บททั้งหมดของ His Father's Bride : บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

The garden had always been my refuge. It was the only place where the house felt distant—where the expectations, the whispers, the weight of everything pressing in on me softened, if only slightly. The air was cooler there, the breeze gentle as it moved through the hedges, carrying with it the faint scent of roses and damp earth. I stood near the far path, my fingers brushing absentmindedly against the petals of a bloom I had not truly seen. My thoughts were elsewhere. As always. I heard laughter and I turned to see William and Cora. "Oh Belle," she said, rushing over to me. "William and I were just talking on where we would reside after the wedding." I swallowed hard. I did not think about what would happen after the wedding. How i would survive in the same house as William and his wife. They would have children and he would never know that this child I was carrying was his. "I would think a couple would want some privacy," I said and William cocked an eyebrow at me.

Belle's POV The quiet in my room did not feel like a refuge that evening. Not when my thoughts refused to be quiet with it.Emma sat across from me, her posture composed but her attention fixed entirely on me in a way that made it impossible to retreat into silence. I had tried—at first—to say very little. To give her only what was necessary. But Emma was not someone one could easily deflect. “Start from the beginning,” she said gently, though there was a firmness beneath it. I let out a slow breath, my hands tightening slightly in my lap. “I was in the garden,” I began, my voice quieter than I intended. “I did not expect to see him there. Not so soon. Not after…” I trailed off. Emma did not interrupt. She rarely did when it mattered. “He was with Cora,” I continued, forcing the words out steadily. “She was speaking about the wedding. About flowers, I think. Or seating. I do not remember.” “What do you remember?” Emma asked softly. I swallowed. “The way he did

The ball room was suffocating in its elegance. Laughter rose too easily, glasses clinked too often, and every conversation seemed wrapped in politeness so perfect it bordered on falsehood. I had learned how to exist within it—how to smile when required, how to listen without revealing too much, how to remain just distant enough to avoid becoming the subject of interest. Tonight, I had almost succeeded. Almost. “Lady Rathcliffe.” I turned, already recognizing the voice. Lady Penbury. “My lady,” I said, inclining my head. She approached with practiced grace, her fan resting lightly in her hand, her smile delicate—and edged. “I must say,” she began, her gaze sweeping over me, “you have settled into your role remarkably quickly.” “I do my best,” I replied. “Yes,” she said softly. “One must, in circumstances such as yours.” I held her gaze, waiting. “There are always whispers,” she continued, lowering her voice just enough. “Particularly when a marriage occurs so… efficiently.”

Two days.In two days, William would be married.The thought settled in my chest like a weight I could neither lift nor ignore. It lingered there, heavy and immovable, no matter how carefully I composed myself.I sat at the long dining table, my fingers resting lightly against the delicate stem of my glass, watching as conversation ebbed and flowed around me like a tide I could not quite step into. Laughter rose in soft bursts. Cutlery chimed gently against porcelain. It was all so… civil. So perfectly arranged.Lady Cora sat beside William, radiant in pale blue silk that caught the candlelight with every movement. She was beautiful—undeniably so—and she knew it. Her laughter was soft, practiced, the kind that never lingered too long nor rang too loud. She leaned toward him often, her hand brushing his sleeve I supposed it belonged there. She belonged right where she was. William smiled at the right moments. Nodded when spoken to as required. But I could see the strain in the tightne

Lady Penbury did not wait for the room to settle. She came for me. The moment the last of the polite murmurs began to rise again—thin, strained attempts to pretend the evening had not just fractured—she cut through them with purpose, her skirts whispering sharply against the floor as she advanced. There was no pretense now. No silk to soften her words. Only anger. Raw and unmistakable. “You,” she said, stopping directly before me. The single word struck harder than any elaborate insult she had delivered before. I straightened instinctively, though my pulse was still unsteady from everything that had just transpired. The air felt too tight, too heavy, as though the walls themselves were pressing inward, forcing every truth into the open whether we wished it or not. “Lady Penbury,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could manage. “If you have something to say—” “Oh, I do,” she cut in sharply. Her gaze raked over me, no longer veiled in polite disdain but blazing with ope