by Eva Devon
His stomach tightened for she looked at him for a long moment. And then he realized, here it was. . . The moment she had no doubt been waiting years for. The very public moment in which she could reject him.
The tension in the room built as he stood, gloved hand out, waiting for her to break the silence with her assent or rejection.
One could have heard a gown rustle.
She was going to say no.
He deserved it. He willed her to do it. Perhaps then, they could move on. Perhaps then, they could leave the past in the past.
But then, she did the most remarkable thing.
Emmaline Trent lowered herself into the most seductively beautiful curtsy he had ever seen. Neck curved, breasts on displays, legs bent but unshaking. And then she lifted her gaze to his and stood very slowly. “With pleasure, my lord.”
As she slipped her gloved hand into his, the shock of sensation that traveled through him was terrifying.
The strains of a waltz sifted through the air, enfolding them in its rapturous notes, and there was nothing to do but slip his other hand about her waist and do as he’d longed to do. He pulled her to him. And the room suddenly disappeared. He could see no one and nothing but Emmaline and he knew he was on dangerous ground, indeed.
Chapter 9
They spoke not a word as he circled her about the room, his arm wrapped about her waist. Emmaline could see nothing but Edward. His presence swallowed her up. The guests had vanished. The other dancers were gone. The towering, gold-trimmed walls and ceilings were but a distant memory.
All she could see was his tortured, beautiful visage before her.
He towered over her and she had to tilt her head back to keep his gaze. But she could not break it. Some strange spell had forced her to meet his gaze and now, now it held her.
Heat and hunger raced through her and she fairly gasped at it. Once, she had desired him. She’d wished to climb into his bed, knowing he would be her husband.
But that long-ago emotion paled to what he invoked in her now. She did not understand it. Once, he’d caused her so much pain. Now, he was all but a stranger. Yet, her soul, her heart seemed to refuse to believe that. In fact, with every moment she was with him, it felt as if her body was calling out to another who was more recognized by it than anyone ever had been.
’Twas as if he was her harbor. . . Which was madness for it had been he who had cast her into the storm.
Still, the feel of his hand against her back sent the most shocking of sensations along her limbs. Her body urged her to move forward, to press into his embrace. All the while, her mind rebelled against those feelings. But even so, her mind seemed encompassed with curiosity for who he had become.
He did not try to fill up the silence with idle prattle. Oh, no. He but looked upon her. It was something that set her in a state of bewildering anticipation.
“You did not reject me,” he said at last.
She could feel the rumble of his voice as if it were a real touch upon her body. “It was my plan.”
He smiled then. “I thought as much. Why didn’t you?”
“Your brother has gone to a great deal of trouble,” she teased.
“No, Emmaline,” he replied factually. “It’s because you’re not an utter ass. Not like me.”
She laughed then, shocked. “I suppose you’re right. I’ve dreamt of it, you know. Many nights.”
“Of me?” he asked disbelievingly.
“Oh, yes,” she confirmed. “I’ve laid in my bed, sleep but a distant, taunting hope, imagining the look on your face when I cut you dead. It kept me warm on many cold nights, that thought.”
His lips twitched. “I am lucky you did not wish to do me worse.”
“Oh, I did,” she assured him as her toes skimmed the floor under his excellent leading skill. “After I became accustomed to the shock.”
His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. “The shock of—”
“Your betrayal,” she said without mercy.
He did not flinch or deny it. He took her comment with the grace with which it was required. Then he asked, “Shall we pretend to the world that no such thing occurred?”
“It seems that they have all veritably forgotten it, in any case.”
“The devil they have,” he protested. “Why do you think the entire room is watching us dance?”
“Are they?” she asked, not bothering to look at the ton surrounding them. She cared not a fig for them in any case. They were all sycophants. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He arched a brow.
“I do not know if I can pretend with you, Edward,” she said at last. “The idea is quite tiring.”
“Then after this dance, we shall part ways?”
The emotions inside her swelled, contesting what her mind knew was best. Still, she spoke. “It’s for the best.”
He nodded. “For the best.”
“Why haven’t you married?” she suddenly asked.
“Such a thing is an impossibility,” he declared as if it were obvious.
Perhaps it was. So, she queried, “Doing penance, are you?” Then she smiled gently. “I free you of your sins. You must try to find some happiness now.”
He shook his head. “I’ll never marry, Emmaline.”
“Never is a dangerous word,” she countered.
“I had my chance.” He lowered his head towards hers ever so slightly. “I threw it away.”
“You don’t believe in second chances?” she asked.
His eyes grew dark and hooded. “Do you?”
She licked her lips, realizing the power of the question she was asking. Could she ever give him a second chance?
Then he looked abruptly away. “Of course not. You made that clear in Paris.”
“Yes, I did,” she agreed, her pulse racing at the madness of this conversation.
“And you, will you marry?” he asked with forced cheer.
She shook her head. “I’d never give my life into the hands of a man again.”
“Very wise,” he agreed. “We’re deeply untrustworthy. So, you have forsaken love then? I should hate myself forever for doing that to you.”
