by Deb Marlowe
She looked magnificent, even if it was vain to think so herself. Madame Lalbert and her mother had outdone themselves. Her dress was white, with a tight, scoop-necked bodice and short, sheer sleeves. It was the embroidery that made it stunning, however. Intricate designs in the deepest, darkest red drew the eye to the neckline and echoed along the flowing skirts. She carried a thick shawl of the same blood-red and her elaborately curled hair featured a silk ribbon in the same hue.
She stared at herself in the mirror and recognized how the striking combination flattered her pale skin and dark hair, and how the cut of the dress emphasized all the best features of her figure. And still, she couldn’t help but wish for her old armor.
Oh, how she craved her old invisibility.
But it was not to be. Tonight would likely end in notoriety for her—but only for her, if she could possibly manage it.
Everything depended on her ability to bluff Miss Paxton.
“Hart has sent word that he will meet us at my sister’s.” The countess was moving through the passageway when Emily emerged. She stopped. “Oh, my dear, you are stunning.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Hart’s mother looked her over. “Your first ball, is it not? Nerves are expected,” she soothed.
Emily was sick with fury, anxiety, and impending loss, but she couldn’t say that. She nodded, instead.
“My dear.” The countess gave her hand a kind squeeze. “Will you allow me the chance to thank you? I was unsure about this scheme of Hart’s at the beginning—but you have done him good. He appears relaxed . . . even happy . . . for the first time since we lost his brother.”
Emily breathed deeply. At least she’d accomplished that. She nodded again. “I’m so glad.”
The countess let her go and began to pull on her gloves. “Good. Now, let us go forth and conquer.”
She almost laughed. Oh, how she fervently hoped it would be so.
Young James was in the receiving line and he gallantly requested the first dance with her. Emily was touched and happy to give it. They’d arrived late enough that she didn’t have to wait long before they took their places. The young man looked as nervous as she felt, but he successfully navigated the steps and appeared as proud as punch when it ended. And again, Emily felt nearly as proud—here was another good thing she had accomplished. If only her time here was not so quickly ending.
But the end did arrive moments later, with a grimly smiling Miss Paxton. “Won’t you take a turn with me, Miss Latham?”
She dragged Emily into an alcove. “Marc—I mean, my men say you’ve done well so far, following instructions,” she began. “I’m glad to know that you are taking this seriously. Just do as I say now and you will emerge from this unscathed and free.”
“While you trick Hart into marrying you?” Emily returned with scorn. “I don’t think I will make it so easy for you.”
Miss Paxton flushed with fast-rising anger. “It’s not as if you have much choice.”
“I do have a choice.” She raised her brow. “Do you even pay attention to the world you live in? Expose us if you will,” she challenged. “Hartford is a man. Yes, his actions will be frowned upon. Some members of the ton will be scandalized. Others will rather admire him. Either way, it will be a three-week-wonder. Something else will come along to capture Society’s attention and because he is a man, Hartford’s reputation will recover. By next Season—maybe even by the end of this one—those shocked girls will be vying for his attention again.
The girl looked livid at being challenged. “Your reputation won’t survive.”
Emily laughed. “I don’t care. I never meant to stay amongst these people to begin with.”
Miss Paxton snarled. “Perhaps you won’t be so blasé about your family’s welfare. I will have you and your mother arrested.”
“For what? Making a fool of you?”
“For presenting yourself with a false name!”
“My mother has nothing to do with any of this. And unless Miss Emmaline Latham decides to leave her new husband and sail across the Atlantic to press charges, I’m afraid the courts will merely laugh at you. Until the earl and his mother testify for me, that is.” She gave the girl a look of pity. “You’ve played your hand and lost. Now do leave us alone.”
Emily made to leave, but Miss Paxton reached out and grabbed her. Her color was turning truly alarmingly red as she grew even more furious. “Not so fast,” she snarled. “You’ve forgotten your friend, the modiste. I’ll see her ruined, and her shop taken from her.”
Now that was a threat that could more easily be accomplished. A few rumors or insinuations and London’s gossip-susceptible ladies would decide not to frequent Madame Lalbert at all.
“And you’ve forgotten the fact that no one in Society has yet figured out your family’s dangerous financial situation.”
Miss Paxton released her. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I know what the milliners and the glovers and the coal men and all of the rest of the tradesmen are talking about—the mountain of your family’s unpaid bills.”
“Tradesmen’s gossip? No one would bat an eye. You could say the same about any Society family.” She laughed. “So, we are at an impasse. But still, I will win, while you and Hartford and your seamstress friend go up in flames. Come,” she gestured. “Shall we go and start a scandal?”
Emily hesitated, but she saw the ugly resolution in the girl’s eyes. “Any Society family, you think?” she asked slowly. “How many of those debutantes out there are wearing paste jewels? Only you, I’d wager. But we could ask and take a count.”
That shook the evil chit. She turned. “How could you—?” Her eyes narrowed and Emily could nearly see the wheels spinning in her brain. “It was you,” she said wonderingly. “How did I miss it? You are that upstart, dirty, little thief!”
