Silk & Scars (The Silk Series Book 3)

by Cassandra Dean

  This blank piece of paper was to be her apology, but how could she write him? What could she say? It was like an ache, lodged beneath her heart and constant. A week. It had only been a week. How could she miss someone so badly after only a week? But then, it hadn’t been only a week, had it? It had been a week plus all the months they’d corresponded, all the months she’d received his beautiful words and fallen a little in love without even having met him.

  Gwen wiped at her cheek. Damnation, that way lay despair. It was over and done. Nothing could come of a courtship between a commoner and a duke.

  Lifting her chin, she picked up the pen. She’d not heard from Etta in an age, and so she would write her. At least then the page would no longer be blank.

  Dear Etta,

  You will not believe the week I’ve had. I’ve been absolutely inundated with work—

  A drop of water fell onto the still wet words, a perfect circle. The ink bled from the centre of the circle, distorting the words as it spread across the page.

  Gently, she laid down the pen. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t pretend she was well when everything inside her was twisted and close to breaking.

  Taking a sheet of paper, she started a new letter.

  Dear Edward.

  Even seeing his name hurt. Biting her lower lip, she set pen to page.

  I miss you.

  What kind of fool began a letter with that? She scrubbed it out, the ink a scar upon the page.

  I’m sorry.

  That was even worse. Dropping her pen, she cradled her head in her hands. She had no idea what to write him. After all their letters, after meeting him, after...after falling in love with him, how was it she couldn’t think of a single thing to say?

  “Miss Parkes.” Lord Beecham’s clerk stood in the doorway to her room, appearing decidedly unimpressed with his position.

  Immediately, she cloaked her expression in polite enquiry. “Yes?”

  “Lord Beecham requires your presence.”

  “Of course.” Keeping her smile pleasant, she followed the clerk down the hall as her stomach tied itself in knots. The last time she had been summoned to Lord Beecham’s presence, she had been informed she was to travel to Sowrithil. This would surely fare no better.

  The clerk paused at the door to Lord Beecham’s chamber. “Make sure you greet the duke correctly,” he said as he rapped on the polished wood.

  Gwen’s head whipped around, but the clerk had already opened the door and, having done so, left.

  Heart thundering, she entered the room. Lord Beecham sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled and displeasure drawing his features. At the window, his back to her, stood a man. A man who leant on his right leg more than his left, because it hurt his leg and hip to sit too long, and the carriage ride must have stirred his injury. His hands were laced because he wished to disguise the scars threading the skin as much as possible. He stared out the window because he didn’t know how to greet people.

  Because he was Edward.

  Elation filled her, and confusion, and a tiny bit of anger. All three warred within her as she drank in his form.

  “Miss Parkes.” Lines of displeasure etched Lord Beecham’s face, made deeper by her obvious distraction. “Miss Parkes, have you forgotten how to greet a duke?”

  Her gaze slid back to Edward. The muscles of his shoulders had bunched, and his knuckles were white.

  “Miss Parkes!”

  With a start, she dropped into a curtsey, one awkward and ill-formed.

  “Better,” Lord Beecham said, a sneer evident in his voice.

  “Do not speak to her so.” Edward’s voice was quiet, but it didn’t disguise the command.

  Lord Beecham blinked at Edward’s back. “Your Grace?”

  “You will speak to her with respect, Beecham, or you will not speak to her at all.”

  Astonishment rid Lord Beecham’s expression of displeasure. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I must insist I be given leave to treat those in my employ as I deem—”

  “You will not speak to her so.”

  Silence, and then, “No, Your Grace.”

  Edward inclined his head sharply. “Beecham, there will be a change to our business matters.”

  A frown flirted with Lord Beecham’s brows. “Your Grace?”

  Edward turned. His gaze lit upon her, his expression giving no hint as to his thoughts. Gwen told herself she wasn’t memorizing the curve of his lips or the colour of his eye, the way his hair fell about his face or the slash of his brow. “I will no longer deal with your solicitors,” he said.

  Lord Beecham paled. “Your Grace?”

  Pain arrowed through Gwen. Edward was going elsewhere? She wouldn’t even write him in a professional capacity?

  “Miss Parkes and I are to marry, and, going forward, Her Grace will deal with all legal matters as pertain to Sowrith.”

  A roaring started in her head, and it seemed to her as if every muscle in her body had seized. This made no sense. None. How could he—And to just—

  “Your Grace, this must be incorrect.” Lord Beecham echoed her thoughts, his confusion evident. “Miss Parkes is not a lady.”

  “She will be, once we are wed.”

  “But…her birth is low, Your Grace. She is not… She is not…”

  Edward’s eye turned flat. “Do not insult my future bride.”

  “No, Your Grace, of course not. I apologise. I—”

  “Not to me, Beecham,” he said. “To Miss Parkes.”

  Beecham turned to her. “Please accept my apologies, Miss Parkes,” he said, though every word sounded forced, and his expression resembled one who had just sucked a lemon.

  Still dumbfounded, Gwen could only nod her acceptance.

  Edward’s jaw twitched. “Beecham, leave us.”

