Chapter 4
When she’d mentally braced herself for her first meeting with Graham’s mother, Martha had anticipated an icy derision only a noblewoman could manage.
She’d suspected her new mother-in-law might ignore her.
Of all the expectations Martha had, a warm smile and a hug had not been among them.
No, that cool reception inevitably came… from the guests assembled at the duke and duchess’ dining table.
This was the life her father had desired for her, seated amongst lords and ladies with the most venerated titles.
Coward that she was, Martha found herself counting down course after endless course and envying her children, who’d had the good fortune to be whisked away to the nurseries.
For this was a special kind of hell.
Her skin burned from the furtive and, in most cases, not-so-furtive glances sent her way by the thirty guests assembled.
The smallest of gratitude, however, came from being seated alongside an occasionally dozing white-haired nobleman, Lord Lisle.
Spear, slice, fork, eat.
Vastly different than the mantra dunk, scrub, rinse, repeat that had played through her head just weeks ago.
Ironically, she found herself preferring the grueling work of laundering, even with her callused hands and cracked knuckles, to this—being on display before Polite Society and Graham’s family.
Graham’s father, who occupied the seat at the head of the table, still couldn’t be bothered with any pleasantries. What did you expect of such a man who’s been so cold and cruel to his own child? She stole another peek at the Duke of Sutton, tall, broad-shouldered, and in possession of the same heavily chiseled features as Graham. He was his son in every way… physically. The aloof set to those same features marked him so very different from his son, different in the ways that most mattered.
She felt Graham’s stare before she glanced across the table and found his gaze on her.
“I told you,” he mouthed. “Horrid.”
Her lips twitched, and she quickly gathered up her napkin and hid her smile.
Her husband winked, and the tension melted from her. With him at her side, she could face anyone and anything, pompous members of the peerage—his father—included. “I love you,” she said, the vow noiseless.
“I love you, too.”
Warmth blossomed in Martha’s chest.
Just then, her dining partner jolted himself awake with a snorting cough. “Who… what… were you saying, gel?”
“I was just commenting on the delightful company,” she answered, and pulling her attention away from the only man in the room who existed for her, Martha attended Lord Lisle’s discourse on the upcoming desserts prepared by the Duchess of Sutton’s French chef.
After a seemingly endless repast, the Duke and Duchess of Sutton’s guests filed from the room… for… for whichever activities occupied Polite Society after they dined.
With the duke and duchess leading the way through the corridors, Martha forced her feet forward, wanting to turn in the opposite direction and flee. Searching… for her husband.
Where was he? She craned her neck, looking around the procession. He couldn’t have simply… disappeared. Falling back, Martha allowed the handful of couples trailing behind her to pass.
A hand wound around her forearm, and she gasped as she was yanked down the intersecting hall. The shocked exhalation was quickly quashed by a gloved palm pressed against her lips—a familiar gloved palm.
Martha scowled at her own entirely too pleased grin. It was all too easy to forget that this man she’d fallen in love with and married was also an operative for the Crown, capable of losing himself in crowds of all sizes.
“Do I need to worry that if I draw my hand away you’ll scream, madam?” he whispered against her ear. His breath, containing a trace of claret and honey, teased at the sensitive shell.
“You’d be wise to worry, Lord Whitworth,” she returned in equally hushed tones.
Graham guided her against the wall, and propping his arms on either side of her head, he anchored her between him. Heat poured off his body in waves, his nearness, the feel of his body pressed close to hers headier than the wine that had flown so freely this night.
She raised her mouth close to his, wanting his kiss, even as it was scandalous to long for his embrace here of all places, in the hall where anyone might pass.
But then she registered the serious glint in his eyes.
“What?” she asked hesitantly, her smile fading.
“Has anyone offended you?” he asked evenly.
“They haven’t, Graham,” she promised, running her palms along the front of his black sapphire-trimmed jacket.
“Because if they have, I’ll order the carriages readied now—”
“Graham,” she murmured, touching an index finger to his lips. “No one has offended me.”
“They’re miserable affairs, though, aren’t they?”
That she would concede to him. “Regardless, everyone has been only… polite.”
Graham’s body went taut, and he drew away from her.
“What is…?” Martha’s question went unfinished as a young lady turned the corner.
Flawless, with golden curls upswept in a loose chignon studded with diamond haircombs, the olive-hued beauty was the embodiment of English perfection. An equally flawless blush filled her cheeks.
Martha’s stomach knotted. Lady Emilia—the woman Graham’s family had sought to marry him off to.
“Lady Emilia,” Graham greeted, dropping a bow.
“Lord Whitworth, Lady Whitworth, forgive me,” the young woman murmured, sinking into a curtsy. “I was… on my way to join the other ladies.”
Had Martha not been studying the voluptuous Athena so closely, she’d have missed the ever-so-slight tightening of those bow-shaped lips. A grimace. The lady had… grimaced. At the prospect of joining the duchess’ other guests? Or at having come upon Martha and Graham?
The lady quickly had a smile in place, and it was pearl white and as perfect as the lady herself, and Martha was besieged by the sudden need to cry. “Would you care to join me, Lady Whitworth?” she asked, extending an elbow.
Martha was so mired in the misery of meeting the woman Graham’s family had handpicked for him to wed that it took a moment for the offer to register.
It was… an unexpected offer of support. An attempt to include Martha. For what end? For what purpose?
The other woman stared back patiently, and this time, Martha noted the details she’d failed to note moments ago—the sincerity and warmth in her heart-shaped face. “That would be… lovely,” Martha said softly. Sliding her fingers upon the other woman’s sleeve and resisting the urge to glance back at her husband, she allowed Lady Emilia to lead her off to join the other ladies.