Chapter 9 The weight of unworthiness

No, a real lady certainly wouldn't have done as I did. She thought in agreement. A tremendous wave of unworthiness assailed her. Aubrielle felt tears spring to her eyes as he insulted her.

She never felt more gauche, fidgeting under his condescending gaze. His look spoke volumes of what he thought of her. Her lips trembled, but she refused to cry. She wouldn't allow him to see how he wounded her. A part of her accepted his unkind treatment, knowing she deserved far worse than insults.

But he was wrong about one thing. She'd known better than to get herself into such a disgraceful position. Falling in love allowed her to dismiss propriety. Aubrielle would have never lain with Dorian if she hadn't believed with all her heart they would marry. She allowed herself to be swept away. Even a lady could be swept away, she reasoned without any regret.

No, she had no such recriminations. She loved Dorian with every bit of her heart, and clung to his perfect image, if only to get through her marriage to this cruel, contemptible man.

Her husband just wanted to belittle her, she knew. Aubrielle refused to think she couldn't hold her own in any social situation. Lady Gale assured her none would ever know she'd never attended an elite finishing school when she finished her training. The lady must have taken pity on her years before, or perhaps she was bored in her own life. Dorian's father was always in London, leaving his wife alone at Gale House.

Aubrielle recalled how shocked she was when Dorian began courting her last year. Deep down, she never felt good enough for him. Dorian knew her all her life. He didn't care if she had no dowry. The girlish dreams she had of him all her life became a reality then.

Then, she was overwhelmed with feelings she wasn't worthy of him, not fit to be his wife. It worsened when Cassius died and he became the Earl of Gale. She panicked to think of being his countess, having not a clue what it entailed.

Her husband knew her a scant second and honed in on all those insecurities like a fly to jam, picking her apart, and dissecting her until she was nothing. She was unable to form a retort, too humiliated to meet his gaze.

There were never any funds available for such things. Because of her brother's gambling, there were rarely enough funds to pay the few servants they employed. Rafael grudgingly paid for a tutor years ago, but her education was quite limited. She could read quite well, write a fine hand, and do simple sums. It seemed enough until now.

She felt worthless in her husband's eyes. Dejected, her blurred gaze clung to the floorboards of the coach for a time. The silence was awkward as it stretched between them.

Seeing the mocking censure in his handsome face made her realize just how outclassed they were. Her husband was a wealthy marquis who probably went to the finest schools. His lofty position entitled him to all the benefits of his station. He had a lifetime of training behind him, beginning early on as a child. Her confidence plummeted under his disparaging assessment of her.

She was the orphaned daughter of a modest baronet. Compared to him, she had no remarkable background at all. The fact she wasn't suitable to be his wife was obvious to her. Taken off guard, she stared numbly out the window, unable to bear his hateful amusement at her expense. Evercroft promptly ignored her then, looking out the window too.

Aubrielle felt nauseated by what she'd done to them. The thought of enduring his unrelenting looks of displeasure for the rest of her life made her tremble. She sought sleep to escape him, leaning against the far side of the swaying conveyance.

Her gloves fell to the floorboards as she slept. He bent and retrieved the tiny cream-colored gloves and tucked them at her side. His eyes fell upon her face, flushed in sleep. Seeing how young she looked in repose made his expression soften somewhat.

Garland could see his words hit their intended mark. He recoiled at his own nastiness. He was immediately ashamed for pointing out such snobbish observances just to hurt her feelings. He grew angry at himself for even caring.

The bloody chit didn't deserve any civility from him after what she'd done! Still, when had he ever stooped so low to feel better about anything? He, out of both of them, was raised to know better.

Garland's father died when he was ten in a hunting accident. Gregory Sloane was a loud, abusive drunkard who never failed to find some cause to take his frustrations out on his wife and only child. He fell from his horse during a fox hunt, breaking his neck instantly. Not a heroic end for his noble sire, but an end, just the same.

Lady Eloise, his long-suffering mother, skipped her year-long period of mourning to seek her own entertainment in France. For years, she left him alone to be cared for by servants while she went on with her own life. She died in Paris when he was sixteen of influenza.

He recalled his lack of reaction when he was called to the headmaster's office at Eton with the news he was an orphan. William Haines was there, his father's solicitor, and now his. The man seemed to expect something from him then. He couldn't feel what he should have felt to know his mother was dead. He'd never been able to since. He hardly knew her.

The woman who gave him life hardly paid him any mind. She was a vain, cold woman who never wanted him near her to crinkle her elaborate gowns. He was cast off upon servants from the time he took his first breath, pushed away any time he dared approach his mother. He could recall how she stared at him with such resentment in her unfeeling blue eyes as if she blamed him for her unhappy life.

His father was a stern taskmaster who drilled the fact he was his heir into him from the time he could walk. He'd never been allowed to be a child. Recalling how his father punished him severely if he made any minor slip made him stiffen from those unpleasant memories. His father hit him more often than he cared to recall.