Chapter Sixteen

The instant Miss Barton dipped in a farewell curtsy to her current dance partner, Emma took her by the hand and dragged her from the ballroom before anyone else could request their hands for the next set.

"Oh," Miss Barton said, her eyes behind her, "I was hoping to—"

"Surely you could use a rest." In reality it was Emma who needed a respite, and she couldn't wander the assembly on her own, as much as she wanted to. Mrs. Chatwell was half asleep in her chair, so Miss Barton would have to do. "Just one set, and then we can return."

Thankfully, Miss Barton seemed to understand her need to take a breath; she allowed Emma to direct her to a sitting room full of ladies, who must have had a similar idea. The men of London were certainly eager tonight, and Emma hadn't had a moment to herself since Forester had thrust Mr. Parker at her. She had been as frustrated by that pairing as the last, though no one would ever be as tedious as Sir Thomas.

Mr. Parker had been amusing at first, but all of his geniality had been surface-level. Emma had done her best to find some depth of character, but the man seemed entirely too quick to laugh at misfortune and poke fun at things out of people's control. Emma dearly loved to laugh, but she hardly thought a young woman's measurements were something to ridicule.

Each dance partner after that had made Emma's frustrations with London grow, reminding her why she hadn't bothered to come back for another Season after her first. If she was ever to find a husband, she would not meet him here. At least, not now. There were good men among the ton —there had to be—but they likely avoided associating with those who were vain and unkind. They were probably all in their country homes waiting for the Season.

"Have you not been having the most wonderful night?" Miss Barton asked as they settled on the only empty sofa in the room.

Conversations buzzed around them, ladies whispering behind their gloves and giggling about who knew what.

Emma wished she could pull off her slippers and rub her sore feet. She had no true desire to impress any of these women, but neither did she wish for them to turn their gossip onto her. The best part of living in the country was having the chance to be herself, with no fear of judgment, and she already found herself questioning the value in remaining in the city. She had hardly done any good to deviate Forester's warpath for a wife anyway.

"You must have had better partners than I," Emma breathed, forcing herself to sit up straight even though she was tempted to slump down in her seat. "I found myself surrounded by fools and fops."

Miss Barton giggled. "Oh, Miss Mackenzie, surely they were not all bad! I saw you dancing with Mr. Parker. He's an amusing fellow."

Emma suppressed a laugh. "I hardly think so. He is more insulting than entertaining."

"Well, not everyone is perfect."

"Have you found anyone of interest?" Emma asked instead of addressing that worrisome thought. Just how low were Miss Barton's standards? The woman was in love with Forester, of all people, and if she thought Parker a suitable alternative, she would likely end up settling for less than she deserved. She needed someone calm and quiet, with the patience of a saint.

Letting out a dramatic sigh, Miss Barton let her eyes trail around the room as she spoke. "Oh, there are so many interesting gentlemen in London this year. More than I expected! I only wish Mr. Forester would ask me to dance. He is a divine dancer."

Several ladies suddenly burst into giggles, though they quickly pretended they weren't eavesdropping.

Emma clenched her jaw. Another reason to despise London: no one kept to their own business. "Perhaps Mr. Forester is only shy about his feelings for you," she said, though she immediately felt guilty for that. Forester certainly wasn't shy, and Miss Barton was hardly on his list of interests. Besides, Emma still wondered if perhaps Miss Barton had given up her pursuit of the man.

She was about to ask when two women turned in their seats to face Emma and her companion.

"Nick Forester is hardly shy," one of them said with a sneer. "If he hasn't asked you to dance, it means he hasn't given you a thought."

Miss Barton's face fell. "Oh, but he and I are good—"

"I've hardly seen him tonight," the other lady said, scrunching up her face in false worry. "Do you think he might be ill? He is usually at the height of attention."

"Perhaps he stole away with some fortunate girl," the first young lady replied.

"Oh, to be so lucky! I tried once to get caught with him and force his hand, but he is far too intelligent. Did you hear he was assisting Bow Street all summer, solving cases with the Runners?"

"Oh, he would look so good in red! But I thought he was in India all summer."

"No, that was last year."

"Of course! I do hope I can ask him about his travels one day. I would so love to hear all about Germany in the autumn."

"Was that where he won that horse race?"

Emma groaned as a headache formed behind her eyes, only realizing that she hadn't kept the sound to herself as much as she'd hoped. More than the two women turned their attention to her, leaving her feeling exposed as she fought to find an explanation for her irritation.

Might as well use the attention to try to get it into their heads that the Forester they thought they knew was a lying scoundrel. He had admitted that himself the first time she'd met him, when he'd told her that he said many things he didn't mean, and he had been proving that to be true ever since.