She peered up at him. “Love? I believe in love, Edward.”
“You do?” he asked, stunned.
“Oh, yes,” she said firmly. “I always will.”
And then the music came to a halt. “But I see that you don’t,” she said sadly. That sadness penetrated her very bones as she studied him. “And I see now, that in the end, it is you who is ruined. I find I am sorry for it.”
He held her in his embrace for one lingering moment then his face transformed into a hard mask. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Emmaline.”
She gazed up into his eyes, amazed at the depth of feeling she saw in his dark gaze.
“I wish you well,” he said quickly before he bowed abruptly then turned away.
As soon as he had walked away, she felt the whisper slither about the room. The gossip was beginning. For he had left her on the dance floor quite quickly. Some would assume it had been coldness and not pain that had driven him to do it.
A curse teased her lips.
Now, how the devil had that happened?
It seemed she and Edward were destined to turn the gossip mill forever.
And if they were, what was the point of resisting?
“What the devil was that?” James growled, following Edward to the foyer of the opulent ducal townhome.
Edward could not stop his determined stride. He felt as if a demon had seized him.
James grabbed his arm, forcing him to halt. His older brother held him now, a hand gripping each arm. “Out with it, Edward. What is amiss?”
There was no fury or derision on James’ strong face, only regret and sympathy.
It was almost worse than if James had looked furious.
But he knew why his brother wasn’t tossing him out or ranting at him as their father would have done. James was a good man and he, too, had been compl
icit in all this.
“She feels sorry for me,” Edward bit out. “Christ. I ruined her and she feels sorry for me. If ever I hoped I wasn’t a complete and utter devil, I hoped in vain. She may not be an angel but she’s still too damned good for me.”
James sighed. “I won’t argue Emmaline’s estimable worth. But do you understand you just caused a good deal of conversation by your actions?”
Edward shook his head. “Whatever are you saying? The music stopped. I just—”
“Left her alone on the dance floor,” James pointed out, lowering his hands. “The woman you left at the altar.”
Edward closed his eyes and wiped a hand over his face. “I must give up hope of intelligence, too.”
James smiled wryly. “It seems so.”
Edward looked about, at a loss. If he went back into the ball and attempted an apology, he would only cause more gossip. Besides, she did not wish to see him again.
“Can you make my apologies?” Edward asked roughly, desperately wishing to make his escape. “I am not fit for Polite Society this night.”
“I will do my best,” James soothed. He looked back to the ball, clearly contemplating his guests. “Who knows how she will take it. Emmaline is a very different woman now.”
Edward stilled, his heart doing the most damnable of painful palpitations. “She’s marvelous.”
James nodded. “Better than any of us.”
Edward smiled bitterly. “I still won’t have her feeling sorry for me.”
James’ face transformed, tensing with frustration. “Then do something about it. Stop acting like a—”
“James,” Edward broke in. “I appreciate your concern, but I think I must ask you to cease your interference in this matter.”
James halted, his lips parting to argue further as he was wont to do, but then he groaned. “It is a lesson I still struggle with, interfering.”
“You’re a duke and my brother,” Edward conceded. This time he placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, wishing to assure James that he bore him no ill will. “It would be shocking if you didn’t try.”
James smiled tentatively or as tentatively as a duke was able. “I’m glad you at least don’t loathe me for it.”
“I never could,” Edward assured him. “You’re my brother and you have supported me at my worst. Now, let it be. The wound between Emmaline and me? I doubt it shall ever heal. Like any old injury, we shall feel it whenever the weather turns.”
James did not laugh at Edward’s attempt at humor. Instead, he sighed. “I suppose I should be pleased at an outcome as good as the one we have.”
Edward laughed dryly. “Things could have been much worse.”
“Yes,” James acknowledged. “Thank goodness she is a stubborn one. She has done very well for herself.”
Edward’s lips curved in a wry smile. “She is, isn’t she? I think. . . I think she was always too good for me. And in the end, I’m damned glad she’s shuck of me.”
“Edward—”
He whipped his hand from his brother’s arm and held it up in protest. “It’s the truth, James. And that’s all there is to it.”
Turning from his brother and heading out the double doors and onto the exclusive street, he strode out into the dark night, his demons stirring. The fight hadn’t been enough this night. Right now, he was going to have to go a lot further to drive the darkness out of his heart and head.
But how did he begin?
Chapter 10
To prove she had been undaunted by Edward’s sudden exit, which she knew had not been meant to be taken so ill, Emmaline had danced every dance and drank champagne until dawn. The sound of her laughter had filled the room and she had chatted and cited on dit after on dit until her mind felt like a sponge. Her feet ached, but it was the ache of the vindicated.
Perhaps, the gossips would be speaking of her and Edward again, but they would also be speaking of her success and her talent. Of that, she was certain.
Now, having gotten out of her luxurious bed at a remarkably early hour given her role in society, she stood outside The Healing Home, her reticule in hand. She sucked in a fortifying breath.
It was going to be an exceptionally busy day.
