Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

" H ow do you feel about the Earl?" Antoinetta asked as she brushed Emma's hair.

Emma thought for a moment, although she had no need to. "He is a good gentleman, but I can only regard him as a friend." She saw Antoinetta frown through the mirror.

"You have no romantic inclinations toward him?"

Emma shook her head. "No, I do not. I fear that does not bode well for me if I marry him." George was the one she thought of night and day. "I do not want to do what my parents ask."

"And you shan't, Emma." Antoinetta gave her an encouraging smile. Her eyes then took on a mischievous gleam. "What about the Duke?"

The question immediately sent a flutter through her. "What about him?" she asked, avoiding Antoinetta's gaze through the mirror. To occupy herself, she picked up the earrings she'd earlier removed and placed them in the jewelry box in front of her.

"Oh, do not be coy with me!" Antoinetta laughed and nudged her shoulder.

"The Duke is insufferable," Emma sighed.

"That is not what the servants are saying." She set down the hairbrush and gathered Emma's hair to braid.

"What are they saying?" Emma asked a little too quickly, but she sucked in her breath to keep a composed demeanor.

Antoinetta raised a brow. "I thought you are entirely uninterested in the Duke."

"A lady is born curious, Antoinetta. Now, will you tell me what the servants are saying?"

"Only that he is one of the kindest and most generous gentlemen in England." When Emma rolled her eyes, Antoinetta asked. "What? Did you expect the servants to have the same opinion of him as you do?"

"He is out to make my stay unbearable." Emma's mind chose that moment to remind her of the life their conversations had. There had never been a dull moment with George.

"Yes," Antoinetta drew out the word, "and that is why everyone thinks you make a splendid pair."

"Everyone?" Emma felt her eyes widen.

"With the exception of your parents, of course." Antoinette finished braiding Emma's hair and retrieved her robe.

Emma sighed and rose. The day had been most eventful, but she was ready to forget her parents' demands at this moment. She had just settled into the soft embrace of her bed when the door to her bedchamber burst open with a force that made her heart jump. No gentle knock preceded the intrusion; it was her father, his face contorted in anger, who stormed in.

"You think you have a right to close your eyes and slumber in peace when I stay awake worrying about your prospects, girl?" Her father's voice boomed through the room, thick with fury.

Her mother, appearing at the doorway behind him, looked nervous and beleaguered. She wrung her hands as she spoke, her voice a stark contrast to her husband's thunderous tones. "You had the Earl for a good part of the evening, Emma. Why did you give him up to Miss Clorette?"

Tristan, her brother, followed suit, his own expression sour. "She left the Earl to flirt with that confounded Duke whose only motive is to ruin our family name, I'm certain," he accused sharply.

Emma understood then; it was never about her happiness or her reputation. To her father and brother, these were mere shadows compared to the looming specter of the ‘family name' and how it might be perceived. She felt a bitter taste rise in her mouth as she contemplated their words.

"I did no such thing, Father," Emma defended herself, her voice steady despite the growing turmoil within her.

"Are you calling me blind now?" His voice rose even louder. "Did I not see you with him the entire evening?" he added, his eyes narrowing.

"It was the second half of the evening, Tristan dear," her mother, Caroline, interjected tentatively, attempting to soften the accusation with a gentle correction.

"Hush it, woman!" The Baron rounded on his wife, who flinched and shrank back in palpable fear, her eyes darting nervously between her husband and daughter.

"Now listen here, girl," his ire redirected back toward Emma, his tone sharp as a whip.

"The Marquess of Neads is running out of patience. And I am about this close to giving up on you too," he declared, pinching his thumb and index fingers together for emphasis, his eyes narrowing to slits.

Emma swallowed convulsively, her anxiety morphing rapidly into fear. She felt her face pale, her expression likely mirroring her mother's—a blend of dread and resignation.

"As a matter of fact, his last missive stated his desire to meet you," her father continued, his voice taking on a smug tone as he turned back to his wife with an expectant stretch of his hand.

Caroline, with a trembling hand, placed a letter in his palm. He, in turn, handed it to Emma with a flourish that belied the gravity of the situation.

