Page 88 of The Runaway Duchess

“Darling.”

Lavinia met her mother’s eyes.

Darling.

Whore.

Neither word could reach her.

“It’s not too late,” her mother said, rising. “A man gauges his wife’s innocence by her demeanor. It is 1883, after all. Wedding nights are not biblical. If you seem chaste, docile, timid . . . he need never suspect.”

Lavinia realized she was shaking her head. “No.”

“Come now.” Her mother’s voice lowered, became a hiss. “The appearance of modesty is not beyond you. You learned the trappings at that French finishing school, did you not?”

Lavinia laughed again, the sound deranged to her own ears. “Someday I’ll tell you what I learned about modesty at Le Manoir.” She heaved a breath. “Divorcée has a nice ring in French. Divorcée.”

Her mother’s eyes were slits. “You have no grounds to sue for divorce.”

“He does, though.” Lavinia stepped around her mother, started for the door.

“He is friends with the lord chancellor. He has promised to appeal to him for your father’s release. If he divorces you, your father will rot in jail.” Her mother hurled the words at her back. “I’ll be turned out into the street. And you? What will you do?”

When she reached the door, Lavinia turned. A mistake.

Her mother’s face was livid. “Will you join the ranks of common prostitutes?” Her shoulders slumped but her eyes glittered. “The Marquess of Stowe preferred the company of prostitutes. Perhaps you should have done it sooner.”

“I should have done any number of things sooner.” Lavinia touched the door handle. “Goodbye, Mother,” she said, but her mother started forward, walking with her down the hall, whispering frantically.

The whisper slithered after her even as she outpaced her mother, fled the house, climbed into the waiting cab. It burrowed deep into her brain.

He might not divorce you, though. He might prefer to keep you. It’s within his right. And it will go worse for you than you can imagine.

Lavinia leaned back against the seat, breath shuddering.

She had always been very good at imagining. And she was getting better at imagining the worst.

Thick night pressed all around. Where could she go?

The glasshouse twinkled in her mind, the tiny suns glowing amid green boughs.

Finally, she gave the cabman an address.

She kept her eyes open as they rolled into the dark.

—

For the second time in one night, Lavinia found herself shoving her way into a ducal mansion. Thank God Anthony had sacked Collins. This new butler hadn’t the same iron in his soul. He suggested, mildly, that the Duke of Weston wasn’t to be disturbed, then surrendered the floor.

The third door she rapped on after mounting the stair swung open.

“Lucy, I’m—” Anthony began, and stopped short.

“Your Grace,” he finished, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. He leaned one shoulder on the doorframe and folded his arms, muscles swelling the white cotton of his nightshirt. It was short as nightshirts went, ending above the knee.

He wore no trousers.

Another man would look silly, disadvantaged, surprised in his pajamas.