Chapter 1

CHAPTER1

“Is that a… bride?” A young boy gawped, pointing rudely with one hand as he tugged on his mother’s apron with the other.

Between the cream-colored gown, the intricate lace overlay, and the white bonnet, adorned with too many dusky pink roses, it was not an absurd observation.

The woman eyed Emma, her curious expression wrinkling into a scowl. “Let’s cross the street,” she hissed at her son. “I believe that’s a madwoman, not a bride.”

Emma wanted to laugh at the accuracy, but did not wish to frighten the child. On the journey west from her own corner of the world, she had been given plenty of time to consider the lunacy of her actions.

She had blown up all hopes of marriage, courtship, and even her place in society as a whole, and for what? It would not change what happened between Marcus and Mary. He would never be allowed to marry her.

DidI do the right thing?

The answer became hazier, the more time and distance she put between herself and the church. And she had come a long way, in the hope of seeking sanctuary and comfort with the one person she knew with power who would understand.

“Are you certain of this? I can take you there myself,” Nora had said. Emma had asked to be taken to the nearest town, where she knew she could catch a stagecoach to the destination she had in mind.

“They will be looking for your carriage, Nora. They will not be looking for me on a stagecoach. I think my father would keel over if he thought I even knew what one was,” Emma had replied, reassuring her friend.

For many years, Emma had romanticized the very idea of a stagecoach, imagining it to be a rather thrilling, enlightening method of transport.

The reality could not have been further from her daydreaming. It had been cramped, hot and loud. Her wedding dress had become more stained by the time she alighted in Peverley. She now wandered the town aimlessly, struggling to remember the way from a seven-year-old memory, faded with age.

“Should we give her a coin?” a young lady asked her companion, turning up her nose at Emma.

The companion sniffed. “Best not. I have heard of a trick where beggarwomen fashion a tragic story about being jilted to garner sympathy.”

A beggarwoman in expensive silk? Are you quite serious? I suppose you will accuse me of stealing it next!

Emma wanted to retort, but she had already drawn too much attention to herself.

Keeping her head down, she hurried in the direction of the church. From there, she was certain she’d know which way to go.

She winced as the church bells tolled the hour, reminding her of wedding chimes. This fired her urgency to get away from unfamiliar territory, so much so that she forgot to pay attention to where she was walking.

Her shoulder collided with something hard, and, for a moment, she was back at St. Paul’s, barreling out of the church doors as fast as possible.

But whatever she had struck knocked her backwards. She stumbled, her heart lurching as she suffered the same sensation of falling, with no way to stop herself. Those blasted skirts were still determined to trip her.

Strong hands shot out, grabbing her roughly by the arms, steadying her. “Easy now. Easy,” said a soft, cajoling voice, as if she were a spooked mare in a night-darkened stall.

Emma’s eyes flicked up to the man, a gasp catching in her throat. Standing before her, wearing a look of grave concern, was the most handsome gentleman she had ever seen. It was no exaggeration. Indeed, he was so exquisite to behold that she could not make her brain connect to her mouth to utter a single word of thanks.

He towered over her, his shadow sheltering her as his hands held her firmly. His long, strong fingers could have overlapped considerably around her upper arm had they wanted to, but he had loosened his grip since that first grab to steady her.

And such broad shoulders, wide enough for a lady to perch on each one and be quite comfortable.

What sort of thought is that?

Emma could not think straight, her mind a puddle of nonsense as his intense eyes searched her face, making her feel very exposed indeed.

They were the color of the moors beyond her father’s estate on a bright spring afternoon, when the sun chased the shadows across the rolling hills: shades of green and brown and gold, all at once, depending on how the light struck them. And utterly enchanting.

“Are you steady enough?” he asked, in a low, gravelly voice.

She glanced at his hands, still upon her, and pulled back as if stung. “You should not touch me, sir.” Her cheeks warmed. “You will be ruined if you are seen with me, though … I thank you for not letting me fall.”

Edging past him with her head bowed, she broke into a run, not caring how indecorous or undignified she looked, as she hiked up her treacherous skirts to avoid another humiliating tumble.

“Miss!” the man called out from behind her. “Are you sure you are well?”

She dared a glance back over her shoulder and mustered a thin smile. “I will be. I hope. Thank you.”

But the truth was, she had no idea what was going to happen to her, or if any part of her would recover. After all, the reckless actions of a girl of seven-and-ten were vastly different to the behavior of a woman of four-and-twenty, old enough to know better.

Society would not forgive her this time; she grew more certain of it with every passing minute.

