Chapter 3
The Nortons waited.
The drawing room had been arranged to suggest effortless elegance though Emma could see the strain in every polished surface.
The curtains had been pulled back to admit as much light as the grey morning would allow, and the fire was coaxed higher than usual despite the mildness of the day.
Everything smelled faintly of beeswax, perfume, and heavy anticipation.
Emma’s mother was seated very straight upon the sofa, dressed as though it were the height of the Season rather than a tense morning spent in expectation.
Her gown was a rich shade of plum, carefully chosen to flatter her complexion, and she wore more jewels than strictly necessary: pearls at her throat, a brooch pinned just so, and rings gleaming on fingers that tapped incessantly against her fan.
Juts in case, Emma knew. Just in case the Earl of Harrowby arrived unannounced, seized by sudden gallantry and the desire to rescue what was already lost.
A teacup rattled softly as a maid set it down.
“Careful!” her mother snapped. “Do you wish to shatter the entire service?”
The maid flushed and murmured an apology before retreating hastily.
Her father occupied his usual chair by the window.
He appeared calm, almost indifferent, with one leg crossed neatly over the other as he read the morning papers.
Yet Emma could tell that his stillness was not peace but restraint.
He had not spoken since breakfast… not a single word.
Frances and Sophia sat side by side, unusually subdued.
Frances’ lively restlessness had been replaced by tight-lipped quiet.
Sophia stared at the carpet, lost in some anxious interior world.
Emma sat apart from them, a book open in her hands.
She had not turned a page in some time. The words swam uselessly before her eyes as she pretended to read.
It had been like this all morning, sharp words and short tempers in a house braced for disaster.
She tried once more to explain.
“It is not true,” she had said earlier. “I have never met the Duke of Thorne. I swear it.”
Her father had not even looked up from his paper.
Her mother had sighed in a long and theatrical manner. “Emma, denial will not unprint ink.”
And that had been the end of it.
Her mother exhaled sharply and lifted her teacup again, only to set it down untouched.
“Really,” she cast a critical eye over the room, “I do not know what has become of the staff in this house. Everything is slightly off. The fire is too high, the tea too weak, and no one seems capable of walking without dropping something.”
No one answered.
“If this is the impression we are giving,” she continued with agitation, “it is no wonder society feels free to speculate. Disorder invites judgment.”
She rang the bell with unnecessary force. A footman appeared almost at once.
“This room is far too warm,” her mother told him. “Open the window. No, not that one, the other. And straighten the rug. It is crooked.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“And where is the fresh tray? I asked for it half an hour ago.”
“You asked five minutes ago, My Lady,” the footman said quietly.
Her mother’s eyes flashed. “Do not correct me.”
He bowed and withdrew. Emma lowered her gaze to her book though her hands had begun to tremble slightly. She could feel the tension coiling tighter with every clipped instruction. Her mother’s voice filled the room, as though criticism were the only thing holding her upright.
“We cannot possibly entertain visitors like this,” her mother went on, addressing no one in particular. “If the Earl of Harrowby were to arrive, and he may yet, he would think us entirely undone.”
Frances shifted in her chair, lips pressing together.
Sophia drew her arms closer to herself. The silence that followed was broken at last by the soft tread of footsteps in the hall.
Emma looked up just as the footman appeared in the doorway again, only now, he was holding a single envelope on a silver tray.
Her mother turned at once. “Well?” she demanded. “Is it…?”
The footman cleared his throat. “A letter, My Lady, from the Duke of Thorne.”
The words seemed to strike the room like a dropped glass.
Emma’s mother gasped outright with one hand flying to her chest. “The… the Duke?”
Emma’s father rose slowly from his chair. “Give it here.”
The footman crossed the room and presented the tray. Emma watched as her father took the letter and broke the seal. The paper crackled faintly as he unfolded it. He read it once. Then, without comment, he read it again.
His wife lingered about him like a frightened butterfly. “Henry?”
“He requests permission to call this afternoon,” her father said at last. “He writes that his valet waits below for our reply.”
Emma stared at him.
The Duke of Thorne.
Her mind felt suddenly unmoored. She had never spoken to him. She had never even met him. The gossip was a lie, an invention stitched together from coincidence and malice. So, why would he come then?
Emma’s mother found her voice again, and when it came, it rang with frantic relief. “Of course, he must be received… Of course! This is…” She laughed breathlessly. “This is providential!”
Emma’s father studied the letter once more before inclining his head. “We will reply.”
His wife seized the moment. “Yes, a warm reply, a most welcoming one.” She turned sharply toward the servants lingering at the edges of the room. “Clean this room at once. I want fresh flowers. No, not lilies, roses. And bring out the good tea service. The Sèvres, not the everyday china.”
The servants scattered at once.
