Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“Y our time is up, child!” Tristan Lovell, Baron Dewsbury, chastised as their carriage made its way through the English countryside. Emma Lovell sighed softly, the familiar censure prickling her insides.

“I have never heard of a lady in her third season without so much as a glance from an interested suitor!” he continued, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“It is not entirely unheard of, Father,” Emma responded, before turning her attention to the window, seeking a momentary escape in the landscape whisking by.

At that moment, the imposing silhouette of Firman Manor emerged through the dense foliage, its stone towers tall against the summer sky. The sight gave Emma a sense of dread instead of comfort, for she detested the impending social maneuvers that awaited at the Earl of Firman’s house party.

“We are almost there,” her father declared. “I have been patient enough as a father. And you have wasted enough time, Emma.”

“Oh, Tristan dear,” Caroline Lovell, the Baroness Dewsbury, interjected with a soothing voice that did nothing to move him. “I am sure Emma knows what she must do. This is an opportunity she will not waste.” Turning to Emma, she surreptitiously gestured to her to say something.

“Of course, Father. Rest assured that I will make a match,” Emma said more to silence him than to convey any true intent.

She disliked how her mother always seemed to fuel her father’s relentless expectations. The man was never wrong in his own eyes, and his words were final—unchangeable. This had fostered in Emma resentment toward her father, and pity for her mother.

“See, My Lord, I told you the girl is just as desperate,” her mother chimed in with a nervous smile.

Emma felt a bitter sensation clawing its way up her throat. Was she truly a daughter to them? Or merely an asset to be used in their social ambitions? The notion of being nothing more than “the girl they must marry off well” settled over her spirit like a shroud.

“You must make the best match. And no, a man without a title will not do,” Baron Dewsbury continued. “I need a son-in-law who will pay me back all the money I have wasted on you in the last three unsuccessful seasons.” Emma fought to keep her composure, the lump in her throat painful.

“I heard the guest list is quite extensive,” Caroline interjected, her voice carrying a hint of enthusiasm as she recited the names of four viscounts and a baron rumored to be attending the house party.

Emma’s father, however, remained distinctly unimpressed by the enumeration of lesser nobility. His stern gaze flicked briefly over his wife, prompting her to hastily supplement her earlier statement.

“The Duke of Seymore is to attend as well.”

“Are you in your right mind, woman?” Tristan suddenly sat up against the plush cushion of the carriage seat. “I am trying to marry off my daughter, not to smear my family name and plummet in society!”

At her husband’s stern rebuke, Caroline’s cheeks turned a bright shade of pink.

Emma knew little about the Duke of Seymore, besides whispers that fluttered through society like sinister butterflies. He was a sworn bachelor, renowned for his rakish exploits and the scandals that seemed to cling to him. Rumors abounded that he had compromised the reputations of several ladies and had stubbornly refused to offer for any one of them in marriage. To be associated with someone like Seymore was ruin for any gently bred lady.

“I was merely stating the guest list as I heard it, My Lord,” her mother quickly corrected. “But I’m sure the Earl must be in search of a wife…” she insinuated, her eyes alight with a hint of mischief that seemed to momentarily dissolve the stern air around her husband. Predictably, his demeanor softened at the prospect.

“Now that is a catch worthy of consideration. Whether he is searching for a wife or not is beside the point. The man is a peer and must produce an heir to carry on his title.” He turned to Emma with meaning in his gaze.

She felt a cold dread settle within her as her father opened his mouth yet again to speak. “I do not care how you do it. Get him to marry you before the end of the house party.”

Emma swallowed convulsively. She had no words to respond to such a blunt command. Her parents’ intentions for her were crystal clear; they saw her as little more than a means to secure their own social ascent.

“If you fail, I have a suitor waiting for you in London,” he finished, his voice curiously smug now, as if he held the winning card in a game of piquet.

“A suitor?” Emma suddenly sat up. This was certainly news to her. While she had been under tremendous pressure to secure a suitable match, her father had not yet attempted to force a specific gentleman upon her. Alas, she should have known better than to believe his meddling would remain merely verbal for long.