* * *

Emma had found the right path after making it past the church, but the route was not as she remembered it. In her memory, it had been no more than the length of a charming stroll from Peverley to her godmother’s estate.

In reality, it was a muddy, wretched hour or more, tramping through windy fields pocked with rabbit holes, and cursing every time her foot plunged into another unpleasantness.

I should have allowed Nora to bring me here.

It was Emma’s greatest regret; perhaps, greater than jilting Marcus at the altar.

But up ahead, she finally saw the quaint country house where she would find her godmother: Eliza, the Dowager Countess of Creassey. It had once been the Earl and Countess of Creassey’s summer house, before the earl died. After he passed, the heir to the earldom—a distant cousin by the name of Albert—had been forbidden from renting it out, so it had gone mostly unused.

In recent years, it had become Eliza’s primary residence. And it had been Emma’s sanctuary once before, when she had hidden there after the first runaway debacle.

Breathless, exhausted, and aching from her ankles to her neck, Emma finally reached the front porch, where purple wisteria bloomed and swayed in the warm breeze.

She knocked.

The door creaked open, and a cautious eye peered out. “No vagrants, no charity,” said the butler, sniffing.

“I am known to Eliza. Tell her that Emma is here.”

The butler harrumphed and turned away, and through the crack in the door, she heard him announce: “Apologies, my lady, but there seems to be a rather filthy bride waiting on the porch. One of these tricksters, no doubt. She claims to know you.”

I gave you my name, for goodness’ sake. Use my bloody name!

Emma rolled her eyes, feeling sorry for any beggars who might come calling for help. She had never understood why people felt the need to shun the poor. Her own father was a dedicated perpetrator of not giving a single coin to charity, setting an example she never intended to follow.

The door flew wide and there she was—the most feared woman in all of society, and Emma’s beloved godmother.

Keen, light brown eyes gleamed as Eliza lunged, grabbing her goddaughter and wrestling her into a smothering hug of the very best kind. She kissed Emma’s unkempt hair, the bonnet having fallen off fields ago, and cradled Emma’s face as she pulled back to look at her.

“I thought you were supposed to be at a church, devoting yourself to that Mark fellow?” Eliza said, licking her thumb before wiping off some of the dirt streaking Emma’s face.

“Marcus,” Emma corrected.

The moment his name left her mouth, she crumbled. She sagged into her godmother’s fierce, caring embrace once more, holding her tightly as the tears came.

Tears she had held back since her fall on the church driveway. It usually took a lot to make Emma cry, but she bawled into her godmother’s shoulder, sobbing as if she might never stop.

“I… did not… know who else… to turn to,” Emma wheezed, wiping her nose on her godmother’s shawl, before weeping afresh. “I just… hoped you would… be here.”

Eliza rocked her gently, like they were in the midst of a strange dance. “You did the right thing, coming to me.” She paused, holding her closer. “But you are supposed to be at your wedding right now, are you not? I do not think I am mistaken, for I was sore about missing it because of this wretched injury.”

She had written to apologize a few days prior, explaining that a nasty fall in the gardens had left her ankle swollen, which would prevent her from attending the wedding. And she did seem to be putting all of her weight on one foot.

“You hardly missed anything, Godmother,” Emma whispered, clinging tightly to the older woman. “I ran. I ran again. And, this time, I think it shall be the end of me.”

“Nonsense,” Eliza replied softly. “There is nothing this old bird cannot fix. You leave it to me, darling girl. I shall have your place in society reinstated before you can blink. Now, I am somewhat rusty in the art of coercion, but I imagine it is like embroidery—the skill comes back after a few pulls of the needle.”

At that, Emma disintegrated into sobs so painful and violent and relieved that she could not catch her breath.

The past four years had softened the older woman, after her daughter, Marina, had found love and happiness with the Duke of Lymington.

Many had said that it had taken the fight and defiance out of Eliza, or that she had been commanded to behave, so as not to bring embarrassment upon the Duke and Duchess. But Emma did not need the softer version; she needed the ruthless dowager, the hoarder of society’s dirtiest secrets, the mistress of manipulation, if she was to stand any chance of salvaging her reputation.

Please, be ferocious, just one last time, she prayed, pouring her tears onto Eliza’s already sodden shoulder.

* * *

Rested, fed and refreshed in a simple blue day dress, Emma departed the bedchamber that Eliza had granted her. The dress had once belonged to Marina, who was much shorter than she, so the hem hovered at calves almost, but it was a welcome change from the tripping skirts of her wedding gown. Indeed, she would have cut the skirts to the knee if it would not have caused everyone to faint at the scandalous length.

