Chapter 3

The ball that Emmaline's father had made mention of was the very first of the Season—Emmaline's very first Season—which for many young women was a time of excitement and joy.

All Emmaline felt as she prepared for the evening in her room, was nerves. They churned in her stomach until she felt sick right to the back of her throat. It was only the knowledge that Jane would be at her side, on her first Season out in society too, that gave her any sense of relief at all.

"How do I look?" Jane asked, standing before the full-length mirror. Twisting this way and that in her peach gown, she was stunning as ever. With pale blonde hair much like Jane's mother and sisters, she was beautiful and fair. Emmaline wouldn't be surprised if she turned out to be the belle of the ball just as Violet, her sister, had been at her debut.

"You look just like Violet," Emmaline said, meaning it as a compliment but it only made Jane's face wrinkle in disgust.

"That is the last thing anyone should wish to look like!" Jane protested, turning to face Emmaline with her hands tightened to fists at her sides. "Do you think I should change? The last thing I wish to look like is a sour-faced old trout!"

Emmaline bit back laughter and rose from the edge of the bed where she sat to allow the maid to help her on with her shoes. The blasted things were mighty uncomfortable, and they pinched her toes terribly, but as her stepmother assured her, they were the height of fashion and so they had to be worn.

Every woman must follow society's standards, fashions and trends, and the heavens help them if they didn't. Emmaline had long since learned not to argue on such matters no matter how uncomfortable. There were other things to fight for, like her right to do the business that her father had instilled within her from an early age.

Crossing the room, she said, "Violet is only a year our senior and she is your blood sister. It is only right you should look like her."

She stopped before Jane and laid her hands upon her sister's shoulders. They might only have been sisters by marriage but to Emmaline, Jane was the closest thing she truly had to a sister. They had shared a room for as long as she could remember and with only eight months between them, they had always been close.

"She is still a sour-faced trout even if she is not old!" Jane insisted, wrinkling her nose again. "Do not compare me to her Emm, for I shall never live up to it."

Emmaline cupped her sister's face in her hands and sighed, "I only meant that you look beautiful, my darling little sister, and you shall surely be the belle of the bell."

"Not if you steal away the attention," Jane insisted. She pulled Emmaline's hands from her face and held them out so she could look Emmaline up and down. "The purple of your gown does wonders to bring out your eyes!"

Emmaline blushed at that. She often received compliments on just how green her eyes were, especially when she wore purple which just so happened to be her favorite color.

"I could never compare to you, darling Jane," Emmaline insisted. She lifted Jane's hands to hers and kissed them. "Besides, with Violet already wed, everybody shall be looking to you to make the next match."

"And you!" Jane insisted, nudging her playfully with her ankle before she turned back to regard herself in the mirror once more. "You are far too smart not to have some gentleman or nobleman snap you up at the first chance he gets. Just look at you!"

Jane pulled Emmaline into the view of the mirror beside her and twisted one of Emmaline's curls around her finger before letting it drop once more to frame her face.

"I fear the men of the ton are not all that interested in brains," Emmaline pointed out grimly. She had seen the hounds at the door the day Violet first stepped out into society. Many of them had been fortune-hunting nobodies or second sons looking to make an advantageous marriage with the stepdaughter of an earl.

As the true-born daughter of one, Emmaline imagined her prospects might be slightly higher, but she had met enough gentlemen already, and heard enough of Violet's whisperings and gossip a year earlier to know what men really looked for in a woman. They wanted beautiful trophies on their arms and in their beds, women they could use to gain the envy of all other men. Brains meant very little compared to breeding, beauty and behavior where a wife was concerned.

"I shan't imagine there are many men who would be willing to take a woman to wife who has a better head for business than he," Emmaline said, mimicking her stepmother who had so often said such things that Emmaline could recite entire speeches on the matter.

"Oh, don't listen to Mama!" Jane insisted, waving the matter away. "Any man shall be lucky to have you and if they cannot see past their own foolishness, then they are not the one for you anyway!"

Emmaline smiled in agreement though deep down she wasn't quite so certain. To hear her stepmother talk in private, she was practically unmarriageable thanks to her father's insistence on putting a clever head upon her shoulders. And to be looking for love? That might well be just as foolish, considering one simple question: who could love a woman whose head for business outmatched even most gentlemen's'?

