Chapter 9
The rehearsal luncheon was a siege laid upon Emma’s nerves.
All morning, the house had trembled with the preparations for tomorrow’s nuptials: servants darted like starlings through the corridors, footmen staggered under crates of crystal and linen, and the air pulsed with a nervous, festive energy that left her feeling as if she’d swallowed a handful of bees.
The dining room, dressed in its best for the occasion, was a riot of white damask and flowers.
A long table stretched from one end of the room to the other, groaning under the weight of silver, glass, and endless platters of food.
Conversation ricocheted from wall to wall—Lucy’s mother discussing the merits of lemon syllabub, a minor lord pontificating about the recent reforms, a flutter of female voices orchestrating last-minute seating changes and menu substitutions.
The noise was unrelenting.
Emma had been placed across from Emmett, presumably so she might “steady his nerves,” as Nora had put it, but the true test of her composure sat at her own right hand: Amélie, the Duchesse de la Coeur, resplendent in a lavender day dress with a spray of violets at her breast. The dress was demure in all the right places and yet, on her, radiated the easy confidence of a woman who had nothing left to prove to the world.
Or perhaps who had proven everything already.
Emma’s body thrummed with last night’s memory, the raw, ungovernable pleasure Amélie’s had coaxed from her.
She’d woken at dawn, the sheets twisted around her legs, her skin still tingling from the ghost of those clever, hungry hands.
She’d expected the recollection to fade in daylight, to be dulled by the routine of breakfast and familial obligation.
It was not dulled. It was, in fact, worse: every glance, every shift of Amélie’s body, every waft of her perfume conspired to drive Emma to distraction.
For the first course—a cold jellied consommé, which Emma loathed—Amélie kept her hands decorously in her lap, her conversation light and inconspicuous.
But as the fish was cleared and the next course arrived, a slow escalation began.
Amélie’s thigh pressed, ever so lightly, against Emma’s under the table.
At first, Emma tried to edge away, but the duchesse only closed the gap again, her leg a steady, insistent warmth against Emma’s own.
Then, as the roasted capons were presented with a fanfare of silver covers and unnecessary fuss, Amélie’s hand slipped beneath the edge of the tablecloth.
Emma was so preoccupied with watching her brother—who was sweating visibly into his wine glass—that she did not realize what was happening until she felt the brush of fingertips against her skirt.
She started, nearly upending her own glass, and looked down.
Amélie’s hand, hidden by the damask, found hers.
Their fingers interlaced, the pressure firm and purposeful.
Emma’s pulse stuttered; her face flamed so suddenly she feared someone would notice.
She dared a glance to her right. Amélie’s expression was a masterpiece of innocence, her gaze fixed on Mercy, who was animatedly retelling the story of Emmett’s disastrous first attempt at riding a sidesaddle.
But beneath the table, Amélie’s thumb moved in slow, devastating circles on the sensitive skin between Emma’s thumb and forefinger.
And she felt each revolution as a direct echo between her thighs.
Emma tried, valiantly, to focus on the conversation.
Lucy’s mother was describing in excruciating detail the precise color and arrangement of the rose arches for the garden ceremony.
Emma nodded and smiled when expected, but her mind could not seem to form words.
Her only anchor was the rhythmic, hypnotic movement of Amélie’s thumb on her palm, and the persistent pressure of Amélie’s thigh against her own.
It was torture.
It was bliss.
The third course arrived: a roast saddle of lamb, its aroma a dense, rich cloud that threatened to suffocate her.
Emma’s hand was slick with sweat; she wondered, with a wild flash of embarrassment, if Amélie would find it repulsive.
But Amélie only squeezed her hand tighter, as if the dampness was proof of Emma’s surrender.
The talk at the table shifted to seating arrangements. Prudence, who had taken charge of the operation like a general planning a siege, produced a chart from her reticule and began pointing out potential hazards—warring relatives, known gossips, and one unpredictable bishop.
“Emma, darling,” Prudence called across the table, “do you think the French contingent would take offense at being placed opposite the musicians?”
Emma opened her mouth, but at that precise moment, Amélie’s fingers began a new, more intimate exploration. Her index finger traced the inside of Emma’s wrist, then the delicate web between her ring finger and pinkie. A shiver ran up Emma’s spine; she felt herself flush from collarbone to scalp.
“I—” Emma managed, her voice an octave too high, “I think the French are unflappable. They would survive even the brass section.”
A ripple of laughter met this, and Prudence nodded, making a note in her chart.
But as Emma tried to breathe normally, Amélie’s hand went still.
Then, with a slow deliberation that made Emma’s mouth dry, Amélie withdrew her hand from Emma’s and, after a few moments’ pause, let it rest again—this time, higher on Emma’s thigh.
Emma’s fork slipped from her grasp and clattered to her plate.
There was a brief lull in conversation. All eyes turned to her. Emma willed herself not to combust. “Butterfingers,” she said, with a smile that must have looked deranged. “My arm is not what it was.”
Lord Bainbridge, from down the table, caught her gaze and raised his brow in gentle sympathy. He had, at least, the decency to look amused rather than scandalized.
The meal continued. Emma tried to sit as still as possible, but Amélie’s hand was a living thing, stroking her leg through the thin cotton of her day dress.
Each motion was subtle, deniable, but to Emma it felt as if she was being laid bare before the entire room.
Her skin prickled; her breath came shallow and quick.
She could not meet Amélie’s eyes. She dared not.
As the final course was cleared and the guests began to drift toward the drawing room for tea and sherry, Amélie leaned in, her voice a low murmur meant for Emma’s ear alone. “Your composure is extraordinary, Miss Goode. But I wonder—will you keep it when we are alone?”
Emma could only nod, mute and trembling.
Amélie’s hand, at last, withdrew. But as she rose from her chair, she let her fingers trail up the inside of Emma’s wrist, a fleeting touch that left a trail of fire in its wake.
Emma sat frozen, her body humming, her mind emptied of all thought but one: when could she see Amélie again, and what would happen when there were no more tables, no more damask, no more need for pretense or restraint?
She watched the duchesse move toward the doors, her figure lithe and regal, her step unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world.
Emma pressed her palms to her cheeks. They were burning. She hoped no one noticed.
But, from across the room, Mercy caught her eye and grinned—a knowing, wicked little smile that said:
I saw, and I approve.
Emma wanted to die. Or perhaps, to live forever in this suspended state of anticipation.
Either way, she was lost.