Page 113 of A Troublesome Circumstance

“Think of Mother. Think of me,” Alexander pleaded. “That article could ruin us, too. Is that what you want?”

Her chin wavered. “No. Of course not.”

Alexander exhaled heavily, frustration seeping from every line of him. “Josephine… you are being stubborn. Start thinking about yourself and your future. It could all disappear in the blink of an eye.”

She took another step back, mustering her courage to say her next words. “I think… it would be best if I retired to our country home for the remainder of the Season.”

Her mother’s face fell. “You would leave us?”

“It would be for the best. If I were gone…”

“Then the gossips would win,” her mother said firmly.

“It is better than walking around on parade while they whisper behind their fans,” Josephine replied, her voice cracking.

Her mother reached out and touched her sleeve gently. “Why don’t you go rest and let me speak to your brother for a moment?”

Josephine didn’t need to be told twice. She wanted—no, needed—to be alone. She spun and hurried up the steps, her skirts swishing with each frantic step.

At the top of the stairs, she heard her brother shout, “She is being so difficult!”

Tears spilled over, slipping hotly down her cheeks as she made her way down the corridor towards her chamber. She pushed open her bedroom door and stepped inside, letting the door slam shut behind her. She threw herself onto the bed, burying her face in the coverlet.

A soft gasp came from behind her.

“Good heavens. Whatever is the matter?” Martha asked, her maid’s voice soft with concern.

Josephine should answer. She knew she should. But she had no strength left—not for another explanation, not for another retelling of her humiliation.

Martha moved closer and sat beside her on the edge of the bed. “Did Mr. Broderick do something?”

Josephine nodded into the coverlet.

Martha let out an exasperated sigh. “I suspect we’ll be needing chocolate. Loads of chocolate.”

A sob broke free from Josephine’s chest.

If only chocolate could fix this.

But nothing could fix this.

Not even love.

18

Jude sat in the shadowed corner of White’s, his untouched drink resting on the small polished table. The hum of the club did nothing to dull the storm inside his chest. Frustration churned beneath his ribs. Anger, sharp and cold, followed close behind.

He had finally found the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and she had refused him.

Refused him.

He, Jude Dexter—heir to a dukedom, a man who’d been chased, flattered, and all but thrown at by ambitious debutantes for years—had been turned away without hesitation. And the worst part? Her rejection had nothing to do with his rank… which was precisely why he couldn’t, wouldn’t, lose her.

A jovial voice broke through his dark thoughts.

“Why do you look like death, my friend?”

Jude didn’t bother looking up. “What do you want, Rupert?”