Chapter 18
Emme should have feigned sickness for this evening, she supposed.
That would have done her heart better than to see Simon gliding so beautifully on the ballroom floor looking every bit the
hero in his black cutaway coat and trousers.
He certainly waltzed well.
She almost grinned. Aunt Bean’s instruction on the matter came back to mind. The rogue.
To complicate matters further, this was Emme’s penultimate ball in St. Groves before she left for Yorkshire. The plan had
been simple: keep to the periphery, reduce prolonged conversation, and above all, avoid Simon.
But they always seemed to find each other, even if merely a glance.
Their encounter on the street a few days prior had left her more certain than ever about her plans. His words—veiled though
they were—had carried the weight of truths she could scarcely believe. He still cared for her.
His earnest expression filtered back in her mind. Deeply. She pressed a palm to her chest. Beautifully.
And now, to see him move with effortless grace, his hand steady at the waist of Miss Lucy Thompson? Her breath pinched for
release. The admiral’s daughter had risen from obscurity on the swell of her father’s naval success and was now as admired
for her quiet beauty as her father was for his victories.
Emme’s smile faded. A good choice for him. Kind. Quiet. Dependable. Of her wit or fortitude, Emme knew little, but such things could grow in time, because Simon would be the sort to nurture them.
The acknowledgment stabbed through her, but she braced against the ache and sought some semblance of contentment in the knowledge
he was doing his duty, caring for his family.
Simon spun nearer, his attention catching hers in a way none other could. His gaze for a breath too long, a moment too deep,
and the air seemed to thin.
This—this was why she had to leave St. Groves.
Her very presence in his life distracted him from what he most needed to accomplish.
And she needed to make it through only one more ball after this before she left for Yorkshire.
She turned sharply, heading for the sanctuary of solitude on some private balcony or in an unused closet. But before she could
escape the crush of the ballroom, an iron cord of fingers gripped her arm, holding her in place.
“Emmeline Lockhart, I will not have you scurry away to some hiding spot for the remainder of this ball. We haven’t much time
left.” The intensity in Aunt Bean’s eyes, not to mention her solid grasp, held Emme to the spot. “I know of a gentleman who
has every intention of speaking to you on a rather particular matter this evening.”
On a particular matter? Oh, heaven help me! She knew exactly what that meant.
Aunt Bean’s sharp gaze latched onto a figure across the room, and her entire demeanor shifted to one of triumphant anticipation.
“Ah, there he is.”
Mr. Marshall.
Of course Emme had wondered if he’d offer himself, but in all truth, he seemed enamored with so many ladies, it was difficult to tell.
“Tonight I will fulfill my promise to you, dear girl.”
Again, the word dear felt anything but.
So that explained the half hour Aunt Bean had spent adjusting Emme’s gown, tweaking a ribbon here and a curl there, all while
grinning like a cat with a canary firmly in its sights.
The last thing she wanted to do was cause a scene, but she had to end Aunt Bean’s mission now, especially with Emme leaving
St. Groves’ social scene in less than five days. “I’m sorry for all the trouble you’ve gone through, Aunt, but I cannot marry
Mr. Marshall.”
Aunt Bean leveled Emme with a look of utter frustration. “You can and you must.”
“No, I do not have to marry someone just because he asks me. Or because he fits some sort of social expectation.”
“A girl in your situation must take what she can, and he is much better than what I expected you to be able to find given
your overt flirtation with a certain viscount.”
Emme refused to allow guilt to be her deciding factor and pulled her arm from her aunt’s hold. “If Mr. Marshall asks me to
marry him, I will refuse him.”
“Refuse?” Aunt Bean’s voice rose a notch, though she kept her tone just shy of a scene. “Four thousand a year! An estate,
respectability—everything you could ever want. He is your rescue.”
Heat burst up through Emme’s chest. “I don’t need to be rescued.” Emme kept her voice at a much more private volume than her aunt. “Especially by someone who sees me as a
convenience or an adornment. He barely knows me, and what he does know he does not particularly like.”
“Those novels of yours have done you an immense disservice.” Aunt Bean’s fan took on the wing patterns of a hummingbird.
“Marriage isn’t about liking each other!
You think I married your uncle because he was charming?
” Her voice dropped, and she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder before continuing in a fierce whisper.
“I married him because he had land, connections, and a respectable name. Did I overlook innumerable flaws? Of course. Did he spend more time away than at home? Yes, and the better for it. But I gained security and standing. All the things you’ll throw away with your reckless whims.”