“Go on and tell that one, too,” Emily invited. “And I’ll tell them all about Marcus Lionel Holt—and his babe that you carry.” She shook her head. “No, I am afraid you will have to settle for taking the father of your child to wed, and leave Hart alone.”
Miss Paxton had begun to look wild. “Marcus has no money!” she hissed.
“And yet,” Emily shrugged.
“No. I will not be beaten by the likes of you! Listen to me! You will go and have a footman tell Lord Hartford to meet you in the garden. There is a bank of flowering Hawthorne beyond the fountain. He will meet you—me—there.”
“No.”
Abruptly, all of the girl’s florid color faded away. And suddenly, the grim look of despair and determination on her face frightened Emily more than all of her angry bluster.
“This is all your fault,” Miss Paxton whispered. “All of it. You’ve left me no choice.” She sucked in a long breath. “Now I will remind you of how similar in looks and coloring Marcus and Hartford are. And I will tell you that if you do not do as I say, I will march out to the middle of that dance floor and tell my tale of woe to everyone here. How Hartford found me alone in the park and seduced—No! He brutally forced himself upon me. How I fought, but he laughed and overpowered me and left me without a glance.” Her lip curled. “Let his reputation recover from that! Either way, by the slight embarrassment of being caught in a tryst, or by being labeled a depraved abuser—he will pledge himself to marry me tonight.”
Aghast, Emily backed away. “You would tell such vile lies about an innocent man—and then force him to claim your child?”
“Without a second’s hesitation.”
The world tilted and Emily watched her slim chance at happiness sliding away from her. A ringing started up in her ears, but she ignored it. She had to think. She would not lose everything in vain.
“No.”
Resolute, she brushed past the wicked girl.
“What are you doing?”
“You are right. It is all my fault. And so I shall tell them all. The whole sordid story, beginning at the night I blackmailed you for a paste earrin
g. I accept the blame for everything.” She glared at the girl. “And I will also take a page from your book, Miss Paxton and exercise my imagination. I will tell the same sort of ugly lies about you that you mean to visit upon Hart. Except mine will have a foot in the truth. How you got yourself an entire wardrobe when you cheated a dozen modistes by disparaging their finished work, claiming it was unsatisfactory, and then wearing it anyway. How you cuckolded Lord Ardman. Mr. Holt is here tonight, is he not? His reaction will only help sell the story. I’ll tell how you got yourself with child and when Lord Ardman’s absence made it impossible to trick him, you masterminded a plot with me to trap Hart into paying the price. It will come down to my word versus yours—and you are the one carrying a fatherless child. I’m sure I can come up with a few more sordid details as I go, too. I shall see how the muse moves me.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Emily laughed. “Oh, I would dare. I may be ruined, but I am taking you down with me.”
“No!”
“Yes.” On wooden feet she left the girl behind and headed for the ballroom.
Hart moved quickly through his aunt’s house, looking for Emily. He knew she was here somewhere and he feared Miss Paxton had cornered her in some out of the way spot and was making her miserable. He searched everywhere, then headed back to the ball room.
From the top of the short stairs he could see almost everything. A country-dance set had started to form—and there. Emily moved down the center, between the two lines.
“Excuse me!” He pushed his way down the stairs, past the stream of guests flowing in and out. “Excuse me!”
He lost her when he reached the bottom, but threaded through the crowd toward the dance floor.
“Excuse me!” It was her voice this time, echoing his words. He heard her as he drew closer, but couldn’t see her yet. “I’m very sorry to interrupt the pleasantries,” she said loudly. “But I’m afraid I have something to confess!”
Hart abandoned politeness and began to shoulder his way through. He could judge his progress by gasps and protests and exclamations.
Not fast enough.
“I’m afraid I must offer my apologies to you all!” She was still talking over people. “I’m afraid I’ve lied to you. You see, my name is not Emmaline Latham.”
Quiet settled around her and Hart broke through the crowd. Too late.
Confused murmurs and questions spread around them. He moved toward her, holding up a hand. “There is no need, my love.”
Tears welled, making her grey eyes shine. “There is, I’m afraid. You don’t know, Hart, the evil intent she carries.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he began.
“It does. The things she means to say . . .” She shook her head.
“It’s all over already, my darling. Her maid knows all of the truth. Molly convinced her to throw her lot in with us. I’ve spoken with the girl. She’s safely ensconced at Herrington House.”
A small, strangled sound made him look up into the ring around them, where Miss Paxton’s wide eyes conveyed her panic. He took pleasure in continuing. “She’s already told her story to the lady’s father. And to the magistrate.”
The young lady sobbed, then whirled and fled. Hart ignored her and turned to Emily, who, though still paler than he’d seen her, showed signs of fledgling hope.
“Truly?” she whispered.
The crowd muttered in confusion.
She looked around. “It’s too late, Hart. I have to tell them who I am. I will deal with the consequences, and then, maybe—”
“What is all of this?” someone demanded.
“I don’t know who the chit was supposed to be in the first place,” someone else complained.
“What’s kind of theatrics are these?” a woman asked.
“Tell us what you mean to say!”
Hart turned to address them, but stilled as the elderly Duke of Danby stepped forward to enter the open circle around them.
