Chapter 7
The next day Emma felt an ease in her shoulder, but not enough to relieve her of the sling.
She had allowed one of the maids to dress her like a doll for slaughter, her mind miles away from the task of lacing corsets and pinning hair.
The gown was a pale green silk that Nora had insisted upon, a color meant to signify springtime and innocence, two states of being that felt like a lifetime ago.
Her injured shoulder, tightly bound, sent a dull, protesting throb with every movement, a physical echo of the turmoil churning within her.
Entering the grand ballroom felt like stepping onto a stage, the heat and noise a physical blow.
A thousand candles blazed in chandeliers overhead, their light glittering off polished floors, shimmering jewels, and the forced smiles of the county’s finest. The orchestra sawed away at a waltz, a relentlessly cheerful sound that grated on Emma’s raw nerves.
It was a beautiful, suffocating performance of happiness, and she felt the familiar, bitter taste of being the sole discordant note.
But tonight, something was different.
As her gaze swept the room, she saw Lord Bainbridge near the French doors, a glass of champagne in hand. He met her eyes and gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. It was a small gesture, but it landed like an anchor in a storm. We are not so different, you and I.
She was not entirely alone in this glittering cage.
Her injury excused her from dancing, which was a small mercy, so she sat and attempted painful small talk with other wallflowers.
After that quickly became an exercise in futility, she lurked around the slightly more interesting conversation of slightly more interesting men.
A young viscount with more chin than sense detailed the pedigree of his new hunter.
A baronet, his face florid with wine, complained about the quality of the port.
She smiled, she nodded, she murmured polite responses, all while her eyes scoured the crowd for a hint of…
There.
Amélie was holding court near the far side of the room, surrounded by a small circle of captivated men.
The duchesse stood out from the sea of pastels and creams like a blood red sky.
Her gown was a deep, fathomless scarlet that seemed to drink the candlelight, leaving only the creamy luminescence of her skin in its wake.
Diamonds and rubies glittered like trapped stars in the dark coils of her hair.
She laughed at something one of the men said, a low, melodic sound that carried across the room and found Emma with pinpoint accuracy.
As if feeling the weight of Emma’s stare, Amélie’s gaze lifted, sweeping over the heads of the crowd until it locked with hers.
The world narrowed to the space between them.
The orchestra faded. The chatter of the room became a dull buzz.
Amélie’s expression was unreadable, her gaze holding Emma’s for a long, charged moment before a slow, deliberate smile curved her lips.
It was not the devastating smile she gave her admirers; it was the small, private one from the pre-dawn kitchen. A smile of shared secrets.
Emma’s heart gave a painful lurch, and she reached out to steady herself against the wall.
It was a relief when Lord Bainbridge appeared at her side, bowing with practiced elegance. “May I have the honor, Miss Goode?”
“You may have the rescue, my lord,” she murmured, placing her hand in his.
He led her onto the floor, his hold firm but careful of her injury. They moved in comfortable silence for a moment, two allies behind enemy lines. He did not plague her with questions about horses or the weather.
“Your brother,” he said, his voice low enough to be lost in the music, “looks as though he’s attending his own funeral rather than celebrating his engagement.”
Emma’s gaze followed his to where Emmett stood beside Lucy Pembroke.
Bainbridge was right. Her brother was a statue of misery in a perfectly tailored coat, his smile a tight, painful slash across his face.
Lucy, a vision in white lace, stared blankly into the middle distance, her hand resting on Emmett’s arm with no more warmth than a porcelain doll’s.
They were a perfect, tragic tableau of duty.
The sight sent a fresh pang through Emma, a mixture of pity and a terrifying premonition of what her own future could be if she were not careful.
If she were not brave.
“He is doing what is required,” Emma said, the words tasting like ash. “As are we all.”
“Are we?” Bainbridge’s hazel eyes met hers, a silent challenge in their depths. “The game has many pieces, Miss Goode. One is not required to play only as a pawn.”
As they turned, Emma’s eyes met Amélie’s once more. The duchesse was no longer smiling. She was watching them, her gaze intense, following Emma’s every movement across the floor. There was a possessiveness in that look, a focused heat that made the skin at the back of Emma’s neck prickle.
