Chapter Two
Emilia learned long ago to recognize the sound of her uncle’s displeasure.
It wasn’t loud, for Lord Moorfield did not raise his voice often—that would have been crude.
Instead, his displeasure lived in his silence and words chosen for their ability to wound with a hidden edge.
It was in one of those silences that Emilia now sat, her eyes fixed on the ink and stationery in front of her.
She sensed his mood the moment she walked into the room.
Nothing had been said, but the way his gaze had slid past her as though she were an inconvenience, rather than the daughter of his only sister, told her everything she needed to know.
If it were not for the fact that her aunt had specifically requested her help finalizing the invitations for their annual dinner party, Emilia would have already left the room.
“The Beckley ball will be well attended,” Lord Moorfield said at last, breaking his deafening silence. “I have confirmed our place on the guest list.”
Across the room, Louisa looked up from her embroidery.
“Will Lord Whitcombe be there?” she asked eagerly.
“He will,” he replied. The smile that touched his lips sent a chill down Emilia’s spine. “He has just returned to town and has promised the Beckleys his attendance.”
Emilia’s fingers tightened around her pen.
Lord Whitcombe was not a young man, nor was he kind—at least not from what Emilia had heard whispered from behind fans and parasols. But he was a Viscount; one with a fortune large enough to distract from the reputation that followed him from his vast country estate.
Lady Moorfield smiled, her satisfaction matching her husband’s. “This is an excellent opportunity, Louisa.”
Louisa preened. “When he sees my new gown, he will be utterly incapable of noticing anyone else.”
Emilia swallowed, her heart tightening at the innocent eagerness. There was little chance Lord Whitcombe would notice anything beyond the size of her dowry.
“Louisa is still only sixteen,” she said carefully, testing the room before continuing. “Perhaps waiting another year—”
Her uncle’s sharp gaze flicked to her, cutting her off mid-thought. “Louisa will be seventeen at the time she is presented. It is a perfectly acceptable age.”
“Quite,” her aunt added, not even bothering to raise her gaze to Emilia, her eyes set pointedly on Louisa. “Lord Moorfield has already been in correspondence with Lord Whitcombe, and he is very eager to make your acquaintance.”
Louisa sat a little taller, her chest puffing out with pride.
“He is considerably older,” Emilia said gently, even though she knew the words would fall on deaf ears. “Perhaps Louisa would prefer—”
“Louisa would prefer to be with someone who will value her worth,” Lady Moorfield interrupted coolly.
Lord Moorfield leaned back in his chair. “This is how Society functions, Emilia. Matches are made for mutual benefit.” At last, he lifted his eyes to her, the weight of his gaze making it harder to hold herself upright. “You, of all people, should understand that.”
“Yes, uncle,” she said softly, absorbing the delicately placed blow with a forced smile.
Louisa glanced between them, a smile playing at her lips. “Papa tells me Lord Whitcombe is not the only gentleman he is in communication with. I could receive multiple proposals before my debut.”
Emilia summoned a smile for her benefit.
“If the rumors regarding the duke’s presence in London are true, there is even a chance I could become a duchess,” Lousia continued with a dreamy sigh.
Emilia kept her thoughts carefully contained.
She knew that being desired came at a cost, and that admiration when purchased could fade just as quickly as it was bestowed.
But she had already said too much. Questions only proved to sour her uncle's mood further, and alternate opinions were rarely tolerated.
“Emilia,” her aunt said suddenly. “You have experienced more Seasons on the marriage mart than most. Perhaps you might offer your cousin advice.”
Emilia swallowed, her stomach turning sour. She forced another smile. “I am not certain I have much to offer.”
“That has always been the issue,” her uncle said dryly, his attention already returned to his book. It was nothing Emilia had not heard before, but it didn’t lessen the sting.
Louisa laughed, blissfully unaware. “Emilia does not enjoy Society. She prefers to cling to the corners of a room like faded wallpaper.”
“Nevertheless,” Lord Moorfield continued, “You will attend a select number of prominent functions this Season. Your absence has been noted, and I have a reputation to maintain.”
