Chapter 5
“As with our previous lesson on catching a husband . . .”
Aunt Bean’s voice cut through Emme’s thoughts as she gazed out the window toward the garden and wished for escape. Escape,
alas, was as improbable as Aunt Bean’s sense of humor. Emme’s early departure from the last ball fueled some sort of desperation
in Aunt Bean to purge every unseemly habit from Emme’s person, inspiring additional passion in her instructions.
Emme ought to apologize to Aster.
“You must always allow a gentleman to speak first,” Aunt Bean intoned, her heels clicking rhythmically across the wooden floors
along with the steady tap of her ever-present cane. “Men do not want assertiveness in the ballroom. You save that for marriage
when he can’t escape without a great deal of difficulty.”
The corner of Emme’s mouth twitched, and she shot her sister a sidelong glance.
To her credit, Aster appeared diligent, pen poised as though to transcribe every word of their aunt’s lecture. But upon closer
inspection, the lines and curves on the page resolved into a map, rather than notes. Aster, always the more elegant and enigmatic
of the two, devoted far more energy to charting her grand adventures abroad than navigating the intricacies of the marriage
mart. However, with her ready disposition toward falling in love with any man who might promise her a voyage to lands unknown
and without an “unsavory” romantic history, she would likely be the one to marry first.
“I would advise you both to ensure your dancing is beyond reproach.” Aunt Bean paused midstride.
Her gaze swept from Emme to Aster, weighing them with all the severity of the task at hand.
“Beautiful dancing is rather thrilling to the opposite sex. Following dance steps with grace suggests you will manage his household with equal ease and elegance.”
Emme blinked. How exactly did footwork translate into financial management and dinner planning?
“Emmeline,” Aunt Bean resumed. “As the elder sister, you are, of course, an example to Aster. However, having endured two
seasons without securing a match, the example is somewhat blemished, which is why you must apply yourself with greater resolve
toward matrimony.”
At this, Aster actually raised her attention from her map.
Not that Aunt Bean required any encouragement to continue. Her monologue, like the inexplorable tide, surged on unchecked
and rewarded by its own sound.
“Knowing your predilection for distasteful sarcasm”—Aunt Bean turned fully to Emme, her sharp eyes narrowing to either root
out insubordination or encourage cowardice, Emme wasn’t quite certain—“I must remind you of three indelible truths every gracious
and alluring lady must embrace.”
Emme sat straighter, bracing for impact.
Aster tilted her head, watching Aunt Bean like a specimen under glass.
“Poise.” She produced the word with such force it practically became visible. “A lady must be calm, controlled, and composed.
No matter the provocation, you must not betray that you are, most assuredly, cleverer than the gentleman addressing you.”
Aster abandoned her map entirely, her lips twitching at the veiled criticism. Emme supposed it was rather like watching a
comedy on the stage.
Unfortunately, Emme had not been poised at all last night. She shifted in her seat, warmth rising unbidden to her cheeks as the memory of Simon’s kiss resurfaced.
“Politeness.” Aunt Bean raised two fingers, her expression solemn. “The second disposition you must keep in your conversations
with a man of interest or any of his family members. Politeness in expression, in manners, and in words. There will be plenty
of time to speak your mind after you’ve secured your future.”
Emme had no memory of Uncle Geoffrey, but for some reason, she felt a sudden pang of compassion for him.
“And lastly”—Aunt Bean approached, towering over Emme in her seated position like a large lavender shadow complete with a
matching feather flapping from her hat—“and this is the most important for you.”
The implication pressed Emme back into the chair.
“Silence.”
Emme swallowed hard, her independence bristling under the weight of that single word.
“This reiterates the first point. You may lack your sister’s effortless beauty, but you are not without your charms.” Her
gaze swept dismissively from Emme’s coiffure to her slippers. Emme fought against an eye roll with all her might. “And you
grow considerably more appealing the less you speak. You are decidedly too opinionated and fanciful, Emmeline. Dance steps,
the weather, and the host’s generosity will suffice as topics of conversation.”
Emme schooled her features, though it took considerable effort to stifle a cringe. Memories of the ball resurfaced with alarming
clarity: her suggestion to Mrs. Plumfield to eschew orange entirely; her adamant refusal to dance with Mr. Seivers, whose
proximity left much to be desired; and her impassioned debate with Mr. Long regarding women’s freedom to ride on horseback
as they pleased.
Had Aunt Bean witnessed all of that?