She would decide on the next play that would follow the closing of Much Ado About Nothing, interview potential actors and actress, and engage a new builder of sets. Still, she was determined to provide a bit of meaningful help in a city that often destroyed the good.
The blue-painted door opened and a mob-capped matron stood in the frame. “Good morning. . .”
“Mrs. Trent,” Emmaline supplied brightly. “I have an appointment.”
It was so odd calling herself Missus but it was a long-standing tradition. Women who went upon the boards took the title of Missus whether married or not.
“Ah, yes,” the older lady said kindly. “I’m Mrs. Darby and we are expecting you.”
Mrs. Darby stepped back, her dark, cotton skirts whisking the plain but freshly kept floor.
As Emmaline entered, she took in the cheerily-painted, cream-colored hall, decorated with paintings of various vivid flowers.
Sunlight spilled through a window at the end of the long corridor and a bright yellow runner was underfoot.
There was nothing grim about this place, not as one might expect a place for fallen women to be.
In Emmaline’s experience, when people did the good deed of helping those in need, they usually also felt the need to ensure repentance among their charges. Repentance usually came with austere, gray walls and quotes from a vengeful God hanging about. Meals consisted of thin gruel and porridge. Few kind words were uttered, but she had heard the opposite transpired here.
“Is the rest of the home like this?” she asked as they made their way along the hall.
Mrs. Darby smiled which did the most remarkable thing. Despite the lady’s years, which seemed to be at near sixty, she had the deepest of dimples in her soft cheeks. Her blue eyes shone wisdom, understanding, and strength.
Really, what with her soft, curling, silver hair under her cap, those twinkling eyes, and smile, Emmaline found herself wishing she could sit down to tea with this lady and pour her heart out.
How odd. She was not usually given to such things. But what she immediately understood was that Mrs. Darby had the sort of kind face which induced confidences and she appeared sufficiently motherly enough that one could cry upon her shoulder, be given a loving pat, and then a cuppa after. She also looked as if she wouldn’t take any nonsense and could quickly assist in the sorting out of troubles.
This establishment was already a far cry from some of the places she had seen in Paris and, no doubt, from several of the places here in London.
Mrs. Darby waved her down the hall. “Come and see.”
They quickly ascended the stairs to the first floor. They turned down a narrow but cheery corridor only to stop at the first door. Mrs. Darby gestured for her to look.
Emmaline peered into the room through the open door.
Several beds made with pressed white linen lined the walls. The room was full of light pouring in through the generous windows and, once again, there were flowers everywhere. Paintings of cardinals, bluebirds, and sparrows filled the prints that were hung above each bed.
The sight touched her.
It was a room meant for hope.
“Where do the babies go when they are born?” Emmaline asked.
Mrs. Darby blinked. “Go?”
Emmaline nodded, her eyes stinging at the very idea of infants being separated from their mothers. But so many mothers were not able to keep them given there was not societal support for unwed mothers. “Are they taken and sent to a nursery?”
Mrs. Darby gave her an odd look. “They stay with their mothers.”
“They do?” Emmaline all but gasped.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Darby said proudly. “We find it essential that the babies be in the vicinity of their mothers for as long as possible. We have
several members of our staff to assist them during the mothers’ recovery from birth. And anyone who comes here is guaranteed employment for life.”
Emmaline gaped at her, certain she had misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”
“Our patron has a series of homes in the country where the ladies can go and work,” Mrs. Darby explained proudly. “Usually making knit goods or other artisanal objects. There is child care there so there is never any fear for the babies.”
Emmaline could scarcely believe it. She had never heard of such a scheme. It was a brilliant one and so very beneficial to so many. “My goodness. . . Your patron is very. . .”
“Kind,” Mrs. Darby said. “He is determined that the ladies and their children are treated with respect and good feelings.”
“I see.” Emmaline felt her heart swell with hope. So often, she felt dismay at society’s condemnation of the vulnerable. But whoever had opened this home was quite the champion. “I should, indeed, like to make a donation myself and perhaps seek advice in the opening of another series of establishments that are similar.”
“That is very noble, Mrs. Trent.” Mrs. Darby clasped her hands before her and all but bounced on her heels with dignified pleasure. “It is wonderful that someone of your means and talent should give it such thought.”
Talent. Was Mrs. Darby serious?
“You approve of my acting?” she queried with some suspicion.
Mrs. Darby’s cheeks pinkened and she clapped her hands. “I adore the theater.”
“Do you?” Emmaline asked, astonished.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Darby said. She leaned forward conspiratorially and added with a grin, “We read Shakespeare at least once a week and I, if I do so say myself, do a very good job with the voices.”
“I’m sure you do,” Emmaline said without teasing, for it was clear this woman had a love for life and the people in her care. Such humanity would always be in affinity with the Bard.
Mrs. Darby’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps one evening you could come and give a recitation to the young ladies. . . Though you probably do not have time—”
“I would like that very much,” Emmaline happily volunteered but then she paused, her insides twisting with a surprising dose of nerves. Not everyone admired her profession or the way she had come to it. Some might think her a poor influence. “Your patron would allow it? He would allow me to be near the ladies here?”