Chapter Eight
Emilia sat perfectly still. Partially because she was afraid of doing anything to alert her uncle as to how terrified she was, but mostly, she was unsure if she actually had the strength to move.
She had barely slept the night before, and when she had requested a tray be brought to her room for breakfast, Lord Moorfield had warned the maids against it.
She knew once she set foot in the breakfast room she would not be given the opportunity to eat, and instead would be demanded to provide an explanation as to what happened in the Beckley’s garden—she had no explanation.
Emilia had every intention of remaining in her room until the duke arrived—if he arrived—but her uncle had sent for her three times, summoning her to the sitting room.
A messenger had arrived with a note from the duke before breakfast had even been set, but the minutes continued to tick by and he still had not arrived.
Now Emilia sat under the scrutiny of Lord and Lady Moorfield. They had yet to say a word to her since she entered the room, and the longer her uncle went without saying anything, the more cutting his words would be once he spoke.
“You have disgraced yourself, Emilia,” Lord Moorfield’s voice trembled slightly under his restraint, but his wife was not so controlled.
“You have disgraced us!” Her shrill voice vibrated off the walls. “Do you know what people are saying?”
She heard a few of the accusations, but mostly the words had floated past her in a haze.
Once she set foot back in the ballroom on the duke’s arm, the whispers had started.
The duke hadn’t seemed concerned. His head had remained high, and his tone calm and even as he introduced himself to her uncle.
The only time she saw his composure waver was when his eyes met hers as he bent down to kiss her hand before walking away.
“They are saying that you lured him into that garden,” Lady Moorfield accused. “That you staged the entire encounter to entrap him into a marriage.”
“I did not…” She began, but her uncle’s glare stopped her. Anything she had to say would not make any difference, for they had already decided she was to blame.
“You did not think!” He snapped, his voice rising into unfamiliar territory. “I have spent years keeping this family’s name from being attached to scandal, and now it may be all for nothing!”
It was a low blow, hitting her exactly where it hurt the most, and her heart ached. She knew he would never speak Alexander’s name out loud, and she knew better than to mention him, but there was no doubt as to whom he had been speaking of.
Emilia pressed her nails into the palms of her hands, focusing on the stinging sensation instead of the feelings rising in her chest. For once, it wasn’t panic or fear; it was anger. But she knew that fighting back would only make it worse.
She glanced at the clock on the mantle. The duke didn’t remind her of a man who made a habit out of being late, but she couldn’t allow herself to think of what would happen if he did not come at all.
“You can count yourself lucky that I managed to salvage things with Mr. Whitcombe.”
Emilia’s heart stopped at her uncle’s words. “What do you mean?” She asked.
“He is very motivated to make a match and willing to overlook your indiscretion, though not without a great deal of convincing on my part.”
“But the duke…” Emilia replied.
Lord Moorfield gave a humorless laugh. “The duke will not marry you, despite what he may have told you last night.”
Emilia’s chest tightened. She feared that very thing, yet when she remembered the way he had spoken to her and the sincere look in his eyes, she truly could not imagine him abandoning her and leaving her to ruin.
“I believe that he will…” Emilia’s words were cut off by the shattering of a glass she hadn’t even noticed her uncle had been holding.
“You will marry Lord Whitecombe!”
Emilia kept her gaze fixed on the golden brown liquid trickling down the wall, but she could see her uncle as he took a step towards her.
Before he could say another word, the door to the sitting room burst open.
The duke stood in the open doorway, fingers gripping the handle and eyes fixed coldly on the earl.
The housekeeper stumbled in after him. “The Duke of Kenswick, My Lord.” She kept her eyes on the ground as she mumbled the very unnecessary introduction.
Lord Moorfield immediately composed himself. If it had not been for the shards of glass and pool of brandy staining the sitting room carpet, no one would have suspected anything was amiss. “Please, come in and have a seat, Your Grace.”
The Duke did not move from his place at the door, but his eyes flickered quickly to Emilia. They did not linger long, but she could feel him assessing her from across the room before turning back to her uncle.
“I apologize for the interruption,” he said, his tone perfectly polite but void of any warmth. “I was in the hall waiting to be properly introduced, but when I heard shouting I thought perhaps this was a conversation I should be a part of.”
