Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

T he following morning, George decided on a late breakfast, timing it so he might coincidentally meet Emma in the dining hall. Alas, she was nowhere to be seen. Had she chosen to forgo her meal? Or perhaps she had already dined? These questions lingered in his mind as he fetched his food from the sideboard.

As if in answer to his silent queries, he looked up just in time to see her through the wide glass windows that overlooked the gardens. She was not alone; to his dismay, she was accompanied by Alexander. George's fingers tightened reflexively around the serving spatula he held, an acrid taste of jealousy souring his mouth.

How had she managed to persuade Alex to take a walk with her, especially since George had withheld the letter? The thought irked him immensely, as an annoying little voice in his head taunted, she's a step ahead of you, apparently.

Temptation flared within him to abandon his meal and confront them, to insert himself into whatever conversation they were having. But cooler judgment prevailed, and he decided against it. It would be best to observe from a distance.

Alexander was demonstrating some of the finer points of the garden's botany to Emma, leaning in close to impart a whispered remark. The air around them seemed to sparkle with her laughter, catching the attention of several guests who turned their heads in their direction. From his hidden vantage point, George watched, a tight feeling in his chest as more guests, intrigued by the scene, began to gather at the windows and French doors of the house to watch the pair.

With every laugh that floated across the lawn, a bitter taste rose in George's throat. God help him, but he found himself desiring nothing more than to pull Emma away from Alexander, to have her attention focused solely on himself. He wanted her to look at him and only him. This fierce, possessive thought took him by surprise, unsettling him with its intensity.

And for the life of him, he couldn't fathom why he was so agitated.

With a sudden clarity about the precariousness of his emotions, George turned sharply and made his way back into the house. He recognized he was treading on dangerous territory, and he needed to retreat before he did something he might regret.

"You look like you're on your way to punch someone," a voice abruptly halted him in his tracks.

Jane stood there, a slight smile playing on her lips, amusement in her tone. "Or something," she added, her eyes gleaming with a mix of concern and curiosity.

"Would you like a drink, Aunt Jane?" George asked hastily, grasping at the opportunity to distract himself from the turmoil brewing inside him. It was a simple request, yet one that required no exertion of the physical energy he felt coiling tightly within.

Jane's eyebrow arched, perhaps in surprise.

He found it rather difficult to guess her thoughts at this moment. Perhaps he was too agitated to think clearly. George half expected Jane to admonish him for indulging in spirits quite early in the day, but to his relief, she said instead, "A glass or two wouldn't hurt anyone."

As he handed her a glass in one of the quiet salons, she suddenly remarked, "I see Alex is finally showing Miss Lovell the nursery." George almost groaned out loud—just the topic of conversation he needed least at the moment.

The regret of inviting her for a drink started to seep in.

"She seems quite enamored with the plants…" Jane continued, her voice trailing off a moment before she added with a chuckle, "Or is it the man she's enamored with?" Her gaze on George was as sharp and probing as her words, clearly goading him for a reaction.

"I neither read Miss Lovell's mind nor her feelings, Aunt Jane," George replied dully, striving to keep his composure.

"Yet you spend an awful lot of time in her company," Jane observed. "One would think you'd have a bit more to say than that," she added, her tone dipping into slight disappointment.

"Not as much as Firman, apparently," he snorted, the mention of his friend bringing a defensive edge to his voice. "Perhaps you should be asking him about her feelings instead," he suggested tersely.

"Do you think she's shared them with him?" Jane pressed on, her inquiry sharp. "Do you think she harbors such strong sentiments for Alex in the first place?" Her persistence was starting to grate on him.

"I suppose only time will give you those answers you seek, Aunt Jane," George said, pinning a smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. He hoped his dismissive words would be enough to steer her away from further probing into a subject that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable for him.

"I find myself as impatient as the guests, I'm afraid," Jane sighed after another sip of her drink. The weight of her gaze hinted at a depth of thought behind her seemingly casual remark. "Do you know they're beginning to place bets on whether or not Alex would court her and make her his Countess?" she added.