  “But, Your Grace—”

  “Beecham. Leave us.”

  Lord Beecham looked from Edward to her and back again and, without further word, departed, closing the door behind him.

  Gwen stared at the closed door. Criminy, who knew what he made of this? One thing was certain. Her employment would not last the day.

  “Hello, Gwen,” Edward said quietly.

  She recovered her voice as a kernel of anger lodged in her chest. Had Edward even considered what his actions could cause? “You’re in London.”

  Pale and rigid, he nodded once. “Yes.”

  London, when he hated London. When he’d buried himself in Sowrithil and thought never to leave. London, to disturb her life on a whim. Again. “Why are you in London?”

  “Because you left.”

  Her mind went blank. She could only stare at him, watching as he swallowed and took a step forward, the ducal tension melting from him as another sort took its place. “Gwen, you left, and I couldn’t let you go. I can’t let you go. I know you’ve concerns, but—”

  “Yes. Concerns.” She grabbed hold of the only thing that made sense. “Edward, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Of course I should.” He set his jaw. “You left.”

  “My letter—”

  A laugh barked from him. “Yes, let us talk of your letter. Damnation, Gwen. That’s how you thought to leave?”

  He was right. It had been a stupid thing to do. Crossing her arms, she clutched her biceps. “Why did you say we were to marry?”

  “Because we are.”

  Anger flared, a spark she blew to a flame. “How did I miss this development? I would think I would remember a proposal.”

  “You asked where we were going. That. That’s where.”

  In the letter. She’d asked that in the bloody letter. “How? You are a duke.”

  He scowled. “I am a duke. As a duke, I will marry whomever I please, and none shall have any say in it.”

  “Not even me?”

  She’d stymied him, she could tell. Bitterly pleased, she continued, “You can’t just announce that I’m to marry you without any preamble. Have you thought of the disruption this will
create in my life? Yet again, you act with no thought of consequence. What am I to do when Lord Beecham discharges me, Edward? He will more than like not offer a letter of recommendation either. I deserve more than that.”

  “And what do I deserve, Gwen?” Recovering, eye blazing, he strode forward to within an inch of her. Refusing to back away, she stood her ground. “You left. You ran off and left a letter and—” Hands clenched, he took a breath, and then he looked at her direct. Her breath caught at the intensity of his single dark eye. “You left, Gwen.”

  This was all too confusing. Head throbbing, Gwen rubbed her temples. Marriage. There was no way this could work. The difference between them was too great.

  Exhaling, he rubbed a hand over his face. “It was always going to be marriage, Gwen. I just hadn’t formulated it in my head.”

  He didn’t understand. “I’m a commoner, Edward.”

  Lifting his hand, he ghosted his fingers over her cheekbone. “It won’t matter, Gwen”

  “But it will.” Turning from his touch, she stared at the closed door. “You saw Lord Beecham’s reaction. None will accept it.”

  “I don’t care.”

  A bitter laugh burst from her. “I care. I’ll care every time someone cuts me, every time I’m shunned. It will happen over and over again, and it will be a hundred times worse than what I’ve endured here. Do you know they look through me, Edward? The solicitors all view me as an oddity, an unnatural female. The only one who doesn’t is Mr. Davenport, and that’s because I knew him when he attended Cambridge. Not to mention his wife likes me, and she’d be displeased if he treated me ill.”

  His hands clenched. “It won’t matter.”

  “It will. What of the children, Edward? Our children.”

  Face hardening, he straightened. “Stop this, Gwen. Our children will be the sons and daughters of a duke and duchess. Anyone who treats them different will be made to know their error. These are excuses, and I will not have them.”

  This was how he’d kept his arm. This same tenacity enabled him to, at twelve years of age, stare down those so much older than him and force them to his will.

  “Be damned to propriety and convention and what society thinks. I love you, Gwen. I love you, and I will not be kept from you because of what people I don’t give a damn about think. You will marry me, and we will be happy. Bloody ecstatic, even. My place is with you, Gwen. I don’t care about the rest.”

  He was magnificent in his anger, his chest heaving, his jaw set. How could she give this man up? How could she let society dictate who she loved?

  It would be difficult. It would be conjecture and whispering and a host of people looking down on her. But in return, she would be with Edward. Married to Edward. Sharing a life with him. How could she give that up?

  Stepping forward, she grabbed his lapels and hauled him to her. Surprise flashed across his face as her mouth covered his.

  His lips were soft with surprise under hers. Arm curling about the small of her back, he pulled her to him and, angling his head, he took control of the kiss. He delved deep, tasting her over and again as her heart thundered in her ears, as her hands slid into his hair and held him to her.

  She couldn’t give that up. She couldn’t give him up. It would be hard, but easy wasn’t worth much. She would learn to be brave, bold, and daring. She would do anything to be with him.

  Breaking the kiss, he feathered his lips over her cheek, her jaw, and she felt in him his need as if he would die without her taste. Against his lips, she said, “My place is with you.”

  Such joy in his smile, so much it was blinding. “We shall be married at Sowrithil. Will you need much notice to move your things? Tell your family?”