Lord Moorfield smiled, but Emilia could see the tension building just below the surface. He was not a man used to being challenged, but the duke did not seem like a man who cared.
“I must admit I am rather surprised to see you, Your Grace,” Her uncle said.
“Why?” the duke asked. “You received my note this morning, did you not?”
“We did, Your Grace,” Lady Moorfield interjected with a sugary sweet smile. “But it said to expect you at eleven, and it is now half past. We were under the assumption you had changed your mind.”
“I have not.” He took a step into the room. “Now that we have cleared that up, I feel as though there are a few more things on which you have made incorrect assumptions.”
Lord Moorfield tensed. “What would those be, Your Grace?”
“Firstly, your niece is not to be held responsible for what happened last evening at Beckley House.”
Emilia noticed Lord Moorfield’s jaw twitch at the duke’s acknowledgement of their relation.
“I followed her into that garden,” he continued. “She had no knowledge of my intentions.”
“And what were your intentions?” Her aunt asked.
The duke seemed to falter for a moment, but when he turned to meet Lady Moorfield’s gaze, he was perfectly composed.
“To marry her.”
The earl laughed, and the duke’s eyes narrowed on him.
“I apologize, Your Grace,” Lord Moorfield said, reigning in his laughter. “But in her three seasons out, Emilia has never drawn any serious attention. Especially not from someone with a station such as yours. It simply does not make any sense.”
“I find that hard to believe,” the duke stated. “Especially if you were able to arrange another engagement for her in the mere half an hour that I was delayed this morning.”
Emilia’s eyes went wide, and so did Lord Moorfield’s.
“Lord Whitcombe is a business partner,” he stammered.
“We were already discussing a potential arrangement between our families. We were unsure you would fulfill your obligation to Emilia, so I called upon him so we could reach a mutually beneficial agreement so she would not be disgraced. If I am quite honest, it was no easy task. I had to increase her dowry, but the deal is as good as done.”
The duke took another step into the room. “As good as done is not done.”
Emilia’s heart was about to beat out of her chest, and her uncle’s face began to flush red with fury. She had never seen anyone stand up to the earl before, and he was doing so with such ease. She could not look away.
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Moorfield growled.
“She is not married, and there is no contract signed.” The duke stated matter-of-factly. “I am here to fulfill my obligation, so there is no need for you to move forward with Lord Whitecombe.”
The earl narrowed his gaze in challenge. “I am not sure you understand what you are taking on, Your Grace.” He gestured towards Emilia.
The duke’s eyes met hers and softened. Emilia thought she saw a flicker of pain pass through them before he turned back to her uncle.
“I am generally a very patient man, Lord Moorfield.” The cold shift in his tone was subtle, but it made Emilia’s heart quicken, and her uncle stand up straighter.
“Since I have arrived, every word you have spoken has been an insult to either your niece’s character or my honor and intelligence.
Please tell me plainly, is there a reason you are against Lady Talbot marrying me? ”
Lord Moorfield’s fists clenched at his side.
“You misunderstand, Your Grace.” Lady Moorfield stepped between her husband and the duke. “We mean you no disrespect, but our Emilia has not been poised for such an opportunity.”
Our Emilia.
Emilia physically flinched at the term of endearment, and the duke’s eyes flickered to her again.
“You must see that we have our concerns about her becoming a duchess with such a delicate countenance,” her aunt continued. “We are worried she will not be able to stand up to the task.”
A flash of irritation crossed the duke’s expression. “That rather seems like it would be something for me to worry about, does it not?” He was no longer hiding his frustration.
“Now if we are quite done discussing the reasons why I should not marry Emilia, we should move on to the specifics of how I will marry her. Because quite frankly, there is no reason for you to refuse me.” He smiled humorlessly. “I will not even ask you to increase her dowry.”
Emilia felt as though she ought to applaud the miraculous display she had just witnessed. Never had she seen her uncle rendered speechless, yet here he stood—slack-jawed and wholly defenseless before a man half his age and twice his consequence.
“We can speak in my study,” Lord Moorfield said, fists clenched tightly at his side.
“I would like a moment alone with your niece first, if you do not mind.” The duke nodded towards the corner where Emilia still sat.