“Perhaps my great niece will allow me to explain.”
Chapter 10
Emily’s mouth fell open. She had to fight the instinctive urge to duck and run and yet she also suffered the strange compulsion to throw her arms around the older man.
But the duke was not waiting for her wayward emotions to catch up. He strolled around the small space, nodding at acquaintances and generally showing off. “You are privileged to be here for the telling of a good story—one that you will dine off of for months to come,” he said affably. He pointed to Hart. “And it starts last Season.”
Emily exchanged glances with Hart, but he merely shrugged and waved for the old man to continue.
“Now, you all know how I feel about the matrimonial state.” He paused for the titter that ran through the crowd. “I am generally a fan of those maneuvers that see a well matched couple safely wed. But the shenanigans that some of our own young ladies got up to last Spring . . . they went beyond the pale. Shameless.” He shook his head. “And unfair, to a family—and to a young man—still mourning a sad loss.”
More than one debutante turned her eyes to the ground.
“The same sort of trouble started up again at the beginning of this Season. Didn’t it?” He looked around. “But one young woman went so far as to resort to trickery, subterfuge and blackmail.”
“And lies,” Emily interjected.
“Just so.” The duke nodded. “Lord Hartford, being a smart man, called for help.” He walked over and took her hand. “My great niece, Miss Emily Spencer, answered.”
She gripped him hard. She was filled with gratitude. The duke was telling only the truth, even if he was adjusting the timeline. She should object, she supposed, but if it saved Hart from censure, if it gave them a chance—then she would not quibble.
“Some of you may not be happy that she did it under an assumed name, but let me assure you that she did so with Hestia Wright’s guidance and my full knowledge, as well as that of Hartford and his esteemed mother, the countess.”
She blinked at him. Was it true? Was he why Hestia Wright had developed a sudden interest in her? She might have been indignant about it yesterday, but now she felt more than ready to forgive. After all, his manipulations had led her to Hart.
Talk started up again and some of it sounded angry to her ears—but she didn’t care. The duke was giving them a gift that she would not scorn. And she couldn’t keep from staring at Hart—or prevent all that she was feeling from showing.
“Some of you may be persuaded to hold her birth against her.”
There were several murmurs of disgusted assent.
“But I confess, I would find this a disappointment—especially considering the fact that we have more than one of the royal natural children amongst us this evening.” He paused to let that sink in, and then raised Emily’s hand higher. “This girl is my blood. My family. She is the granddaughter of my beloved sister Georgina and she will always be welcome in my homes.”
Emily, through tears, thought that the plural use of that last word—and its reminder of the duke’s wealth and power—might help drive his point home.
“She will always be welcome at Elleshaven as well.” Lady Ellesworth stepped out into the open circle and took her other hand. “I am thrilled to find that you are my cousin.”
Emily bit her lip.
“I’ll bandy sticks with you any day,” young James said valiantly, stepping forward.
“Yes, she is as family here,” echoed Lady Feltham.
“She will always be family,” the countess said.
“She is always welcome in our home, as well.” Mrs. Carmichael stumbled forward after a little push from a teary-eyed Mary.
“And mine,” someone called. The swell of support and dissent began to rumble across the room. Hart silenced it when he stepped forward and raised his hands. She waited to hear what he had to say, along with the rest of them.
“Thank you, sir.” Emily retrieved her hand and wiped away tears as he bowed to the duke.
>
He turned back to the crowd. “It is no surprise to me that so many of you have come to care for Emily Spencer. I took her on as a pretend betrothed, a faux fiancé. And in the weeks since, she has made me laugh. She has demonstrated kindness and an incredibly clear insight that I can only envy. She has shown me true loyalty and awed me with her militant side.”
He winked at the crowd. “I think we can all attest to her beauty—but I have had the extreme honor of growing to know her character.”
The baroness let go of her other hand and stepped back. Hart took it up and bent over it. “With your great-uncle’s permission, I would like to ask you, in earnest, if you will make the position a permanent one.”
Emily laughed through her tears. She pulled her hand away and threw both arms around his neck. “Yes, my lord!” She tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “I would love to be your hired bride. Forever.”
Epilogue
Hartsworth was indeed magnificent. It had two towers, a meandering river, an actual dungeon, glorious gardens and a great hall that made Emily dream of knights, troubadours and ladies in heavy, flowing gowns.
All of that was perfectly lovely, but in her estimation there was only one asset that mattered—and that was Hartsworth’s master.
They had all gathered at the castle in preparation for the wedding. It was to be a huge affair. Everyone in Society wished to attend and sometimes Emily felt as if they had all indeed been invited.
But for now, it was just family. Emily and her mother had been put in the South Tower in a lovely set of rooms that had once been the Ladies Solar. The light was wonderful, the view amazing and right now—the occupants were worrisome.
Emily paced at the bottom of the Tower, around and around a pretty, wood-trimmed hall.
“That marble flooring has lasted hundreds of years,” Hart told her. “But you are going to wear it out in an afternoon. Please, Emily, sit down.”
“I cannot! I’m a bundle of nerves!”
“Are you going to be like this before our wedding?”