"Have you no pride?" she said, doing her best to ensure her expression was soft and warm instead of completely judgmental. As much as she wanted to ruin Nick's chances, she also wanted to help these women set a better standard for themselves. They deserved better. "Do you truly believe one man could accomplish so many ridiculous feats?"

A lady in the corner of the room scoffed. "What do you know of the man, Miss... ?"

Emma sat up as straight as she could. "Miss Emma Mackenzie."

A gasp blew through the room like a breeze.

"Mackenzie?" someone said as if in awe. "Are you the one who sang with Mr. Forester last week?"

Apparently, Forester had been correct when he'd said all of London knew about that little performance, and Emma resisted the urge to run from the room. She couldn't read everyone's expressions well enough to know whether they appreciated her performance or were utterly jealous of her being the only person in all of London to have sung with the man. Would these ladies be out for her head to rid themselves of competition? If only they knew how completely unsuited she and Forester were.

"Yes," she said after a long while, choosing honesty over following in Forester's shady footsteps. "Yes, that was me."

"So you are well acquainted with him? No one knew he could play the pianoforte."

Emma glanced at Miss Barton, who watched her with wide eyes. "Well, Miss Barton knows him better than I do, but I suppose—"

The whole room burst into excited squeals and moans of protestation, leaving Emma feeling uncertain of her own standing among these women. But as soon as she opened her mouth, all of them went silent, her audience captive.

This moment felt familiar yet foreign at the same time. These ladies weren't waiting for an entertaining story but for gossip, and Emma did not especially like being in this position.

"I know Mr. Forester well enough to know you shouldn't be so interested," she said carefully. "Why are you all so easily fooled by a man who hasn't an ounce of sincerity in him?"

Dozens of eyes blinked at her.

Wincing, Emma got to her feet because she did not want to deal with the inevitable battle that would come as soon as these women realized she was attacking their favorite gentleman. "I would imagine the reason you're in here instead of out there pursuing him is because he has already rejected you. Am I wrong?"

None of them said a word. Even Miss Barton was speechless.

Emma set her shoulders and headed for the door, pausing only to look back and say one final thing. "I do not know any of you, but I know you're better than stooping to gossip surrounding a man as worthless as he is superficial. If you have any self-respect, your attention is better directed toward someone who will adore you from the first moment he meets you rather than use you for his sport. Good evening."

With an abrupt curtsy, she hastened from the room even though Miss Barton still sat on the sofa. Hopefully the young woman would follow or at the least find herself a companion to walk back to the dance hall with, but Emma would be more than glad to find Forester and send him to collect Miss Barton so they could return home and end the evening early. She had most assuredly spoken too harshly just now, and she walked at such a speed that she hoped she could outrun the guilt that would be right behind her.

She had just about reached the ballroom when she collided with another person. A rather unladylike curse slipped from her tongue as she struggled to remain on her feet, but thankfully the person grabbed hold of her arms to steady her. She got halfway through a hasty apology when the other person spoke.

"Where did you learn a word like that?"

Head snapping up, Emma tried to remind herself that she hated this man, even if Forester's little smirk made him look far too handsome for his own good. Her churning stomach seemed to think otherwise, however, telling her that her words spoken in frustration were wildly untrue. Forester was a lot of things, but he wasn't worthless or superficial.

"Would you release me, sir?" she snapped.

Forester held his hands up, laughter in his eyes. "I believe you're the one who should be releasing me," he said with a dip of his chin.

Oh goodness, he was right. Emma had grabbed hold of the fabric of his jacket, though she had no idea how she'd grasped it at all when his arms barely fit within the sleeves. "Whatever do you do with your time, Mr. Forester?" she asked as she slowly stretched her fingers out, testing the reality of his muscle. Surely he could not be this strong as a man of leisure.

Chuckling, Forester took a step back to remove himself from her touch. "Because you do not play, you would not know the effort required to learn the pianoforte."

Though she had no idea why he wouldn't brag about the real reason he had built himself up so strong, Emma could feel her blush rising. Had she really just stroked the man's arms? She had, and if the rest of him matched his shoulders, she could well understand why their collision had been so painful.

"What is the real reason you are so strong?" she asked, surprised and confused as to why she so badly wanted to know the truth. Usually she didn't bother to separate fact from fiction because she hardly cared about the man behind the rumors.

His smile shifted, softening from a smirk into something more genuine. "Perhaps, if you dance with me, I will tell you."

When he held out his hand, Emma stared at it like it might cause her pain if she touched it. He wanted to dance with her ? when he could have his pick of any lady in the building? It would serve neither of them to stand up together, and yet she found herself reaching out to take his hand.

But then her eyes caught on Mrs. Chatwell, fast asleep in her chair, and Emma shook away the strange spell that had fallen over her with that smile of his. "We should probably get her home," she said, choosing not to dwell on the disappointment that washed over her.

Even more so, she refused to acknowledge that Forester's expression seemed to match her own.