Pen shivered. She hated that tone. The few times Cam had used it on her, it had scraped the flesh off her bones. She could see that he was seething. Perhaps, she thought with a weight settling in her belly, he was angrier with Pen than with Lady Phillips and her friend. They only repeated rumors that the gossips had spread before and would embroider in the future. Whereas Pen was obliged to uphold the Rothermere name.
She knew that she’d made a horrible faux pas. In society, one rose above insults. Hadn’t Cam and Richard tried all their lives to prove that the sad old stories had no power? Not that anyone believed that, including Cam and Richard.
At Cam’s reprimand, the woman paled. “Your Grace, I’m sure you misunderstand.”
Pen should have realized that while the Duchess of Sedgemoor wouldn’t foil this tough old vulture, the duke would put her in her place.
“I’m sure I don’t, Lady Phillips, Mrs. Combe-Browne,” Cam responded in a clipped voice.
“I didn’t—” Mrs. Combe-Browne said shakily.
Whatever defense she’d meant to mount evaporated under Cam’s frigid stare. She shrank into herself and looked likely to burst into tears.
Pen was dismayed to notice that this fraught encounter stirred general interest. She cursed her impulsive Thorne blood. She wasn’t born to be a duchess, cool and composed under social fire. And she had a horrid suspicion that Cam reached the same conclusion, despite her efforts to make him proud.
“Your Grace, you’ve fallen in with bad company.” Lady Hillbrook approached to take her arm. “Come, my husband is eager to discuss your brilliant article in last month’s Blackwood’s Magazine. He wants your advice on acquiring artifacts from that excavation in Messina that you describe in such fascinating detail.”
Although she couldn’t imagine that a reminder of her unfeminine interest in scholarship would mollify Lady Phillips, Pen turned to Lady Hillbrook. “I’d be delighted.” The huskiness in her voice betrayed her gratitude.
Cam stared at her, green eyes opaque. Of course, he’d delay a lecture until they were alone. They’d caused enough talk. His anger would likely take the path of coldness rather than a blistering tirade. He couldn’t be nearly as disappointed in her as she was in herself. Harpies like Lady Phillips and Mrs. Combe-Browne weren’t worth fighting. Their poison was so deeply rooted that nothing would excise it.
“Sidonie, my wife and I are leaving. Jonas can talk antiquities some other time.” Like his voice, Cam’s expression was neutral. He was a master at hiding his feelings. From earliest boyhood, he’d had to be.
He extended his hand. Pen swallowed what felt like a boulder stuck in her throat and told herself she could survive this. She’d survived refusing the proposal she’d dreamed of all her life. She’d survived nine years without him. She’d survived his company in the Alps and the travesty of their marriage. She’d even survived pretending that she felt nothing but physical pleasure when he’d shared her bed.
Compared to what she’d been through, tonight was a minor bump in a union that would prove rockier yet.
She lifted her chin, determined to conceal every scrap of vulnerability from the hungry predators otherwise called polite society. She accepted Cam’s hand. The heat of his skin radiated through their gloves.
“Your Grace—” Lady Phillips started in a peremptory tone.
Cam’s glance would wither apples on the branch. His bow was a masterpiece of disdain. “Good evening, my lady.”
“Thank you, Lady Hillbrook,” Pen murmured.
Sidonie smiled without reserve. “I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Please do.”
To her amazement, Sidonie kissed her cheek. The gesture of support bolstered Pen’s failing courage.
Under ranks of avid eyes, Cam tucked Pen’s hand into the crook of his elbow and at a stately pace that was a mark of defiance, he led her toward the doors. The musicians scratched away at an ecossaise, but hardly anyone danced. Instead the guests craned their necks to observe the Duke and Duchess of Sedgemoor.
Cam’s muscles were rigid. The man whose arm she held burned
with deep emotion. Pen didn’t need to be especially perceptive to recognize anger.
Inside their carriage, Pen battled to suck air into starved lungs, but every second’s delay only tightened her nerves. “I’m sorry—”
He raised his hand. His other hand, much to her surprise, still curled around hers. “Wait until we’re home, Pen.”
Apprehension clawed at her, but she supposed that if he intended a full-scale row, he’d want time and privacy. His silence alarmed her more than censure would.
Pen slumped beside her husband and wished she’d had the sense to keep her mouth shut. But it was too late for regrets. She’d said what she’d said. Cam had heard. Sidonie had heard. She had a sneaking suspicion that everyone in that packed ballroom adorned with bedraggled palm trees had heard. Those who hadn’t heard would soon receive an accounting of the duchess bearding the ton’s most vicious gossips.
An accounting only likely to grow more flamboyant in the telling.
Her sigh escaped before she remembered to muffle it. To her surprise, Cam’s grip firmed.