The Disdainful Marquis by Edith Layton

Author:Edith Layton [Layton, Edith]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Regency Romance
Publisher: Untreed Reads
Published: 2015-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter X

The duchess sulked for a day. She went on at tea about ungrateful little wretches, she complained at dinner about green little pieces, and went to bed grumbling about wicked, deceiving, brass-faced little hussies. But by the next day, when ever more invitations poured in, she had forgotten her anger at Catherine. For the chit was the talk of the town, and everyone had gotten a look at her, and wanted more, and then she had just disappeared.

The duchess was mollified when the spate of invitations flowed in. She had been a success, she knew it. What was it the Frenchies called her? Ah yes, “The Duchess of Crewe, le succés fou.” A crazy success, that was it. That was one thing with these foreigners, she thought, pleased beyond her expectations at the evident splash she had made, there was no prudishness about them. No whispered condemnations. No sly little jibes. They took her to be a woman of the world. And a great many gentlemen had bent over her hand and looked at her with frank admiration. That was just as it ought to be, she sighed, holding the invitations as though they were a winning hand at cards. For though she had no interest in gentlemen any longer, nor indeed ever had for that matter, it was delightful to be so famous. When she at last returned home, there would be no more snickering. She would be such a success on the Continent that she would have to be admired not only in her own set, but in the highest circles in the land.

When Catherine crept in the next day, pale and shaken, the duchess only smiled at her benignly, all rancor forgotten. “Get some rest, gel,” she said pleasantly, “for we’re going to a levee tomorrow night and I want my gels looking their best.” And she waved Catherine a royal dismissal.

Catherine walked slowly back to her room, where she had hidden herself since the D’Arcy ball. She was in desperate case, she knew, but she could not see her way clear yet.

How was she to get out of this coil? she mourned. She would not beg Violet and Rose for funds, she swore; she must not. For that would make her, in her own eyes at least, as culpable as they were. She must find a way to tolerate this life at least for a few more weeks, at least till mid March, when her quarterly salary came due. For she knew the duchess would not advance her a penny to go home, but surely, when the time came, her employer would be honor bound to pay her justly earned wages.

She tried not to think of the marquis. For when he had followed her to that empty room where she had sought refuge, she had looked into his eyes and honestly thought she had found honesty there. And so she had, but not in the way she wanted. He had said he understood; he had neither said nor done anything untoward.

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