“Ah, miss!” A maid skidded to a halt in the hallway, her arms full of tattered, stained cream silk. “The laundress wanted to know how precious the dress is to you. Says it’s not going to be easy to clean.”

Emma smiled. “Burn it, cut it up, I do not care.”

The maid blinked. “You’re sure?”

“Quite sure.” Already feeling lighter, Emma headed past the maid and down the stairs to the entrance hall.

She had barely put a foot across the parquet before she heard the rising hiss of a hushed argument, spilling out of the partially open door of the drawing room. She stilled; her ears pricked.

A moment later, her heart sank, as she recognized both voices.

“You cannot shield her from this, Eliza!” her father growled. “She must face what she has done. She must make it right. You saved us all last time, and for that I am grateful, but she cannot be allowed to tarnish my good name a second time!”

He had guessed where Emma would be, despite her attempts to throw him off her scent. Of course.

“What good name?” Eliza snorted in reply. “No one knows who you are, James. Don’t worry. I have everything in hand. People do know me and of what I am capable.”

“Have her brought down here at once!” Emma’s father continued to gripe. “She is not your daughter. She is mine, and she will face punishment for this.”

“I imagine you chose another rotten specimen for her,” Eliza said cuttingly. “If you chose better, perhaps she would not have felt inclined to flee. But this house will be a sanctuary to her for as long as she needs, and you will not command me otherwise, or I might have a choice thing or two to say about you, too.”

With sagging shoulders, Emma approached the drawing room door and slipped inside. “The gentleman was nice, Godmother,” she said, “but he loves someone else. I did not have the heart to take him from her.”

“Lies! Bold-faced lies!” Emma’s father barked, his eyes bulging out of his puce face. “You simply wished to make a laughingstock of me!”

Eliza pulled a face. “I doubt this has anything at all to do with you, cousin. Goodness, you do have a high opinion of yourself, do you not?”

In any other situation, Emma might have laughed, but she sensed that even a hint of a giggle might get her a stinging slap to the cheek. One that, in truth, she deserved.

“If you do not marry,” her father huffed and puffed, “then you will never be welcome home again. We survived your last scandal by leaving London, and I foolishly forgave you, believing it to be a youthful mishap. But you are not young anymore, Emma. You are practically an old maid, and there is no excuse you can give that would even come close to being satisfactory, much less forgivable!”

Eliza rolled her eyes. “An old maid? Be serious, James.”

“I seem to be the only one being serious!” Emma’s father ranted. “She has doomed us, Eliza. There is nothing we can do to avoid being shunned by the ton now, unless she makes this right! And if she will not marry Marcus, then… then…”

Perhaps, Emma was finally going to hear what he truly planned to do, now that she had embarrassed him again.

“Then… you will be disowned, Emma!” he snapped. “You will be disowned and cast out, so that Lydia does not have to suffer the consequences of your actions. It is not too late for her to be saved from ridicule and scorn.”

Eliza groaned. “You must be united, James. Give society time. Give Emma time. With my help, society will forget, but you must have patience. You must give everyone time.”

“Time?” Emma’s father spat. “You think time is going to help here?”

“I do, or I would not have said it,” Eliza replied drily.

Emma’s father glared at his infamous cousin. “Very well, then she can waste your time, Eliza. I leave her to you, since you are so certain you can salvage her reputation. But my precious time can only stretch to a month.”

“A month? What do you mean?” Emma asked, her voice wavering. She did not have her godmother’s confidence.

“If you are not married within a month—to Marcus, to the Prince of Denmark, to the bloody footman, to anyone; I do not care anymore—then your life as my daughter will cease,” he threatened.

“Father, come now—you cannot mean that.” Emma moved closer to him, hoping to calm him. “I was saving someone else from heartache. Is that not even a slightly noble cause to you?”

He pulled a mean face, curling his lip. “No, it is pitiful.” He glared at her, and pushed past her, her shoulder knocked for the third time that day.

“Father, you must forgive me,” Emma urged. “You must listen. You must understand why I⁠—”

He cut her off as he halted in the doorway. “One month, Emma. After that, you shall never be my problem again.”

With that, he left, the air growing still in his absence.

“I am sorry, Emma,” Eliza murmured, her tone unsettled, as if she was beginning to doubt her ability to help her goddaughter.

Emma dropped down onto the nearest chair and held her head in her hands, knowing without doubt that he would follow through with his threat this time. “As am I,” she whispered. “As am I.”

But “sorry” was not nearly enough to fix the mess she had made.