“I suppose I am reckless,” Emme countered. “To prefer true affection over companionable indifference, at best? To seek a little
freedom over four thousand a year.”
Aunt Bean snapped her fan shut, pointing it at Emme as though it were a sword. “Freedom won’t save you when the ton finishes
devouring you. Have you heard the whispers about you and Lord Ravenscross? Because I have. And they aren’t kind. That man
is your ruin, Emmeline.”
Emme’s cheeks flushed, but she refused to let Aunt Bean see her falter. “Lord Ravenscross is an old friend, nothing more.
Our shared past lends itself to exaggeration, but as you can see, he’s well on his way to finding a bride”
“Nonsense.” She narrowed her eyes at Emme. “It is as obvious as the exaggerated pineapple on the dining table that you are
still very much in his thoughts, but he has no power to do anything about it, does he? Which lends itself to the worst rumors.
Whispers have already begun. Speculations about what Lord Ravenscross may offer you instead of a ring.”
The implications scorched Emme’s cheeks. “He would never stoop to malign me in such a way.”
“It doesn’t matter what he will or won’t do. It is all about what people think and”—she waved her fan toward the room—“see.
Do you understand? No one will have you after this.”
“Then no one shall have me,” Emme ground out, lifting her chin, the confession burning through her like fire.
Aunt Bean’s laugh was sharp and mirthless.
“You jest, but spinsterhood is not the grand adventure you imagine it to be. It is a slow, cold descent into irrelevance,” she hissed.
“You may rid yourself of Mr. Marshall and his ilk, but you will also rid yourself of invitations, allies, and respect. Society is unforgiving to those who break its rules.”
Aunt Bean opened her mouth to say more, but before another syllable escaped, she gasped. The sound was so uncharacteristic
that Emme startled, turning toward her. The woman even turned three shades paler, which was a feat of science.
“What is she doing here?”
Emme followed her aunt’s gaze across the ballroom. There, standing amid a group of similarly distinguished women, was none
other than Mrs. Agatha Thornbury, Simon’s formidable aunt.
The emotional ricochet of Emme’s day—the threat of a proposal from Mr. Marshall, Aunt Bean’s relentless critique, and . . .
Simon—had left her reeling. Now, the sight of Mrs. Thornbury only added another wild volley to an already unpredictable match.
She looked rather lovely in her simple blue gown, giving off a much gentler appearance than the almost militant walking suit
she’d worn the day they picked strawberries. The look didn’t make Emme feel at ease per se, but it certainly didn’t enhance
the tension.
Emme moved her attention from Mrs. Thornbury to Aunt Bean’s vibrating fan, which seemed on the verge of taking flight. “What
is wrong?”
Aunt Bean turned to Emme, her expression both incredulous and affronted. “How dare she show her face in polite society? That
woman has done more to sully the Thornbury name than a thousand scandals could ever hope to achieve!”
“From what I’ve observed,” Emme murmured, attempting to sort out the dilemma, “Mrs. Thornbury seems to manage herself—and
her reputation—quite well.”
Aunt Bean bristled—her feathers, quite literally, ruffling in indignation.
“You’ve no idea, Emmeline. No one knows the truth like I do.
That she stole a man who I was practically engaged to marry.
Stole him. And then proceeded to marry him within three months’ time.
Likely to secure him and spite me. That’s why. That woman—she . . .
she . . .”
“Yes?” Emme prompted, raising a brow at her aunt’s uncharacteristic floundering.
Without any explanation, Aunt Bean swept forward, her fan snapping open again as she marched across the ballroom, gaze locked
on Mrs. Thornbury.
Oh dear. What sort of scene would Aunt Bean create now? The irony was not lost on Emme—the woman who prided herself on instilling
decorum in her nieces was about to create a spectacle. Emme was sure of it.
Mrs. Thornbury must have turned at the unmistakable rhythm of Aunt Bean’s cane, the sharp click-click cutting through the soft hum of the crowd. If she felt any apprehension, it didn’t show. Instead, Mrs. Thornbury dipped her
head, offering a reserved smile that was just warm enough to convey politeness but stopped short of invitation.
“Mrs. Bridges, what a pleasant surprise to see you this evening.”
“Mrs. Thornbury,” Aunt Bean replied, her fan slowing to a calculated flutter. “I had not realized you were in town. What a . . .
fortuitous encounter.”
Mrs. Thornbury’s brow lifted ever so slightly, her expression steady and inscrutable.