The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(102)

“He promised me a vote.”

“He promised you love and honor, too, and that did not work out so well.”

“Seline,” Sophie said sharply. “She doesn’t need reminders of their past.”

“I promised him those things, as well,” Sera pointed out.

“Pah,” Seleste waved a hand. “We promised obedience, too, and have any of us followed that one to the letter? The point is, this is humiliating. If he insists on keeping you to wife, then he should have canceled the vote instead of making all the world watch as you lose it.”

Sera could not disagree with the statement, but it was little matter if he intended to spend the day gloating over his win if he did not turn up to gloat over his win.

“Well, in either event, you’d think he’d be here,” Seleste replied, joining Sesily to look down on the floor of Parliament. “Surprisingly, Sera, you look as though you’ve received more votes than simply our esteemed brothers-in-law—Oh! There’s Father coming from the Content Lobby. Good work, Papa!” she called down with a wave, drawing the attention and clear disapproval of the lion’s share of the House of Lords. “Papa voted for you, Sera.”

Sesily added to the spectacle, calling down, “Vote Seraphina!” She turned back. “We should have made hats. Carried signs. Marched.”

Sera resisted the urge to hide her face in her hands when Seline added, “I don’t think a march would have helped.”

“One never knows,” Sophie said, hopefully.

“One knows,” Seline said, voice dry as sand. “No one likes a fearless woman.”

“Well, there are our reputations out the window and into the Thames, then,” Sesily said, dry and droll, taking her seat next to Sera and adding, blandly, “Whatever shall we do.”

The Dangerous Daughters snickered en masse.

“For all the grabbing Grab-hands does, you’d think he’d be a bit more in favor of a divorce,” Seleste said, a touch too loudly, drawing a collection of harrumphs from below for her inappropriate and exceedingly apt assessment of Lord Grabeham. She also drew a wink and a smirk from her handsome husband. “Oh, yes, I do like that wig.”

“Seleste!”

Seleste lowered her voice to a whisper. “Well, it’s true.”

“Which bit?” Sera asked.

All four of her sisters turned surprised eyes on her for a beat before Seleste replied, full of honesty, “Both.”

Their collective laughter echoed through the hall, and Sera found she did not care. If Malcolm couldn’t find it in himself to turn up for the damn vote, she could spend the morning enjoying herself. After all, he would still win in the end, would he not?

You might win, as well.

She swallowed the thought, disliking the way it sent unease rioting through her.

“My Lord Chancellor!”

“Oh! Look! Heiferbetter’s something to say!” Sesily narrated, lowering her voice. “Odious man.”

Sera did not disagree with the assessment.

“The Chancellor recognizes the Lord Hoffenbetten,” the man presiding over proceedings intoned.

“I humbly request that those in the viewing gallery be reminded that we are in a place of grave importance, deciding upon a question that impacts one of our members gravely, and may well influence the rest of us in a manner that might only be described as—”

“Grave?” Seline asked, the word carrying down to the floor like lead.

Lord Hoffenbetten looked up to Seline with pure irritation, and said, “Serious.”

The Lord Chancellor responded in utter boredom, “Quiet please, from the gallery.”

The quartet of sisters did as they were told, remarkably, taking their seats in a surprisingly quiet, colorful line of women, watching the members of the House of Lords file in and out through their respective doors to cast their vote, and possibly end their sister’s hope for a future that was not lived in the shadow of the past.

After long minutes of observational silence, Sesily said quietly, “Sera—there are far more men voting Content than I would have expected.”

Seleste leaned in and whispered, “I have been counting, and . . . well, I don’t wish to give you false hope . . . but I think you might have a fighting chance, Sera.”

Sera nodded, unable to tear her attention away from the door to the Content Lobby, where a seemingly endless stream of peers—most young enough for her to recall from her early seasons—were returning to the floor of the House after having voted in favor of her divorce.

Her heart began to pound. “It might happen,” she said softly, more to herself than to the others, but the Talbot sisters had always been connected by some kind of unbreakable bond in times like this.

Sophie reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Sera.”

And that’s when she saw the Marquess of Mayweather. Memory crashed through her—so weathered it seemed as though it had happened decades earlier and not only three years prior. The night she’d met Mal, on the Worthington House balcony, he’d been with Mayweather, bemoaning the state of marriage-minded misses, berating the marquess for falling in love.

She looked to her sisters. “Is the Marquess of Mayweather married?”

Confusion bloomed on their faces before Sesily said, as delicately as Sesily could say anything, “Perhaps you should wait until you’re actually divorced before”—she waved a hand in the air—“setting sights?”