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chapter 6
Gideon was in a foul mood.
Sitting in the frigid drawing room, he read the letter Count Dalmore had sent him over and over. He had already read it countless times the day it arrived, and the parchment was now worn and crumpled.
[Dear Sir Gideon Arlington,]
So began the letter.
[I regret to bring you such unpleasant news after such a long silence. Briony and I have decided to end our marriage of three years and divorce. The responsibility for this lies entirely with me. Briony bears no fault, and I beg you—bowing my head—that you will not reproach her, nor allow anyone else to do so. Any blame is mine alone to bear. I truly hope Briony may soon meet someone better than myself and live happily.
In addition, I wish to return the dowry that the Arlington family provided. Please appoint a solicitor to contact me so I may arrange the matter swiftly.
Yours sincerely,
Keith Dalmore, Lord of Ebony]
“Divorce, he says.”
It had been two weeks since those words had become a bitter habit. He muttered them while working, muttered them over meals. That marriage had cost him a fortune—not just the dowry, but the expenses for Briony’s debut into society, and much more.
Even if Her Majesty the Queen herself were to wed, more money could hardly have been spent. Yet Gideon had been certain the investment was worthwhile. To tie his lesser baronetcy to a count’s house was no small honor, and from that connection he had hoped to climb higher—to other noble houses, even to the royal family itself.
But it had all come to nothing.
Because of Briony, that useless daughter.
Count Dalmore’s letter had asked that she not be blamed. But if not her fault, then whose? The Count was, aside from lacking in wealth, a man of no serious defect—his lineage was fine, his looks presentable. True, his letter’s tone had treated divorce like an administrative affair, which was irksome given what was at stake. Still, his rank excused it. In every way, he was more than Briony deserved.
“She’s as stiff as her mother was…”
Gideon fumed.
No doubt she had failed to fulfill her wifely duties, and so been cast off. She had no charm, and as for coquettish wiles to soften a man’s temper—one couldn’t expect such things from her at all.
Still, Gideon had sent her off with a grand dowry to a count drowning in debt. Surely that should have been satisfaction enough. If Briony failed to please him, the man could always take a mistress—just as Gideon had done, over and over, since Briony’s mother died giving birth to her. What man didn’t keep a mistress or two? Briony ought to have been used to the idea.
“But what about appearances?”
The Count had hinted at returning the entire dowry as alimony. By law, a dowry was not required to be repaid upon divorce. But Gideon saw no reason to refuse. He researched precedents and found one case where half the dowry was returned upon a consensual divorce. Still, Briony was already twenty-three. Married at the age of majority, she had already been drained of her prime years.
From a father’s perspective, he had lost a valuable investment. Thus, he demanded the full amount. He had thought the Count would have spent most of it repairing his estate or paying debts—but to Gideon’s surprise, the money was returned in full.
“If I’d known, I should have demanded more.”
He clicked his tongue bitterly. And unease crept in: would the gossip of him eagerly snatching the money spread through society, leaving no one willing to marry into the Arlington baronetcy again?
“Master.”
The old butler appeared at the doorway.
“Miss Briony is about to arrive.”
Teary Haven, the Arlington estate, perched on a hill overlooking Shawbury. Gideon had expanded the mansion the moment his wife and the detestable former baronet couple died. Across Shawbury and the neighboring lands, there was no grander house than Teary Haven. The butler had spotted a carriage climbing the hill and rushed to report it.
“So soon?”
Even for a mutual divorce, property divisions usually took more than a month. But there had been little to divide here—just Briony’s belongings—and the alimony issue had been swiftly resolved, thanks to Gideon’s clear demands. That Count Dalmore worked at the High Court surely expedited matters.
“Shall I light the fires?” the butler asked nervously.
“For what? She’ll go straight to her room.”
“She must be exhausted after days of travel by carriage. And hungry…”
“If she’s strong enough to eat after being sent home in disgrace, she can find it herself. Just open the door for her when she arrives.”
“What of the coach fare?”
Gideon had not sent her a carriage. He reasoned the Dalmore house should bear that cost.
“Do I have to concern myself with such trifles?”
“My apologies.”
The butler bowed repeatedly.
Gideon strode to the window and pulled back the curtain. In the darkness beyond, a faint lantern swayed nearer. He let out a low hum.
“Light the entrance,” he ordered the butler, still bowing. “I shall greet her myself.”
Her body ached as though beaten with hammers.
It had taken three days through treacherous mountain roads to reach Shawbury. She had sat in a jolting carriage the entire way, hardly able to speak with Myrtle lest she bite her tongue.
The gatekeeper recognized Briony and opened the way, and soon the carriage stopped before Teary Haven’s doors.
“We’ve arrived,” said Dmitry, opening the door.
Despite sitting on the driver’s seat for a week, his attire was only slightly disheveled, his demeanor still impeccable. With his support, Briony stepped down on trembling legs.
“Where shall I put the carriage, sir?” asked the hired coachman.
He was a local Dmitry had found on their first day, paid ten days’ wages upfront. His knowledge of the roads had been true enough, though his driving was rough, leaving Myrtle staggering as she too disembarked.
“We shall head down to Shawbury town,” Dmitry told him with the practiced air of a nobleman, then turned back to Briony with his usual courtesy. “You must be weary, my lady. Rest well now that you are home.”
“It’s so late… Why not stay the night? A room will be ready soon.”
He shook his head.
“I am of the Dalmore household. I would hardly be welcome here.”
“But—”
“And Lord Ebony may need me.”
The words jolted her back to reality.