Uncertain and dreading what she might find, Emma opened the letter, her fingers trembling slightly. The words within confirmed her worst fears. It was the letter from the Marquess of Neads, filled with demands and expectations that made her skin crawl.

‘I need a healthy heir for my estates, Dewsbury. And I shan't settle for anything less than a fine and healthy wife of promising child-bearing age and capacity. I hope to examine your daughter as soon as you return to London. I trust you will keep your promise and the end of our arrangement,' the letter read, each word slicing through her like a knife.

Emma's stomach churned with revulsion at the Marquess's cold, calculating words. They reduced her to an object, a means to an end—mere livestock to be assessed for breeding. This realization cemented the harsh truth of her circumstances: in the eyes of men like her father and the Marquess of Neads, she was nothing more than a brood mare, her personal feelings and desires utterly inconsequential.

"There you have it, girl," her father declared with a smug smirk, clearly untroubled by the visible apprehension etched across Emma's face. "Either way, I am marrying you off before the end of the season. At whatever cost," he added emphatically, waving the letter he'd snatched back in front of her as if to underscore his resolve.

His words hung in the air, more menacing than ever before.

Her mother wore a rueful, helpless expression, her eyes filled with sorrow as she cast a final, lingering look at Emma before reluctantly following her husband out of the room.

Once alone, Emma slumped onto her bed covers, the weight of her situation pressing down upon her. As the door clicked shut, sealing her fate, the tears she had been fighting to hold back finally broke free, streaming down her cheeks in silent, sorrowful trails.

She must do something, she thought desperately. Her life under her parents' command was unbearable enough; the prospect of spending her future as the Marquess of Neads' broodmare was an unimaginable hell. She could not—would not—submit to such a fate.

The next morning, Emma awoke with a surprising surge of resolve. Fortified by this newfound determination, she decided to take matters into her own hands and seek out Alexander directly, hoping he might offer an alternative or aid in her plight.

She inquired with the butler, only to be informed that Alexander was out attending to estate business. Disappointed but not deterred, Emma resolved to try again later in the day. Surely, he would be back by late afternoon to prepare for dinner.

Giving up was not an option—not now, not with so much at stake. With a resolute breath, Emma rose and made her way to the drawing room where Lady Amberton was hosting a late morning embroidery session for the ladies. Emma thought that she could use the distraction at this moment.

She heard voices echoing down the hallway just before she caught sight of Seymore rounding the corner, deeply engaged in conversation with two other gentlemen. Emma felt her heart skip a beat, though she couldn't quite discern if it was from anticipation or apprehension. Seymore's company was the last thing she sought—or so she tried to convince herself. A dissenting voice in her head argued otherwise, but Emma promptly ignored it as she quickly altered her course, hoping he hadn't spotted her.

Instead of heading to the drawing room as originally planned, she veered off toward the conservatory, seeking refuge among the lush foliage. Settling herself on a secluded bench in the deepest part of the verdant space, she intended to hide away just long enough to ensure Seymore was well out of sight and it was safe to venture back without risking another encounter.

As she exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, Emma found solace in the tranquility of her surroundings. Nature always brought her peace, she mused, allowing the rustle of the leaves and the soft hum of the garden to calm her nerves.

Just as she began to relish the solitude and the gentle embrace of the conservatory's peaceful atmosphere, a shadow abruptly cast itself beside her. Emma looked up, her tranquility shattered, and a frustrated groan escaped her lips.

"You sound like you have just seen the angel of death," Seymore laughed, his tone light and teasing despite the sharpness of her gaze.

"The angel of death would have more courtesy," she shot back promptly, her words holding cool irony.

"You are never full of kind words, Miss Lovell," he remarked, giving an exaggerated grimace as if wounded by her sharp tongue.

"If you are looking for kindness, I would advise you seek it elsewhere, Your Grace," Emma replied flatly, her voice devoid of warmth.

"Of course," he agreed with a nod, his smile unfazed. "I forget that you do not have a kind bone in you," he added, his remark holding a playful yet pointed barb that hovered between jest and judgment.