George should have known that Jane Amberton was not a woman so easily deterred from a topic ripe with scandal and speculation.

"And what wager have you placed on this?" He couldn't help the curiosity that crept into his voice, despite how intolerable he found the notion of Alexander marrying Emma.

"Oh, you should know that I am not so impatient and reckless with my wagers, George," Jane chuckled, her laughter light but carrying an undercurrent of shrewdness. "I bid my time for the outcome I want," she added, taking a measured sip from her glass as if to punctuate her strategy.

"And pray tell, what is that outcome?" he asked, leaning in slightly, both intrigued and apprehensive about her answer.

A sly smile crept onto Jane's features, and she paused, letting the anticipation build. Just when George began to despair of receiving an answer, she leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"Why, my wish wouldn't be too different from the rest of society's," she murmured, her gaze locked onto his with piercing acuity. "To see Miss Lovell married at last."

A sudden, vivid image of Emma happily married—not to him—flashed in George's mind's eye, startling him with its clarity and the surge of emotion it evoked. He tossed back his drink in an attempt to wash away the unsettling thought and reached for the decanter again. ‘Married.' The word echoed in his head, relentless and taunting.

"Slow down on the cups there, Seymore," Jane remarked with a hint of concern, rising from her seat. She approached him and gave his shoulder a gentle pat, her touch light but her expression serious. "I wager things are about to get a bit more interesting around here now," she added, her voice low and filled with a knowing tone that piqued George's curiosity even further.

Before he could probe the meaning behind her cryptic words, Jane turned on her heel and swung the door shut behind her.

A quick knock came on Emma's bedchamber door. But before she could respond, the door was pushed open to reveal her mother, Caroline, standing at the threshold with an air of purpose. Emma's heart sank a little; the soiree was tonight, and no doubt her mother had come to choose her outfit, a task Emma had hoped to manage herself.

Antoinetta, who had been folding some freshly laundered clothes, paused at the sight of Caroline. She gave a perfunctory curtsy and quickly excused herself from the room, leaving mother and daughter alone.

"I trust you are well prepared for tonight?" Caroline's voice broke the brief silence, her tone carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

"It is just another house party event, Mother," Emma replied, trying to keep her voice light despite knowing exactly where this conversation was headed.

"It is not simply another event, Emma," Caroline's voice sharpened, her eyes searching Emma's face for signs of understanding. "It is one of your only, and last opportunities with the Earl," she continued, her words heavy with desperation.

Emma observed her mother more closely and noticed how tired she looked. The shadows under Caroline's eyes were dark and pronounced, adding years to her face and betraying the strain she was under. Emma knew much of it was due to the constant worries about Tristan's future and behavior, which never seemed to leave her mother's mind.

"You must make use of the night properly. Find the perfect moment with the Earl. No matter what," Caroline pressed, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if holding onto the last vestiges of hope.

"I shall try, Mother," Emma sighed.

"No. You must!" Caroline's voice escalated nearly to a yell, piercing the usual calm of Emma's chamber.

Emma flinched, startled by her mother's sudden vehemence. Caroline, realizing perhaps that her outburst was too much, glanced around the room almost in caution. She then lowered her voice to a near whisper, leaning closer to Emma as she spoke. "Don't you realize that this isn't about you alone anymore, Emma?"

"I beg your pardon?" Emma's voice cracked, disbelief and hurt intermingling in her response.

"Your father would have both our heads if things do not work out," Caroline confided, her eyes darting nervously as if the walls themselves might be listening.

It would seem that she was merely trying to save her own neck from the noose, Emma thought bitterly. The realization stung, the disillusionment with her mother deepening.

"Either way, things would work out for him, don't you think, Mother? Since he intends to sell me to Neads if I fail to secure a match here," Emma retorted with a scornful scoff, her voice thick with contempt.

"Sell you?" Caroline repeated, taken aback. Her face contorted as though Emma had physically struck her, her eyes widening in shock.

