“Your assessment is correct.” Her voice grew husky. “But you need not relentlessly remind me of the fact. I am well aware of my shocking inadequacies and my deep unworthiness of the position handed me. That I am little more than a pretender is more obvious to me than to anyone else.”
She shifted her eyes toward Henry. He regarded her with a deep frown.
“I realize, Mr. Beaumont, my company is not something desirable. I know that any attentions toward me are bought with silver.”
His frown grew deeper still. Let him frown, she thought, and let him judge. I am past caring what he thinks. She paused to dab the tears with her dinner cloth.
“I thank you, Lady Isabella, for your candor and frankness. Your words are truer than what I have received from others, even from those whom I believed cared for me. Now, if you will excuse me, I am feeling unwell and wish to retire for the evening.”
She immediately rose from her chair in the deafening silence and leaned toward the duchess. “I am deeply sorry,” she whispered, “but I cannot maintain this charade. I cannot become what you wish me to be. I thank you for your kindness and good faith, however ill-spent.”
With the truth confessed, she departed the silent dining room and made her way upstairs. To both her relief and dismay, Henry did not follow.
…
Henry’s frown grew deeper still as he watched Lucy depart the dining room. Gone was his amusement with the spectacle of her adept and repeated deflections of Isabella’s attempts to discredit. The last attack had gone too far, though, and his light mood had evaporated as he watched his capable pupil sink beneath the onslaught of Isabella’s judgment—and of his. She had clearly overheard his private conversation with the duchess; that much was certain. That she now classified Isabella and him as equal antagonists created a remarkable knot in his gut.
“Can you believe that?” Miss Braye said, breaking the pall of silence that had descended on the dining room. “To abandon her guests! What utter disregard!”
Henry glanced at the duchess, who seemed broken in her silence. He focused a glare at Isabella across the table, waiting for her concurrence with Miss Braye. She avoided his eyes but said nothing. Miss Wharton, however, showed less restraint.
“We should have expected as much. The girl is out of her depth in gentle company. What she said about birthing a colt still mortifies me.”
“We apologize for having upset her,” Miss Braye said to the duchess after a giggle. “We meant no harm. However, her sensibilities seem more akin to one who is lowborn.”
The duchess remained silent, apparently quite shaken by the occurrence and perhaps realizing that Lucy’s future was slipping away.
“Why are you apologizing, Miss Braye?” said Warwick. “Why are we avoiding the obvious? Lady Margaret was a disaster this evening. That she represents this house must appall the duchess.”
At Warwick’s pronouncement and the continued chortling of Miss Braye and Miss Wharton, the carefully maintained emotional dam inside Henry broke for the first time in years. He leaped up so vigorously that his chair crashed against the wall and clattered to the floor. All faces swiveled toward him with an array of wide eyes and open mouths.
“Hold your tongue, sir! I will not listen to you besmirch Lady Margaret’s honor any longer.”
Warwick apparently had never experienced such reprimand, especially from those beneath his station. His face at first grew angry, but Henry’s unflinching glare and clenched jaw slowly melted the rage into bland befuddlement. As Henry shifted that glare to each of the women opposite him, they glanced away in turn. His next words surprised even him.
“For your entire pampered lives, since you came wailing into this world until now, you have been tutored, trained, and educated in the finest points of socially appropriate behavior. No lesson or expense has been spared to clarify to you every rule and nuance of Society. Lady Margaret’s education has lasted only a fortnight. Two weeks! And yet she bravely faced you all tonight and endured a fusillade far beyond what any of you would have suffered without failing.”
He paused to run a hand through his hair, to breathe, and to allow the hot flame of his anger to subside.
“You should show more charity to Lady Margaret. Her efforts this night far exceeded yours.”
At that, he strode to the duchess. The old woman peered up at him with moist eyes. He bowed deeply. “I must apologize, Your Grace. My skills were clearly unequal to the task, and I will no longer be party to your granddaughter’s humiliation. You may retain all intended payment as I have not earned it. I bid you good evening.”
He exited the dining room and made for the entrance hall. As he collected his hat, Hawes rushed to open the door for him and nodded with seeming gratitude. Henry stepped through the opening into the night, feeling abruptly adrift. He would never again engage in a rousing contest of wills with Lucy. Never again admire her astonishing eyes. Never again feel the remarkable touch of her hand on his elbow. He lingered in the darkness with his head hanging low before turning in the direction of his lodging on Bow Street.
Chapter Fourteen
Lucy refused to leave her chambers for three days, accepting trays delivered to her door but returning them mostly untouched. Several times, the duchess tried to reason with her, to no avail. During the isolation, her thoughts kept returning to Henry’s bemused expression that evening as Isabella and the others tore her limb from limb. His blithe lack of interest wounded her more deeply than any attack Lady Isabella had mounted. By the end of the third day, though, she rolled out of bed in disgust.
“Enough, Lucy. Show some pride. No man is worth this much misery.”
She dressed alone and wandered downstairs to find the surprised duchess in her favorite place.
“Lucy! You have risen from the dead.”
“So it seems. I grew bored of the poor company and sought better.”
“In that case, you must settle for mine.”
Lucy joined her in a nearby chair. After minutes of silence, the duchess threw up her hands. “My dear, I worry over you so.”
The plaintive statement tore at her heart. Her dinner party humiliation had likely blackened the Huntington name for all time. She noted with concern the woman’s drawn face, seemingly aged a decade in a few days. Guilt besieged Lucy over her part in the duchess’s misery. Her chin fell to her chest.
“Say what you will, Your Grace. I deserve it.”
The duchess paused with something akin to fear in her eyes. “Do you regret coming here? Do you regret your return to family?”
Lucy slowly shook her head. “No. How could I? Had I not come, I would not have experienced the pleasure of knowing you or the joy of your kindness toward me.”