Emme’s stomach churned. Or the balcony?
“Make no mistake, my unfortunate nieces.” Aunt Bean didn’t even look in Aster’s direction. “I shall have you married.”
One of the saving graces of enduring the season’s endless balls was the ambience.
And the music.
And, if one was fortunate enough to be at Lady Ruthton’s, the food.
As the unchallenged hostess of the season, Lady Ruthton spared no expense, dazzling her guests with roasted duck, fragrant
syllabubs, and a rainbow of custards and cakes. Little wonder she hosted but three balls—one or two near the beginning of
the St. Groves Season and one to close it—allowing her guests the full span of months to compare her fare to all others and
find them wanting.
Emme stepped through the entry hall into the Assembly Room, its soaring ceilings and white crown molding framing walls of
delicate blue. She wanted to take it in fully, allow the beauty of the evening to transport her. But that would mean forgetting
her primary objective laid out quite clearly by her aunt: to be charming, poised, and silent enough to secure a husband.
All in one evening. It seemed like a Herculean feat, but who was she to argue with Aunt Bean’s matchmaking prowess?
Plus, there was the simple fact that she needed to keep her distance from a certain raven-haired gentleman.
“It’s unbearably hot,” Aster muttered, snapping open her fan with a flair. The pale blue of her gown set off her fair hair,
giving her the air of a debutante who had yet to meet a single disappointment in life.
“Crowds bring warmth,” Emme replied, though the warmth in her own face had more to do with expectations than the number of
people in the room.
“Well, I prefer fewer people then.” Aster shifted her fan over her mouth to catch her words.
At sixteen Aster had more than enough time to grow into the idea of marriage. Whether someone felt brave enough to take on
her distractible nature and sneaky ways, only God knew. A twinge of guilt pricked at Emme’s chest. Both Lockhart sisters had
a penchant for mischief. Aster’s was harmless enough. Emme’s might have been deemed notorious—if anyone beyond herself knew
the wickedness she inflicted upon her characters.
They had not been in the room more than ten minutes when Mr. Henry Marshall materialized at Emme’s side, smile too wide to
be endearing.
But alas, Emme’s may have been too fake to be endearing.
He offered his hand. “Might I have the honor, Miss Lockhart?”
Emme opened her mouth to offer some excuse, but Aunt Bean’s eagle-eyed glare from across the room stopped her short. A vintner’s
vision in muscadine hues, she was easy to spot.
Perhaps Emme could fake a swoon? She sighed. No. Fake swoons must be saved for more desperate times, or people would begin
to suspect her subterfuge.
“Of course.” She took his hand and allowed him to lead her into a waltz.
At least it wasn’t Mr. Rushing. The middle-aged widower constantly smelled of whiskey and tended to hold her, and every other
dancing partner, much too tightly. Mr. Marshall’s touch was the opposite—barely there, making it unnervingly difficult to
follow his lead.
Perhaps it was much harder to be a man than Emme realized, especially if the rules were as tedious for them as for the women,
and when the women garnered the rights of refusal. They did have to stick their necks out a bit, didn’t they?
“Your aunt,” he began, “was most curious about Thornton House.”
Oh dear. Aunt Bean had sharpened her matchmaking hooks on him. Emme braced herself for what was certain to be an exhaustive monologue of his darling estate. However, Mr. Marshall’s exuberance would certainly keep her from breaking any of the rules Aunt Bean listed about poise and silence.
So Emme merely smiled her response.
Perhaps if she showed Aunt Bean she was trying, the woman would refrain from following Emme like a vulture on its prey.
“As you well know, Miss Lockhart,” Mr. Marshall said, chest puffing with pride, “Thornton House has been in the Marshall family
for over one hundred and twenty years.”
Oh yes. She knew. Repetition hammered the memory interminable. Her smile faltered, but Mr. Marshall didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ve made significant improvements since inheriting. A future bride ought to find her home quite satisfactory, don’t you
agree? Not that there’s much to improve upon at Thornton House—it’s quite the gem already. Did you know that Sir Alexander
Cochrane himself dined with my father at Thornton House during one of his returns from the war with Napoleon?”
Emme’s attention flipped to him. Ah, now here was something interesting. “I’ve read in the papers that America has declared
war against us.”
“You read such things?” He blinked, his cheeks reddening a little. “Why would a lady concern herself with war?”
Research, to be honest. However, she chose a nobler answer. “If it involves my country, shouldn’t I take advantage of learning