“What is wrong, Cornelius?” She could hear raised voices downstairs. “Is something—”
“We will speak of it later.” He snatched her fine white muslin carriage dress from the clothespress and tossed it onto the bed as if it were made of sackcloth.
She smoothed her hand over the skirts of her gown. “It is sadly creased,” she murmured. But he was not listening. He finished tying his neckcloth and strode to the door.
“Remain here until I come for you,” he said. He paused at the door and attempted a smile. “Do not worry. I will return.” The door closed with ominous finality behind him.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Cornelius had not treated her with such negligence since their first meeting. And after last night…
I am not a child, she told the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She picked up her dress and resolved to put it on without asking the help of one of the maids. But the tapes defied her best attempts to tie them. She should never have left Hartsmere without Tilly.
Another door slammed, and the voices moved under her feet. One of them was her husband’s. The other… was Papa’s. He had come after them. But why? He had encouraged the match, and he was no high-stickler. He was himself impetuous enough to understand why she had not wished to wait for a formal wedding.
She threw her pelisse over the half-buttoned frock. Obedience might be a wife’s duty, but she was not a wife just yet. She would not expect Cornelius to face her father alone. She slipped through the door and descended the stairs, following the voices and holding her head high in defiance of any curious stares she might encounter.
The door to the private dining room off the entrance hall was firmly closed. With utmost concentration, Eden eased it open the merest crack.
“You agreed to the bargain,” Cornelius said, his voice more harsh than she had ever heard it. A stranger’s voice. “You knew the penalty for breaking it.”
“Yes.” If Cornelius spoke severely, her father was the very soul of weary despair. “Yes, I know. I was wrong to agree. A coward.” His ragged breathing was that of a frightened old man. “I wished to save myself at my daughter’s expense. She deserves far more than the sorrow you will give her. She loves you.”
“Is that not what you asked, that I win her love?”
“But you do not love her. You cannot.” He made a sound terribly like weeping. “I ask—I beg-—that you let Eden go. I shall accept whatever punishment you choose.”
“It is too late.” Cornelius’s boot heels drummed across the floor. “The choice is yours no longer. Last night I got her with child.”
Eden felt her throat close up, as if to strangle a scream she was too distressed to utter. Raindrops began to patter on the roof overhead. She leaned her forehead against the door.
“You swore to marry her—”
“And so I shall, this very day. As we agreed. And all the rest will proceed as we agreed. You will not interfere.”
Eden knew that the voices continued, but she no longer heard them. Her heart had swelled into a great, aching lump in her chest. Is that not what you asked, that I win her love?
A bargain. Her father and Cornelius had made a bargain with her as the spoils. For what? Not for money or title or land. Cornelius cared nothing for such things. Or had he deliberately led her to believe he didn’t? He spoke of her as if she were a… a horse or a fine Herdwick ewe.
I got her with child. Eden touched the smooth plane beneath her breasts. Was that what he had wanted? Aunt Claudia had hinted of men who might rob a lady of her virtue, but Cornelius still planned to marry her.
Marry a woman he could not love.
The ache in her chest grew bigger and bigger until it threatened to burst.
“Very well,” her father said. “I cannot hope to stand against you. But I ask you to drink with me, one last time, to prove your good faith.” Footsteps, and the tinkle of liquid pouring into a glass. “Drink to my daughter, and to her happiness.”