A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 84 - Eighty Four

Celine sat up slowly on the bed. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She felt entirely hollowed out. The beautiful pink room, with its floral wallpaper and soft rugs, felt like a highly decorated prison cell.

Lady Farrington walked to the vanity mirror.

She looked at her own reflection. She saw the deep lines of worry around her mouth and the fear shining in her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. She raised her trembling hands to her head and smoothed her elaborate hairstyle, pinning a loose curl back into place. She adjusted the lace at her neckline. She composed her face, forcing the muscles to relax into a smooth, aristocratic mask of indifference.

When she turned back to her daughter, the frightened mother was gone. The stern mother had returned.

Celine was still sitting on the bed, holding her stinging cheek. She looked small, fragile, and utterly broken.

"You will fix your face," Lady Farrington ordered coldly. The warmth had completely left her voice. It was pure ice.

Celine did not move.

"You will wash your face," Lady Farrington continued, dictating the instructions like a military general. "You will put on powder to hide that redness. You will put on the blue silk gown for the evening. You will go down to dinner. And you will smile at the Duke. You will laugh at his jokes, and you will look at him as if he is the only man in the world."

She walked to the heavy oak door. She placed her hand on the brass knob but did not turn it immediately. She looked back at Celine, delivering the final, crushing blow.

"Remember why you are doing this, Celine," Lady Farrington said softly. It was a cruel, calculated softness. "Remember the promise your father gave you."

Celine let out a small, wounded sound. She buried her face in her knees.

"Remember what is at stake," Lady Farrington pressed, turning the knife. "Remember Edward’s grave."

Celine squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears flowed faster.

"If you want to know where he is laid," Lady Farrington said, her words dropping like heavy stones in the quiet room, "do as you are told. Your father will only tell you his resting place once the ring is on your finger and the marriage is consummated. Until then, you will keep pretending to be the perfect Farrington daughter."

Celine sobbed, a quiet, broken sound. To mourn a man, she had to marry his opposite. To find peace, she had to live a lie.

"There is no love in this world, Celine," Lady Farrington said. She sounded tired, a woman who had learned this lesson decades ago and was simply passing on the grim reality of their class. "There is only survival. Grow up."

She opened the door. The sounds of the large house—the distant clatter of servants, the ticking of a grandfather clock—spilled into the room.

"The Duke isn’t Edward," Lady Farrington concluded. "It is not necessary that he loves you. It is only necessary that he marries you. Just do your duty."

She walked out into the hallway and closed the door firmly behind her. The latch clicked into place.

Celine sat alone in the pink room.

The silence rushed back in. It was not a peaceful silence. It was heavy, suffocating, and thick with despair. It pressed down on her chest until she felt she could hardly breathe.

She lowered her hands from her knees. She reached up and touched her cheek. It was still hot, radiating pain from her mother’s palm. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in her heart.

She looked out the window. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long, golden shadows across the Hamilton lawns.

She thought of the woods.

She thought of Rowan’s laugh earlier that afternoon. She had never heard him laugh like that—so freely, so warmly. But that laugh had not been for her.

She thought of Delaney’s victory dance on the croquet lawn. She thought of the pure, unfiltered joy on the matchmaker’s face.

She thought of the way they looked at each other when they emerged from the trees. It was a look of quiet, desperate yearning. It was a look of two people who were drawn together by an invisible, undeniable force. Celine recognized that look because she had worn it once herself.

And then, she thought of Edward.

She closed her eyes, and the memory assaulted her. She thought of his warm smile, the way his hands felt calloused but gentle when he held her face. She thought of the secret meetings in the stables, the whispered promises in the dark.

And then the nightmare followed. She thought of the night her father found out. She thought of the shouting, the violence. She thought of Edward’s cold, lifeless eyes staring at her, his blood soaking into the hay.

She had screamed until her throat bled, but no one had helped them. Her father had simply ordered the body removed, and ordered his daughter washed. She had never been allowed to ask where they buried him. She had never been allowed to lay a single flower. The next week, she was sent to France.

The weight of it all—the grief, the blackmail, the lie she was living, the loveless future stretching out before her—was too much to bear.

Celine slid off the edge of the tall bed. Her legs gave way beneath her. She sank down until she was sitting on the soft carpet.

She curled her body forward, bringing her knees to her chest once more. She wrapped her arms around her shins, making herself as small as possible. She pressed her forehead against the floor.

And she wept.

She wept for the love she had, the sweet, stolen love that had ended in blood.

She wept for the love she wanted, the dream of a kind husband and a peaceful life that was now forever out of reach.

She wept for the love she saw today between the Duke and the matchmaker, a love she was being forced to tear apart.

She wept on the floor, a beautiful bird trapped in a gilded cage, knowing she would never fly again.