  Highhandedness. Again. “Edward, wait.”

  “I will arrange for your father to be brought comfortably from Cambridge to Sowrithil. He and your mother both. We will delay the ceremony to ensure they can arrive.”

  “Edward—”

  “And, of course, Etta must be brought. You will want her as an attendant, no doubt. Do you believe—”

  “Edward, I’ve not said yes.”

  He stopped, his head whipping to meet her eyes. “What?”

  “You haven’t asked. Ask me.” She couldn’t be with him if he wouldn’t ask. “Please, Edward. Ask.”

  Fingers tapping a rhythm on his leg, he said, “Gwen…”

  “Please.”

  Jaw set, he locked his gaze with hers, and in his expression, she saw his fear. Oh, criminy. He was worried she’d refuse. “I won’t say no.”

  Silence greeted her.

  “Edward. Please.”

  He exhaled shakily. “Gwendolyn Parkes, will you marry me?”

  Leaning forward, she touched her forehead to his. “Yes.”

  The most intense joy filled his expression. Cupping her face, he brought her lips to his, kissing her over and over and over.

  Pulling back, she traced a pattern on his back. “I was writing you a letter.”

  Arms tightening, he brushed his lips against her temple. “Were you?”

  She nodded, the fine fabric of his coat rubbing her cheek.

  Gentle fingers beneath her chin raised her gaze to his. “What did it say?”

  His eye was filled with such warmth. Such love. “It said I miss you. Won’t you let me see you again?”

  “I would have said yes.”

  A sudden wickedness filled her. “Would you like to know what else I would have asked?”

  Expression wary, he said, “Yes.”

  “I would have asked to touch you. What would you have answered?”

  Closing his eye, he swallowed. “Yes.”

  “And kiss you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And do wicked, wicked things.”

  A shudder racked him. “Yes.”

  “Shall I do them?”

  He opened his eye. The love in his expression destroyed her and made her into something new. “Yes.”

  Epilogue

  Blenheim Boarding House, London, 29 October 1847

  Dear Edward,

  My parents have written they will journey to Sowrithil via London and that they will stay here in London for a week before travelling with me to arrive at Sowrithil on the 2nd of December. Apparently, they are most anxious to meet you. Mama tells me she’s not met a duke before, though Papa seems to think he’s educated at least six, or rather, educated those who would later become dukes. In any event, I believe they are quite looking forward to rubbing shoulders with a peer of the realm.

  Speaking of the wedding... Though I know he is not your favourite person, I think we should invite Lord Beecham. He did give me employment, which led me to you. I am beyond grateful for that.

  It has been strange here at the chambers since you left. None but Lord Beecham knows of our engagement, but every so often, I will turn and someone will start as if caught in the act of examination. Rumour flies fast, and I am certain the employees here are aware of our connection. I will not be sorry to leave this place, and it only makes me glad I am able to practice law upon my arrival at Sowrithil. And, of course, I cannot wait to be your wife.

  Speaking of such things… I have thought… Do you think we should build a school? A law school? For women?

  I hope you have not expired of shock. I should like to see a place where women can study the law, and I feel certain it will be most popular. Education will do much to alleviate discontent and provide focus where there currently is none. I have discussed this with a colleague here in London, Mr. Davenport, who himself was witness to the terrific fights in which Etta and a gentleman of his acquaintance would engage. If Etta and I had attended a law school, we should not have been so passionate in our expression…

  No. I cannot write such a blatant untruth. Are you smiling, Edward? Perhaps laughing? Can you imagine Etta and I unpassionate about the law?

  However, back to the school. Papa believes it a progressive idea, one that has taken far too long to come to fru
ition. He said he saw many intelligent girls languish for lack of a school. Mama agrees and believes several other of the professors would be amenable.

  Etta, of course, is in favour of a school.

  However, I am desirous most of your opinion. Do you believe it a good idea? Should we attempt it? It will ruffle quite a few feathers, and we will face opposition from many sources. I feel it would be worth it, though, and in for a penny, in for a pound. If we are to cause scandal with our union, why not make it a scandal of such truly magnificent proportions they will remember it for a hundred years to come?

  All my love,

  Gwen

  P.S. Etta has responded in the affirmative to attend our wedding. I am sure you are beyond thrilled to finally meet her. She threatens to dress as a serving maid so you should recognize her more easily.

  ***

  Sowrithil, Devon, 8 November, 1847

  Beecham,

  I write to remind you of my impending marriage. My future duchess has requested yours and your lady’s presence at the ceremony, which will take place on the 17th of December in the chapel at Sowrithil. Do not fail to attend. I should dislike to see Her Grace upset.

  Oh, and Beecham? Do not address legal correspondence to me. You have been told Her Grace will be handling all legal matters. I will not correct you again.

  Sowrith

  ***

  Sowrithil, Devon, 8 November 1847

  Dear Gwen,

  I have written to Beecham as you have requested. Hopefully, he responds in the negative. Tell me if you feel any discomfort at the chambers. Beecham and I will have words.

  A school sounds a grand idea. What would be required?