Having been born a woman had only made Emmaline more determined to learn all there was, spending hours reading by candlelight while the rest of the household slept, or questioning her father whenever he was in a mood to answer.

Perhaps she had set herself up for failure, but one thing she had always been determined of… if she were to fall in love, she wished for that person to love her back for who she was, not someone that she pretended to be, as she so often saw the other young ladies of the ton do.

Many of them were quite as dim as they were made out to be but a number of them, Jane included, she had seen a spark of intelligence in. And she feared that spark might be extinguished in any number of them before the Season was over.

She had seen how the light had been dimmed already in Violet and many of her friends once wed. And the thought of it terrified Emmaline.

She thought, perhaps, she might prefer to be a lone spinster, content to find a way to live through business if she must, though she was certain nobody would do business with her without a wealthy male patron. Without her father, a husband would be needed, and though she hated to think of a world without her father in it, she was no fool to believe he would live forever. He had reminded her so himself many times during their lectures together.

"Emmaline, are you quite well?" Jane asked and Emmaline realized she had been staring at herself in the mirror, considering her options or lack thereof. Jane only ever used her full name when something was the matter.

Blinking heavily, Emmaline cleared her throat and said, "Yes, though I wonder, Jane, would you promise me one thing before we begin this horrid charade?"

Jane paled a little. "I'm quite certain it won't be that bad, Emm."

Emmaline smiled sadly at her sister and took hold of both her hands again. Squeezing, she held her hands to her chest and said, "Promise me, Jane, promise me that no matter what this Season brings we shall always look after one another, even if one of us shall be married by the end of it."

" Especially if one of us shall be married by the end of it!" Jane corrected her, squeezing her hands in return. "Always, Emmaline. You need not even ask!"

Emmaline felt a hint better as she and her stepsister embraced, the promise committed between them.

"Mama told me not to talk about it, but I overheard her and Violet talking about how The Duke of Westmarch will be in attendance this evening."

Emmaline cringed at the mention of the duke, not because she knew him but because she sympathized with him. Just as those closest to her always discussed how brainy she was, they discussed how horribly tragic the Duke's life had been—and how horrendously disfigured he was.

"I am sure there will be many nobles in attendance," Emmaline pointed out. It was, after all, the first ball of the Season and Lady Beaufort was well known for her soirees.

"Yes, but none so lacking in choice than Lord Westmarch," Jane said. "They say he means to take a wife this year but that he shall have trouble finding one, what with his scars and all."

"We all have scars, Jane," Emmaline snapped back at her sister, most disgusted that Jane should talk in such a manner when she was the sweetest of their entire family. "You have spent far too much time with Mama and Violet."

She shook her head, removing her hands from Jane's to pick up her gloves from where the maid had laid them out on the vanity table beside the mirror.

"A scar on your elbow from falling off the tree swing in the back yard is hardly the same as the duke's burns," Jane protested, crossing her arms over her chest. "And I resent that you should say such a horrid thing, Emmaline!"

"Perhaps, then, you ought not to be so horrid!" Emmaline said, cringing as she pulled on her gloves.

"They don't call him the scarred duke for nothing, Emmaline! Mama says nobody in their right mind would have him even if he is the most eligible bachelor in London… on paper."

Emmaline's stomach twisted. She couldn't help but feel as if she had lost her sweet sister to the sickness that was society.

"How can anyone speak to that when society has not laid eyes upon the duke in heaven knows how long?" Emmaline demanded. In all the talk of him, she had never heard an eyewitness account, only whispering that never quite seemed to add up.

One thing was certain: though she had no interest in the duke with regard to marriage—as she would not consider anyone for marriage without first having laid eyes upon them and having gotten to know them—she did have an interest in learning the truth. It was a downfall of hers, always and forever to be intrigued by mystery and with a determination to get to the bottom of it.

There were many rumors on the Duke of Westmarch: that he had been in a carriage accident; that he had fallen from his horse and been horribly disfigured; that a candle had been knocked from his nightstand and that his entire house had almost been burned to the ground. But she did not have any true connection to the duke, so she took everything she heard with a pinch of salt. One thing was sure, she would be pleased to lay eyes upon the man if only to dispel the rumors she had overheard over the years.

