A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 83 - Eighty Three

Lady Celine Farrington stood frozen. Her hand flew to her left cheek, her gloved fingers pressing against the rapidly reddening skin. The flesh burned as if it had been touched by a hot iron. Her ear rang with a high, thin pitch.

She stared at her mother with wide, horrified eyes.

Lady Farrington was breathing heavily. Her chest rose and fell in jerky, uneven motions under her stiff purple silk bodice.

For a terrible second, Lady Farrington raised her hand again. Her fingers were stiff, her palm flat, preparing to strike a second time.

Celine squeezed her eyes shut. She braced herself. She waited for the impact, her shoulders hunched in pure fear.

But the blow never came.

Lady Farrington curled her raised hand into a tight fist. Her knuckles turned white. Slowly, she dropped her arm to her side. She could not risk a second slap. A single red mark could be hidden with powder or blamed on the afternoon sun. A bruise, however, would be noticed by the Duke. And the Duke noticed everything.

"Do you think this is a game?" Lady Farrington demanded. Her voice was no longer a shout, but a harsh, jagged whisper that was somehow much worse.

She stepped forward and closed the distance between them. She reached out and grabbed Celine’s shoulders. Her grip was brutal. Her fingers dug into the delicate pink muslin of Celine’s dress, pinching the soft flesh beneath.

She shook her daughter. It was a violent, jarring motion that made Celine’s teeth rattle in her head.

"Do you think we have a choice?" Lady Farrington hissed, her face mere inches from Celine’s. Her eyes were wild with a terror that Celine had rarely seen. "Do you think you have a choice? We are standing on the edge of a cliff, Celine. If your father hears of this rebellion, he will not just punish you. He will kill you."

Celine stopped struggling. The shaking stopped, but the grip on her shoulders remained. The mention of her father, Lord Farrington—a cold man who ruled their country estate with an iron fist and a riding crop—brought a different kind of fire to Celine’s chest. It was the fire of profound grief.

She looked directly into her mother’s panicked eyes.

"The same way he killed Edward," Celine replied back at her.

The name hung in the air between them, heavy and forbidden. It was a name that had not been spoken aloud in the Farrington household for two year.

Lady Farrington’s face drained of all color. She looked instantly toward the closed bedroom door, her eyes darting back and forth as if expecting the wood to have ears.

"Lower your voice," Lady Farrington commanded. She released Celine’s shoulders and took a step back, her hands shaking. "Are you mad? You must never speak that name here. Never."

"It is the truth," Celine whispered, her lower lip trembling. The tears she had been fighting finally spilled over, trailing hot paths down her cheeks. "Papa killed him. He found out, and he killed him."

"Lower your voice!" Lady Farrington hissed again, stepping close to cover Celine’s mouth with her hand. But she pulled it back before making contact, disgusted. "That bastard laid with you. He was nothing. A nobody with no title and no fortune. And he dared to touch the daughter of a nobleman. He took your purity."

Celine stood her ground. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, ruining her pristine silk glove.

"I gave it to him, Mama," Celine replied. Her voice was quiet, but it was filled with a stubborn, desperate pride. "He did not take it. I gave it to him. I loved him. And I did. It is better he took it than that smelly old man papa wanted me to marry."

Lady Farrington stared at her daughter as if she were looking at a stranger. The mask of the perfect, aristocratic mother cracked, revealing the ugly, desperate reality of their situation.

"You are a ruined woman, Celine!" Lady Farrington said with pure, unadulterated frustration. She threw her hands up in the air. "You are spoiled goods dressed in expensive silk! Do you not understand the danger you are in? If anyone in the ton finds out what you did, you will be cast out. We will all be cast out. You will be sent to a convent in France, or worse, left on the streets."

She advanced on Celine again, her eyes flashing with anger.

"If you do not marry this Duke," Lady Farrington spat, pointing a trembling finger at Celine’s chest, "you won’t find a better opportunity than this. In fact, you will find no opportunity at all. No sane man would marry you if he knew the truth! You are damaged. The Duke of Hamilton is your only salvation because he does not know."

She pushed Celine away. It was a hard, dismissive shove.

Celine lost her footing. She stumbled backward, her pink skirts tangling around her legs. She fell onto the large, four-poster bed. She landed hard on the silk comforter, stunned and breathless.

Lady Farrington stood over her, breathing hard, looking down at the daughter she had carefully molded and polished for the marriage mart.

"Your Uncle Hawksley is trying to make the Duke marry you," Lady Farrington said, her voice shaking with the effort to maintain control. "He has spent months arranging this. He has used the railway contracts to trap the Duke into this corner. We need the Hamilton money, Celine. If we become related to the Hamiltons, do you know the benefits? We are drowning in debt, Celine. And your father needs the status elevation to keep his creditors at bay."

She paced to the end of the bed and back again.

"They are powerful men," Lady Farrington continued, her tone turning pleading, yet carrying a dark warning. "If you ruin this... if you walk away because of some childish, romantic notion about love... your father will not spare us. He will destroy you, and he will destroy me for failing to control you."