Chapter 14 - Fourteen
The distant sound of the orchestra was now a grating noise in Anne’s ears. She paced back and forth on the stone terrace like a caged animal, her beautiful sapphire gown swishing angrily with every sharp turn.
Her mind played the scene on a loop: Delia’s confident smile, the Duke’s focused attention, the glint of the key, and their shared, secret look before they walked away, leaving her behind like she was nothing.
Her mother, Baroness Augusta, finally found her there, her own face a mask of fury. She had seen the Duke’s guard speak to the Duchess and had immediately known something was wrong.
"Anne," Augusta said, her voice a low whisper. She rushed to her daughter’s side, taking her by the arms. Anne was trembling, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. "My sunshine, can you please calm down? Stop this pacing. You are making a scene. People will see you."
Anne wrenched her arms away, her eyes wild with a mixture of rage and unshed tears. "Why should I not make a scene, Mama?" she cried, her voice high and strained. "Why should I be calm? She took him! Delia took Duke Eric with her! Right from under my nose! Who knows what they are doing right now in some dark corner or on his bed?" The thought was so vile, so humiliating, that a sob caught in her throat.
Baroness Augusta pulled her daughter into a fierce hug, her hand stroking Anne’s hair in a gesture that was both comforting and silencing. "Shhh, my dear, shhh. We will not let her win," Augusta murmured into her ear, her own voice hard as steel. "I am going to go and say a brief goodbye to our hostess. I will tell her you have a sudden headache. Then we can go home, okay? We will handle this at home."
Anne nodded numbly against her mother’s shoulder, her fight momentarily deflating into misery. Augusta gave her one last squeeze before releasing her, her expression one of grim determination as she turned and walked back towards the glittering ballroom to manage the social damage.
Left alone again, Anne wrapped her arms around herself, the cool night air doing little to soothe the fire of her anger. It was then that a figure emerged from the shadows of a nearby archway. It was George Pembroke. He must have seen her distress from afar, his face etched with worry.
"Anne, are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft with a concern that, just yesterday, might have pleased her. Tonight, it felt like an insult.
His presence was the spark that reignited her anger. She stood up straight, her sorrow instantly burning away, replaced by pure, unadulterated rage. As he stepped closer, she raised her hand and, with all her strength, slapped him hard across the face.
CRACK!!!
The crack of the slap was loud and sharp in the relative quiet of the garden. George stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his cheek, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. "Anne!"