A royal warrant had been issued against Keith. What had become of Ebony Heights by now?
‘Is he safe?’
Even her faithful butler had left him to bring her here. Who was left to care for him?
Then the front doors opened. Two familiar figures appeared—her father, Gideon Arlington, and the butler Harold.
Briony was quietly surprised. She had not expected her father to meet her himself. She bent her aching knees in a curtsey.
“Good evening, Father.”
“Good evening, Master,” Myrtle echoed.
Gideon merely gave them a cold glance and a curt nod. Briony was long used to such treatment, and felt no sting. Dmitry then bowed.
“It has been a long time, Sir Gideon. I am Dmitry Watton, who has escorted Mistress Arlington here.”
“Watton?”
“Lord Ebony’s butler.”
“Ah.”
Gideon turned away. Harold, awkward, produced a heavy purse from his coat and held it out.
“I need no fee,” Dmitry said. “I have only obeyed Lord Ebony’s orders.”
Before Harold could insist, Gideon snapped, “Put it away.” Meaning: if he refused, be gone at once.
Dmitry bowed.
“Lord Ebony asked me to convey his deepest gratitude for your great understanding, Sir Gideon. May blessings be upon House Arlington.”
“Give him my regards.”
With the formalities ended, Dmitry turned back to Briony with that familiar, kind look of concern, his eyes lingering on hers.
“It has been an honor to serve you, my lady.”
“Thank you for your loyalty, Dmitry. And to Lord Ebony…”
But what could she say? Thank him for freeing her from this dreadful house, if only for three years? Confess she had never truly wished to leave Ebony?
Dmitry looked sorrowful.
“I shall tell him you reached Arlington safely. Above all, he worries for your well-being.”
“Briony, will you keep your father standing outside forever?” Gideon barked.
Dmitry quickly bid Myrtle farewell and climbed into the carriage. The coachman wheeled it around with practiced ease.
And Briony could only watch him leave. As Dmitry rode down the hill, it struck her—once the Dalmore butler was gone, nothing on earth would remain to link her to Keith.
But Gideon gave her no time for sentiment.
“Come inside.”
Silently, she and Myrtle obeyed. In Teary Haven, Gideon’s word was law.
The moment they entered, damp, stifling air pressed down on her. Unlike the crisp night outside, the house felt clammy, each breath tightening her lungs. She shivered.
Leaving her standing in the hall, Gideon asked, “How is your health?”
“I’m a little tired, but well enough.”
Briony grew uneasy. Why such concern? Why had he greeted her at all, asked after her health? She had feared he might not even open the door, so deep was his investment in the marriage that had now collapsed.
He looked her up and down.
“Did the Count treat you kindly?”
“He did as much as he could for me.”
“Foolish girl. I mean—did you please him?”
Briony froze, understanding at last. No father should ask such a thing of his daughter—least of all before servants.
She lowered her head, refusing his gaze, and muttered quickly, “This isn’t a suitable topic here.”
“Unsuitable?”
Suddenly Gideon seized her shoulders in both hands, shaking her violently. His grip was brutal—not painful so much as shocking. She fought only to stifle a cry.
Even past fifty, Gideon’s frame was powerful and solid. His thick hands rattled her fragile shoulders. Myrtle, terrified, dared not intervene, nor even the butler.
“You still don’t understand, so let me make it clear,” he growled. “You are nothing—a penniless country girl with a pretty face. And now divorced besides. To salvage your worth, you must prove you are not lacking as a woman!”
Briony did not resist. Nor did she cry. She was startled only because it had been three years since she had last suffered this. In truth, her father had always been like this—violent, capricious, vulgar.
She feared him. She despised him. And as she grew, that fear had curdled into a cold, smoldering defiance. She had never indulged in self-pity; that restraint was her only true source of pride. She had never told a soul.
“You are insulting me, Father.”
“It is a father’s right to insult his daughter. How long since you first shared the Count’s bed?”
She gave no answer. Only breathed deep, paused, exhaled again. She knew half of it was curiosity, half the pleasure of degrading her. If he only wished to know, he could have asked privately in his study—not here, before others.
“Any chance you conceived a child?”
“…”
“Surely you consummated the marriage at least once?”
In bygone times, consummation had been law and custom—proof of it even shown to the king. But that had been a century ago. On their wedding night, Keith had kissed the back of her hand, said, “Good night,” and crossed to his own chambers.
If the servants see you, what will they think?
She had begged him not to slip away like a secret lover. At least sleep beside me, she had suggested, though he was then still too much a stranger.
He had only smiled.
Have you seen the state of this house? My dignity was sold long ago. And please—call me Keith.
But still…
If anyone sees me, I’ll make excuses. I’ll never let the blame fall on you.
She had worried more for his reputation than her own. And from that first night until the very day they signed the divorce papers, Keith had done everything in his power to preserve her honor.
So unlike her father, who had not let ten minutes pass before disgracing her in the entry hall.
Her throat burned with thirst. She swallowed and forced out the words, slow and heavy.
“…Ask Lord Ebony.”
“Useless wretch.”
He released her. She would have collapsed had Myrtle not caught her. Tears brimmed in the girl’s eyes, spilling down her cheek, though she dared not even wipe them.
“Stay in your room. I don’t want to see your face.”
With that, Gideon turned. Harold glanced helplessly between them, but at his master’s sharp cough hurried after him.
“My lady, are you all right? I’ll have a bath drawn,” Myrtle said softly, dabbing at her tears with her sleeve.
Briony only nodded.