"Every duke has family, Emmaline, and friends," Jane countered, furrowing her pale blonde brow. "Besides, since his inheriting the dukedom, he has far less chance to hide as he once did."

Emmaline thought it an odd image. To imagine a mighty duke hiding from anything was an odd thing indeed. The Duke of Westmarch might well be the most interesting member of the ton and not a one of them would realize it for the simple fact they could not see past his scars.

Though she had no real scars of her own, Emmaline empathized with the man; all they ever saw in her was the daughter of a widower, a poor young girl whose mother had perished during her childhood when a girl so needed a mother. That was her scar to bear, and she bore it as bravely as she was able.

Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath and attempted to change the subject. "Sebastian and Victor shall be there this evening also. We must do our best to keep an eye on them and ensure they don't dance with anyone Mama and Papa might deem unfit."

Jane scowled at her as if she knew exactly what she was trying to do. "Seb and Vic can take care of themselves. It's us I worry about. They have been to a hundred balls by now and not a wedding bell amongst them. The fate of the family lies with us!"

Emmaline flinched. No, dear little sister, it lies with me.

Though she knew well it did not lie with her in the way Jane assumed.

It mattered not who they intended to marry if their father had no dowry to offer. No duke would even sniff in their direction were she to bring shame upon their household in the form of a fruitless investment.

And with fewer reports coming, and those that did were further apart, Emmaline couldn't help but fear the worst.

She had promised her father to put it from her mind and for the most part that day, she had, but now as she prepared to leave for the ball with only a glove button to do up, she couldn't stop the thoughts from coming.

What good is searching for a husband when tomorrow we might wake up penniless?

The Beaufort Ball, just like any other ball, was just as one would expect. Emmaline was bombarded with people making her acquaintance and young gentlemen asking her to dance.

Ever the good daughter and always aiming to offer herself to society at the highest standard—as her parents expected of her—she accepted the dances willingly. It would not be at all appropriate for her to decline even a single offer without good reason.

And though she loved to dance, as she loved all things movement and fun and freedom, she did not like every dance partner that crossed her path.

As they so often liked to do, each of her brothers took her for a turn about the dancefloor first, she and Jane sharing the two of them in order to get a feel for their surroundings.

And then came the hunt. From the second the younger of her two brothers released her, Emmaline felt like prey. Her dance card was quickly filled with names, and she felt as though she might never be free again.

By the time the third dance had finished, she detested the idea of a fourth thanks to the youngest Beaufort son having stomped on her toes so many times she thought she might not have a single one that wasn't sore.

Then the elder Beaufort son took his turn, parading her about the floor as if he wished to show off his prowess on the dance floor to everyone who might look. He had always been a bit of a dandy and Emmaline found it quite laughable.

Dance number five made her wish she had never come at all. As Mr. Denstone, the second son of Viscount Denstone, began by asking her if she liked needlework and flower arranging, before he moved onto such topics as how many children did she hope to have and was she amenable to living with her husband's family, and did she like the name Robert for a boy or Roberta for a girl?

Mr. Denstone had never been very bright and though he was quite likable, Emmaline disliked him greatly that night.

By the time she managed to find a quiet moment at the edge of the dance floor, half-hidden behind a freestanding marble flowerpot, she was quite exhausted.

She would have been content to remain by herself for the rest of the evening with only shadows for friends if it were not for Jane joining her. And her sister looked almost as disheveled as she felt.

"How was your dance with Mr. Penwick?" Emmaline asked when Jane slipped into the shadows behind her.

"About as well as yours with Mr. Denstone, I suspect," Jane sighed. "If these are the men on offer to wed this year, I fear we shall still be on the marriage mart next year."

Emmaline chuckled. So far, the offerings had been poor indeed, but she was determined to remain hopeful, even if only for duty's sake, "The evening is not over yet and if I know Lady Beaufort she has arranged twice the number of dances we ordinarily partake in."

" That woman would have us all dance until dawn and wed to partners by breakfast if she had her way," Jane pointed out and Emmaline couldn't stop from laughing. She could imagine it all too easily.