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“Then please do not ask me to forgive her.” Her voice softened, although the pain beneath it was no less fierce. “Not today. Perhaps not for a very long time.”

Katherine lifted her tear-streaked face.

“Cori, I cannot bear the thought of losing you.”

Cordelia looked at her sister, remembering the countless afternoons they had spent together as girls, the secrets they had whispered beneath their bedcovers, and the comforting embrace Katherine had always offered whenever Cordelia was unhappy.

Cordelia stood. “I…I need to be alone for a while. Please excuse me.”

Her mother hesitated, then nodded, and her father sighed. “Go and rest,” he said.

Cordelia nodded faintly and walked away without looking at her sister. At the door, she faltered as Katherine called out to her.

“I am deeply sorry, Cori. Please believe that.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I believe you are.”

Hope flickered across her sister’s face.

“But being sorry does not mean you are entitled to my forgiveness.”

Then she opened the door and hastened upstairs to her bedchamber, where she tossed herself onto the bed and sobbed until she scarcely had the strength to draw another breath. At some point, Sir Charles came to keep her company, settling beside her with his familiar, comforting presence. She gathered him close, burying her face against him as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. His quiet companionship offered a small measure of solace amid the terrible ache in her heart, and she held him close until exhaustion finally dragged her into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER 25

George sat in a high-backed leather chair before the imposing oak desk in his father's study, contemplating the earl with an expression of cool civility that revealed nothing of the anger simmering beneath his composure. His father stood behind the desk, his face cold and forbidding, the severity of his expression suggesting George had committed some offense so grievous that the entire family might never recover.

George knew that look remarkably well.

He crossed one leg over the other and settled more comfortably into his chair, affecting the indolent air that had served him so admirably whenever his father was inclined to lecture him. Unfortunately, maintaining that appearance required considerably more effort than usual this morning. His head still throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and every sudden movement threatened to bring on another wave of nausea. Whatever vile substance had been slipped into his drink the previous night had left him feeling thoroughly wretched.

Yet he had answered his father’s urgent summons, despite his physician's recommendation that he remain in bed. He was beginning to regret the courtesy.

“There is no need to raise your voices,” his mother said from the sofa near the windows.

The duchess sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her expression drawn with worry. She had scarcely taken her eyes from George since he entered the room, and he suspected she was more concerned about his pallor than the scandal that had prompted this disagreeable family gathering.

“How can I not raise my voice after this?” his father demanded.

The earl slapped a scandal sheet onto the desk with sufficient force to make the silver inkstand rattle.

George glanced at the offending publication.

He had already read the article.

Indeed, his man of affairs had presented him with three separate accounts of the supposed scandal that morning, each more imaginative than the last. By the time the third writer had finished describing his alleged passion for Lady Victoria, George had been tempted to send the fellow a note congratulating him upon possessing such an inventive mind.

Unfortunately, there was nothing amusing about the consequences.

“Is this the matter of grave importance for which you so urgently summoned me to your townhouse?” George asked icily.

His father’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think this is a joke?”

“Not in the least. Although I confess the circumstances surrounding the affair are so absurd that I might have laughed had they not involved my reputation and that of a lady I hold very dear.”

“Then perhaps you ought to have considered that before behaving like a damned libertine!”

“My dear, do not shout,” his mother protested.