacinth tried very hard not to blush. Lovers, indeed.
“It is nothing to be ashamed about,” Violet said.
“I’m not ashamed,” Hyacinth said quickly.
Violet raised her brows, and Hyacinth wanted to kick herself for falling so neatly into her mother’s trap.
“It’s nothing,” she muttered, poking at her embroidery until the yellow flower she’d been working on looked like a fuzzy little chick.
Hyacinth shrugged and pulled out some orange thread. Might as well give it some feet and a beak.
“I know that it is considered unseemly to display one’s emotions,” Violet said, “and certainly I would not suggest that you engage in anything that might be termed histrionic, but sometimes it does help to simply tell someone how you feel.”
Hyacinth looked up, meeting her mother’s gaze directly. “I rarely have difficulty telling people how I feel.”
“Well, that much is true,” Violet said, looking slightly disgruntled at having her theory shot to pieces.
Hyacinth turned back to her embroidery, frowning as she realized that she’d put the beak too high. Oh, very well, it was a chick in a party hat.
“Perhaps,” her mother persisted, “Mr. St. Clair is the one who finds it difficult to—”
“I know how he feels,” Hyacinth cut in.
“Ah.” Violet pursed her lips and let out a short little exhale through her nose. “Perhaps he is not sure how to proceed. How he ought to go about approaching you.”
“He knows where I live.”
Violet sighed audibly. “You’re not making this easy for me.”