The woman’s eyes rounded on Emma. “And you,” she ordered feverishly, “go to your room and put on your best gown, something elegant.”
Emma rose slowly. “Mama, I do not understand—”
“There is nothing to understand,” Theresa interrupted. “You will behave. You will be gracious. And you will make no mistakes.”
Her father’s gaze flicked to Emma then he stated, “Do exactly as your mother says.”
Emma’s confusion deepened into something like dread. Her heart was beating too quickly while her thoughts were tumbling over one another.
Why would he come? What does he want?
She inclined her head. “Yes, Papa.”
As she left the drawing room, her mother’s voice followed her, already issuing more orders and more corrections. Emma climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, walking through the house that had suddenly come alive.
The Duke of Thorne was coming.
And for reasons she could not yet begin to fathom, the man whose name had ruined her now stood poised to alter her fate once again.
The Duke of Thorne arrived just before dusk.
The drawing room had been restored to its most impeccable state with every cushion straightened and every surface gleaming.
Fresh roses filled the air with a cloying sweetness that made Emma’s stomach turn.
Her mother sat poised upon the sofa while her father stood by the mantel.
Emma was standing between them, and she could barely prevent herself from trembling.
She told herself that this was no different from any other formal call, that she had faced worse and that she would not disgrace herself again.
That was when the footman’s voice rang out from the hall, “His Grace, Philip Ashwell, the Duke of Thorne.”
Emma’s heart lurched painfully as the man entered without haste.
The first thing Emma noticed was his height.
He seemed to fill the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered.
His presence was commanding without a single word spoken.
He was dressed in a black coat, charcoal waistcoat, and crisply starched linen, severe in their simplicity.
His black hair was neatly arranged, and his features sharply defined, almost austere.
Strikingly handsome, she realized dimly and was at once ashamed of the thought.
There was something intimidating about him, something that made the air seem heavier, colder. Emma felt it settle over her like a weight.
This is the beast, whispered an unkind voice in her mind. This is the man they all fear.
Her mother, however, looked as though she feared nothing at all.
“My dear Duke,” she exclaimed, rising at once, her voice bright and musical, “what a pleasure, no what an honor it is to receive you. We are quite overwhelmed by your kindness in calling.”
The Duke inclined his head. “Lady Keswick.”
Emma watched her mother flutter, all warmth and charm, as though the very presence of a duke had transformed the air she breathed. Her smile was radiant, and she was every inch the gracious hostess.
Her father stepped forward next, looking reserved but unmistakably pleased. “Your Grace,” he said, offering his hand. “You are most welcome.”
Philip accepted it briefly. “Lord Keswick.”
His voice was deep and utterly devoid of ornament. Cold, Emma thought, but not unkind.
Then, he turned to her and bowed his head just once. “Miss Norton.”
Before Emma could say anything or make a decision regarding whether she liked him saying her name or not, her mother gestured eagerly toward the seating. “Please, do sit. Tea has just been prepared. I trust your journey was not too tiresome?”
“It was tolerable,” the Duke replied.
Emma felt acutely aware of him now, of the way he occupied space without effort.
Her mother settled herself and wasted no time. “This dreadful business in the papers,” she began, shaking her head with performative sorrow, “has been such a shock to us all. You must understand how deeply it has distressed our family—”
“Lady Keswick,” the Duke said calmly.
Her mother paused mid-sentence, blinking.
His gaze remained steady, and his tone polite but unmistakably firm. “If you will permit me, I did not come to discuss gossip.”
Her mother flushed faintly, then smiled again. “Of course. Naturally.”
The Duke turned then, at last, fully toward Emma. She felt it like a physical thing.
“I have come,” he announced simply, “to propose marriage to your daughter.”
The room seemed to lurch. Emma’s breath caught painfully in her chest.
Her mother gasped, this time in pure delight. Her hands flew together.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, how… how extraordinary!”
Her father’s composed expression cracked just enough to reveal triumph beneath. “Your Grace, this is… this is most gratifying.”
The Duke then lifted a hand. “Before congratulations are offered,” he said, “there is a condition.”
The room stilled at once.
“I must speak with Miss Norton alone,” he continued, “before anything is decided.”
Emma suffocated a gasp. Her mother hesitated, clearly torn between curiosity and propriety. Her father on the other hand, studied the Duke for a long moment then nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “Emma.”
Emma started, as though waking from a dream.
“Yes, Papa.”
Her mother rose reluctantly. “We shall be just outside,” she informed them, already moving toward the door. “Do take your time.”
Her parents withdrew, the door closing softly behind them and leaving an almost oppressive silence in their wake. Emma stood frozen where she was, feeling the weight of her family’s and her own future pressing down upon her all at once.
She had never met this man before in her life. And yet, in this moment of impossible choice, the Duke of Thorne held her fate as surely as society already had.