Emilia nodded in agreement, and the conversation continued on without her. Peace came at a cost, and if the price was invisibility, she would pay it gladly.
∞∞∞
Louisa’s wails echoed through the halls. Emilia tried to focus on the feel of the keys beneath her fingers and the haunting melody floating from the piano forte, but every piercing cry cut through the air, drowning out each and every note.
The Beckley ball was in a few hours. Louisa should be having her hair curled and pinned, but instead she stormed into the parlor in a blur of petticoats, throwing herself onto the chair nearest Emilia’s piano stool in tears.
“This is all your fault!” She sobbed, wiping her face with the silk handkerchief bunched in her hands.
Emilia turned from her instrument. “I know you truly believe that,” she said. “But I am not sure how I am responsible for you falling ill.”
The previous day, Louisa had come down with a cold, which had only worsened with time.
Her face was flushed with fever, and the sound of her cough could be heard from the servants' quarters.
Her attendance at the ball was entirely out of the question, and she had not been handling that reality with much grace.
“If you had not insisted I go to town, in the rain, I would not have gotten sick.”
Emilia closed her eyes briefly, schooling her expression before responding. “The trip to town was for the final fitting of your ball gown; I could not have gone myself, and we took the carriage. You were hardly wet.”
Louisa turned on the chair away from Emilia, her arms crossed over her chest in protest. Emilia knew that Louisa truly believed she was somehow entirely to blame for her falling ill, and there was nothing Emilia would be able to say to convince her otherwise.
“I am sorry you are ill, Louisa,” Emilia said softly. She saw the tension in her cousin’s shoulders ease slightly. “But perhaps it is for the best.”
She held her breath, waiting to see if she would be met with resistance before pushing a little further. “I have heard many things about Lord Whitcombe, and I truly do not believe he would have made you a good match.”
Louisa slowly turned around to face Emilia again, her eyes softening slightly. “Why not?”
Before Emilia could respond, a shadow darkened the doorway.
“Emilia,” Lord Moorfield’s calm voice set her nerves on edge. “You should be upstairs getting ready for the ball.”
Louisa gasped, and Emilia slowly rose from the bench.
“The Beckley ball was not on the list of engagements that required my attendance,” she answered carefully. “I did not intend to go this evening.”
“That was before Louisa fell ill,” he replied, his tone as dismissive as his eyes. “Circumstances have changed.”
Emilia felt the room tilt. Surely he did not mean…
“Papa, no!” Louisa interjected. “Emilia does not need to take my place. I can meet Mr. Whitcombe another night.”
“He is expecting an introduction tonight.”
There was no arguing with him, but poor Louisa had yet to learn the warnings hidden in each of his different tones—or she simply didn’t fear him enough to heed them. She had never been given a reason to.
“He is expecting to meet me,” Louisa challenged. “Will he not be disappointed?”
“Lord Whitcombe is expecting to meet one of my wards. I never specified which one, and it will be of no matter to him.”
Louisa slumped back into her chair, and Emilia saw the light slowly fading from her eyes.
Emilia was used to being overlooked, but Louisa actually believed that she had earned the earl’s pride and affection, only to be dismissed the moment she could no longer be useful.
“I can not go to the ball tonight,” Emilia finally managed to say once she found her voice.
“What did you say?” Her uncle’s voice lowered, which only meant his rage was growing.
“What I mean is,” she quickly corrected, her mind searching for anything to redirect him. “I do not have anything to wear. All my gowns are from last season, and the new ones we commissioned are not to be completed for another few weeks.”
She held her breath, waiting for his response.
“Louisa will no longer be needing hers,” he replied, his eyes grazing over them both. “I am sure it will fit just fine.”
Louisa’s wails once again filled the room. Lord Moorfield simply turned and strode out the door without another word.
Emilia’s mind swarmed, and the room spun around her. Louisa’s voice sounded far away and hollow.
“You planned this!” She squeaked out between sobs.
Emilia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to slow the spinning, but it only went faster. Her chest tightened, and every breath that came required more and more force.
There was no hiding anymore. If her uncle had his way, she would be getting engaged tonight.