“Yes. My friend, the Marquess of Neads, is more than willing to take you off my hands,” her father responded, his tone dismissive, as if he were discussing the transfer of property rather than the future of his daughter.

Emma turned her gaze toward her mother, seeking some semblance of support or surprise, only to be further shocked and profoundly disappointed. Her mother’s eyes held a resignation that betrayed her foreknowledge of this scheme.

The Marquess of Neads was a decrepit old man, well into his sixties, notorious within society circles for his unabashed pursuit of a young wife to bear him sons. Emma felt as though she might breathe her last at any moment. She knew then with a sinking heart that she must secure a favorable match at this house party.

Relief washed over her when the carriage stopped in front of the manor. The cool breeze and the spacious grounds of the estate were a welcome reprieve from the cramped, tense atmosphere she had endured throughout the nine-hour trip.

A gentleman whom she assumed was Alexander Winger, the Earl of Firman, stood atop the marble steps, his hands clasped in front of him and a warm smile on his handsome face. His greeting was polite, but he seemed rather aloof.

“Lord Firman, we are most honored by the invitation,” her father said as he bowed, his voice dripping with a fervor that was almost desperate. “This is my lovely daughter, Emma,” he introduced, practically pushing her forward such that she nearly stumbled.

Emma curtsied as gracefully as she could, holding the posture for a moment longer than necessary. As she slowly rose, she blinked demurely and allowed her eyes to meet the Earl’s. The moment was crucial; if she were to make any efforts to secure his attentions, the time to start was now.

Firman’s response was perfect courtesy and charm as he took her gloved hand and placed a kiss upon her knuckles. “Lovely indeed, Miss Lovell.” His voice held warmth that sent a flutter of hope through Emma’s chest.

When she glanced at her parents, she saw them exchange a look of triumph. They couldn’t be more pleased by the Earl’s observation, seeing it as a promising start to their ambitions for this house party. Emma, however, felt a twinge of apprehension at their eagerness, knowing all too well that things could go horribly wrong if she did not act cleverly.

Firman gestured at a dark-haired young lady who came forward. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Olivia Winger.” She appeared rather reserved, her eyes darting away quickly during introductions.

“Mrs. Hampton will show you to your rooms, Lord and Lady Dewsbury,” Lady Olivia said, gesturing toward the middle-aged woman who stood to the side, her posture speaking of years spent managing a household efficiently.

“I will show Miss Lovell to her chambers,” she added as she turned to Emma with a slight, encouraging smile and asked, “Shall we, Miss Lovell?”

This is promising. The sister appears to find me agreeable . “Please, do call me Emma,” she responded, returning the smile as she followed Lady Olivia into the manor.

As they ascended the grand staircase, Emma’s spirits were lifted perceptibly by the absence of her father’s overbearing presence. “We have most of the young guests lodged in the east wing of the manor, and the older in the west,” Lady Olivia explained as they walked through the hallways. “I find that it is better that way to make acquaintances of a similar age.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, my lady.”

“Please address me as Olivia.” She smiled. “It is only fair if we are on even grounds of informality.”

They stopped before a door, which Olivia opened to reveal a spacious chamber decorated in soothing pale shades of green, brown, and ivory. The room was filled with light, the decor elegant yet inviting—very unlike the dark, heavy drapes and furnishings of Emma’s familial home.

“Parents can be obstinate in their archaic ways. Better to leave them to themselves,” Olivia remarked with a conspiratorial wink as she stepped inside the room.

“Indeed,” Emma chuckled. She found herself warming to Olivia Winger, her easy manner a balm to Emma’s frazzled nerves.

“There is going to be a dinner later tonight. The official opening of the house party,” she announced.

“It sounds like a marvelous time,” Emma murmured. She could practically feel her father’s impatient, demanding gaze burning into her, could hear his harsh whisper in her mind: “ You fail to secure a match, you marry the Marquess of Neads…” The title “Neads” echoed ominously in her thoughts.

Her tone must have conveyed her lack of enthusiasm, and Olivia must have heard it, because she smiled. “I am not fond of gatherings either. My brother’s house parties have quite the reputation for being very entertaining, you see. I am sure you and I will find good diversion here.”