"I do not run a charity for privileged Dukes who do not know how to mind their own business and keep to themselves," Emma retorted sharply, her tone crisp in the quiet of the conservatory.

"Such venom. And so early in the morning too," Seymore chuckled, seemingly amused by her candor.

"May I join you?" he then asked, with a surprising hint of politeness in his voice.

"No," Emma responded curtly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"When I saw you escape in the hallway, I just had a feeling you'd be this sour," he said, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment as he observed her with an exaggerated expression of sorrow.

"How impressive. I see your judgment of character is improving," she drawled sarcastically, her words dripping with disdain.

"Oh, I've always been a keen judge of character," he replied, tugging proudly at his waistcoat as if to emphasize his point. "Besides, I must be observant and remain on my guard now more than ever," he added, his tone taking on a serious edge.

Emma met his gaze, and in it, she found an unexpected depth. His words seemed to carry more weight than she had anticipated, hinting at something beyond their usual banter. A curious hurt flickered within her at his implication. She stood abruptly, her movement brisk and decisive. This was precisely why she had sought to avoid his company. Being near him brought nothing but turmoil and an unsettling stir of emotions—none of which she could afford to entertain.

"Emma," he called after her, his voice carrying a note of desperation that halted her in her tracks.

"Leave me alone, George," she said firmly, not even pausing to look back at him. And without giving him the opportunity for any further conversation, she continued on her way, her steps determined and swift.

"Never," she heard him declare softly behind her.

Her steps faltered at his single, emphatic word. But she quickly decided not to read any meaning into it, pushing away the stirrings of emotion it provoked. She needed to keep her focus, to maintain her resolve. He was complicating matters enough as it was, and she did not need any more distractions.

The Earl did not return later that afternoon. In fact, Lady Amberton and Seymore hosted their dinner without him that evening. Whatever estate matters the Earl was attending to, they seemed to be consuming all his time, much to Emma's chagrin. Nevertheless, she refused to be deterred by his absence.

Back in her bedchamber after dinner, Emma took up her pen and composed a letter to the Earl. She was determined to see the plant nursery, a visit he had all but promised her over breakfast that fateful morning. With careful words, she penned her request, hoping to remind him gently of his earlier commitment.

She sealed the letter and handed it to Antoinetta. "Ensure that it is delivered directly to the Earl."

"I will. Do not worry. I know his valet quite well."

As she watched Antoinetta leave with the letter, Emma allowed herself to feel a flicker of hope that perhaps the next day would bring a change, a small step closer to freeing herself from her father's cruel grasp.

George was on his way to Alexander's study after dinner when he happened upon his friend's valet, who was evidently in search of his master. Alex had been conspicuously absent from dinner, detained by unexpected estate matters that had only just resolved, allowing him to return home. George was keen to catch up with him in his study.

"Is everything all right?" George inquired of the valet, noting the slight agitation in the man's demeanor.

"Oh, it is just a missive I have for him," the valet responded, holding up a small, sealed note.

"I learnt that he's just returned. As a matter of fact, I'm on my way to his study. I'll pass it across to him," George offered. The valet's face brightened immediately, a look of relief washing over him as he handed George the note.

Turning the note absently in his hand, George was caught off guard by a faint but unmistakable scent—it was the perfume that Emma wore. A flutter of recognition stirred in his stomach. The letter bore no identification, but the lingering fragrance was a telling sign of its likely author. Against his better judgement, he broke the seal and opened it.

My Lord,

I write to remind you of a small yet delightful engagement you promised me—the viewing of your nursery. Your extensive collection of extraordinary plants, which you so charmingly boast of, has piqued my curiosity to no end.

Miss Lovell

A wry smile touched his lips as he murmured to himself, "So you think you are clever, eh?" His voice echoed softly down the empty hallway.

With a newfound purpose, he refolded the letter, tucking it securely into his coat pocket. Fate, it seemed, was playing into his hands tonight. With a smug sense of satisfaction, George altered his course, deciding to retire to his bedchamber to ponder this unexpected turn of events, rather than continuing on to Alexander's study. His plans for the evening had suddenly taken a very intriguing detour.