Emma found that she felt no remorse for her harsh choice of words. She stood firm, her resolve hardening against the hurt reflected in her mother's eyes.

"We only want your future secured," her mother finally said, her voice a mix of plea and defense.

"No. You want to save yourself from Father's ire," Emma accused sharply, her voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within her.

"Emma!" Caroline exclaimed, visibly stricken by the accusation, her hands reaching out as if to bridge the widening gap between them with a touch.

"The truth always burns, mother," Emma carried on, her voice quavering as she struggled with her own rising emotions.

"And Father only wants his title and coffers polished by a rich and influential son-in-law since he cannot possibly give himself anything more than the Baronetcy he was unfortunately born into," Emma added, defiance and resignation in her voice. Now that she had begun this line of conversation, she felt compelled to lay all her feelings bare—it was high time, anyway.

"Is this how you feel?" Caroline's voice wavered, her eyes shimmering with the onset of tears, a sign of her own inner conflict breaking through.

"It is not about how I feel. But about the reality. The truth , Mother," Emma responded firmly, her gaze steady and unflinching as she confronted the painful honesty of their situation.

Her mother grew pensive, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly as if she were grappling with words too painful to utter. After a moment of heavy silence, she finally spoke. "I—I am sorry you feel this way, Emma," she said, her voice a whisper of its usual self.

"No, you're not," Emma retorted quickly, her tone sharpening with her words. "Because if you were, you'd stand up to your husband's tyranny and stop him from treating us both like his chattel," she added, her words slicing through the tense air between them.

"You're being overly judgmental, Emma," Caroline countered, her voice rising slightly in defense.

"Perhaps because my future , my entire life is at stake here, Mother," Emma fought to keep her voice level, but the tremor of desperation was palpable. She was battling not just for her future but for her very sense of self.

"Tonight is an opportunity you should not misuse, Emma," her mother continued, brushing past the emotional pleas as if they were mere whispers in the wind. "I must tell you that Neads is not a certainty. The Marquess may be desperate for an heir, but he is just as unpredictable. If you lose your chances here, and your father, God forbid, loses the agreement with the Marquess too, there is no telling what he would do to us both. I hate to think of it," she swallowed convulsively, her fear evident.

"Take my advice, Emma. Do what you must," she finished, her voice a blend of resignation and urging, before turning on her heels and leaving Emma alone with her swirling thoughts and a heavy heart.

Emma now dreaded the soirée.

Later that evening, Emma paused by the ballroom door, her heart heavy with dread. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. The anxiety gripping her was like a mocking voice in her mind. She felt sick at the prospect of what the night might bring.

Just as she gathered herself to step into the fray, someone suddenly took hold of her arm, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. With her father on the prowl, ready to march her straight into Alexander's arms, her nerves were taut, stretched thin by the weight of expectation.

She breathed a sigh of relief, however, when she turned to see Olivia, who was grinning despite the tight grip she had on Emma's arm. "You look nervous, dear," Olivia observed, her spirits faltering a bit as concern creased her brow.

"Oh no, I am quite all right," Emma responded, mustering a smile to mask her discomfort. She let Olivia lead her into the ballroom, trying to steady her beating heart.

As they entered, Emma's anxious gaze inadvertently wandered across the room and locked onto George. He found her gaze as well, and held it intently. There was a question in his eyes, a silent inquiry that spoke volumes, and Emma knew precisely what he was asking. Tonight, of all nights, she couldn't afford any distractions. She couldn't allow him to interfere with the plans laid out for her. With a firm resolve, she returned his gaze, imbuing her own with a clear warning.

Yet, warning or not, George refused to heed it. He began to make his way toward her, his determination clear in every step. Emma felt her heart begin to race, panic setting in as she frantically scanned the room for an escape route. Her eyes caught sight of her father then, his glare sharp and commanding.

Good lord, she thought in alarm, as George was rapidly closing the distance between them. Desperate to avoid a confrontation, she made to withdraw her arm from Olivia's grip to make quickly leave the ballroom, but just then, a man's voice called out, "Emma."