“I am sure,” Emma responded, mustering a reassuring smile to mask her inner turmoil.

If only her father had sought the Earl’s invitation because of his reputation as a gracious host. But no, Baron Dewsbury had reached out to the Earl for far more selfish and desperate reasons—to corner his host into a match with his daughter.

“Whatever you need, Mrs. Hampton and I will do our best to make you comfortable. You need only ask,” Olivia added before she excused Emma to finally settle in and prepare for the dinner.

Flopping into a chair, she reflected on how effectively the young lady embodied the role of hostess. Despite her initial reservations about the party, Olivia’s warm demeanor offered a faint glimmer of solace amidst the brewing storm of expectations. Emma let out an audible sigh before making her way toward the window. She gazed at the lush, meticulously tended grounds below, admiring the way the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the vibrant green lawns.

A wave of curiosity overcame her, a sudden desire to explore the manor and momentarily forget the true reason she was here. She imagined herself wandering through the medieval walls of Firman Manor, each stone whispering secrets of the past, allowing her to travel back in time and escape the looming pressures of the present.

Just then, a knock on the bedchamber door interrupted her reverie. Antoinetta, her lady’s maid, entered, closely followed by a footman holding several boxes. Upon Antoinetta’s subtle nod and quiet instructions, the footman set them down and promptly exited the room.

“I never saw a household more alive and merrier,” Antoinetta exclaimed. Her blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, presumably for the days they were to spend here, filled with grand events and new acquaintances.

Emma inclined her head. Antoinetta was six years older than she. During her grandmother’s lifetime, she had formed an unlikely friendship with Antoinetta, who had been her companion. They would play in her grandmother’s house until they were called to behave. As Emma watched Antoinetta unpack the boxes, a smile touched her lips, recalling those carefree moments.

“I have a good feeling about this house party, Emma,” Antoinetta said, breaking into Emma’s thoughts with a hopeful tone.

They were informal whenever they were alone. To each other, they were simply Emma and Antoinetta—friends rather than mistress and servant. “I hope you are right, Antoinetta,” Emma replied.

“Oh, cheer up, Miss Grumpy,” Antoinetta chuckled, trying to lift Emma’s spirits with her lighthearted banter.

“I wish I could,” Emma responded, her tone flat.

Antoinetta’s expression softened, her brows knitting together in concern. “Are they bothering you again about it?” she asked gently. Emma nodded. “Oh, poor dear,” Antoinetta murmured, squeezing Emma’s hand reassuringly. At that moment, Emma felt the warmth of true companionship, very unlike the cold ambitions of her parents.

“Well, I say, do not let them get in the way of your having a wonderful time here, Emma,” Antoinetta advised, her voice brimming with optimism.

This optimism reminded Emma of her good friend, Frances Hughes. Both women had an uncanny ability to see light even in the darkest of situations. Emma wished she could adopt their cheerful outlook. Alas, she tended to see things as they were, not as she hoped them to be, a trait that often made her all too aware of the harsh realities of her life. One would call her a realist. Or a pessimist, as Frances often playfully chastised.

“Only with a bright smile can you win the heart of the most eligible gentleman,” Antoinetta continued as she shifted through the contents of Emma’s wardrobe. “Let us forget the Baron and Baroness, and make the most of our time here, Emma dear,” she concluded with a reassuring smile.

“You are right,” Emma couldn’t help but agree, feeling a spark of Antoinetta’s infectious cheer warm her spirits. Together, they went through her boxes, selecting a dress and matching shoes, gloves, and jewelry for the evening’s opening dinner. As they laid out a delicate, ivory silk dress, Emma wondered if the Earl would notice.

Her spirits lifted considerably after deciding on her attire, so much so that she felt an urge to explore. With a few hours to spare before she needed to dress for dinner, she made her way downstairs, her steps light.

She had just passed by an ajar door when a most shocking sight halted her. Curiosity piqued, she retraced her steps and peered into the room.

In the salon was Olivia, in a compromising position with a gentleman.