It was unnerving and thrilling in equal measure.
The dance ended too soon. Bainbridge returned her to the edge of the floor with a polite bow and a parting squeeze of her hand that said more than words.
She was immediately claimed by another, a man whose primary topic of conversation was the alarming spread of hedgerows.
Emma felt the walls of the ballroom closing in.
The heat was becoming unbearable, the air thick with perfume and the scent of her own rising panic.
The smiling faces, the endless music, the weight of Amélie’s stare—it was all too much.
She needed to breathe.
Murmuring an excuse about her shoulder, she pulled away from her bewildered partner and performed the humiliating feat that was becoming her calling card.
She fled.
Pushing through the throng of bodies, ignoring Nora’s sharp, questioning glance as she passed. She didn’t stop until her hand closed around the cool brass handle of the French doors and she stumbled out into the blessedly cold night air of the balcony.
The chill in the late-summer air was a shock, cold and clean against her flushed skin.
Emma leaned against the stone balustrade, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath that tasted of salt and damp earth.
The music from the ballroom was a muffled, rhythmic pulse behind the thick glass, the sound of a world she had gladly, if temporarily, abandoned.
She closed her eyes, savoring the solitude.
“Running from that hedonist, Lord Bainbridge?”
The voice, a low melody laced with smoke, made Emma’s eyes fly open.
How had the duchesse found her so swiftly?
Amélie stepped through the French doors, letting them close softly behind her.
She moved like liquid shadow against the star-dusted sky, withdrawing a thin cigarillo and jeweled holder from a silver case.
The scratch of a match broke the silence, momentarily illuminating the sharp planes of her face, before she cupped the flame and touched it to the tip.
The tobacco caught, glowing crimson in the darkness as she drew a long, deliberate breath and exhaled.
Emma’s heart, which had just begun to slow, resumed its frantic hammering against her ribs. “I needed air,” she said, the words sounding defensive and childish.
Amélie took a slow step toward her, the crimson silk of her gown whispering over the stone flags.
“This air is better, is it not? It does not choke on unspoken things.” She took a delicate drag from the cigarillo, her lips parting slightly as she exhaled a fragrant cloud of smoke. “Would you care for one?”
It was a scandalous offer. Ladies did not smoke. But then, ladies did not do the things Emma did. Did not feel what Emma was feeling. “I don’t know how.”
“I will teach you,” Amélie said, the promise hanging in the air between them. She produced a second thin cigarillo and held it out.
Emma’s hand trembled as she took it. Amélie struck a match, the sudden flare of light carving her face from the darkness—the high cheekbones, the full, knowing curve of her mouth, the impossible depth of her eyes. She cupped the flame with one hand, shielding it from the sea breeze, and leaned in.
“Come closer,” she murmured.
Emma obeyed, stepping into Amélie’s orbit.
Their faces were inches apart. The flame flickered between them, casting dancing shadows.
Emma could smell the sulfur of the match, the sweet, earthy scent of the tobacco, and underneath it all, Amélie’s perfume.
Emma drew in the smoke, coughed, and felt a dizzying rush.
As Amélie pulled the match away, their fingers brushed. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it sent a jolt of heat straight up Emma’s arm. Her hand shook so violently she nearly dropped the cigarillo.
Amélie’s smile was a knowing shadow in the returning dark.
She moved to lean against the balustrade beside Emma, their shoulders almost touching.
They smoked in silence for a long moment, watching the moon play hide-and-seek with the clouds over the black, restless water.
The muffled music of the ball felt a world away.
“I have been watching you since that first dinner,” Amélie said finally, her voice soft, the French accent more pronounced than usual. “In a room full of people who are all performing, you are the only one who seems real.”
Emma’s breath hitched. She stared straight ahead, at the dark line where the sea met the sky. “I am told I am ill-suited for performance.”
“Thank God for that,” Amélie murmured. She turned, leaning her back against the cool stone, so that she was facing Emma fully.
“I have seen the way you watch the world. The way you speak your mind, even when it costs you. It is so different from these English roses, so carefully cultivated to be lovely and silent. You are not silent, Emmaline Goode. There is a fire in you.”