Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

" I thought you said I had no reason to make any more appearances in society, Mother," Emma remarked in a resigned tone as her mother presented her with an invitation to the first ball of the season. She glanced down at the card, noting the event was in merely two days.

"Well, you do not," Caroline replied curtly. "But your father intends to announce your engagement to the Marquess at the ball. So, you have a reason to be at this one," she added, her voice laced with finality.

Emma felt a wrench in her heart. She was to be paraded before the entirety of society as Neads's newest acquisition—a prize to be showcased. "I see no reason for an announcement at the ball, Mother," she protested. "The banns will be read after all. Shouldn't that suffice?" Her voice held a faint hope, a desperate plea for some semblance of normalcy, or at least, dignity.

She knew her efforts to sway her parents were likely futile, yet she couldn't suppress the urge to attempt any possible deflection to spare herself from such public scrutiny.

"Your father wants it to be a grand announcement," Caroline stated, her tone dismissive of any objections. "And what could be grander than the opening ball of the social season?" She added, her eyes alight with the prospect of the spectacle to come.

"But—" Emma started, hoping to articulate her discomfort further, but her mother swiftly cut her off.

"Your father's made up his mind. If you have any grievances, I suggest you confront him directly."

"Do I not have a say in the announcement of my own engagement now?" Emma asked, her voice tinged with despair. "Is it not enough that I agreed against my will? Do I not deserve this choice at least?" She added, her frustration palpable in the quiet of the room.

"You lost any rights to a choice the moment you threw away your opportunity at the house party," her mother responded sharply, her words cutting through the air like a knife before she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Emma feeling even more isolated.

"I don't know what to say, Emma," Antoinetta, who'd discreetly excused herself upon the Baroness's entrance, now re-entered the room, her expression one of deep sympathy.

"There is nothing left to be said, Antoinetta," Emma sighed, her voice heavy with resignation. She felt a profound anguish that seemed too deep for tears, a sorrow that sat like a stone in her chest.

"You must remain strong," her friend encouraged, squeezing her hand with a gentle but firm grasp.

"I don't know if I can," Emma responded, her voice barely above a whisper, betraying the uncertainty and weariness she felt inside.

"You must," Antoinetta reiterated firmly. "And I will always be here for you," she added, her presence a comforting constant in Emma's tumultuous life.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Antoinetta," Emma admitted, her gaze meeting her lady's maid's in the mirror. In this house full of constraints and cold ambitions, Antoinetta was her sole solace, her only breath of fresh air.

"You are Emma. I am confident you'd survive," Antoinetta smiled encouragingly, her faith in Emma unshaken despite the circumstances.

I am Emma, that should suffice, Emma thought to herself two days later as she studied her reflection in the mirror.

She was to leave for the ball with her parents any moment now, the evening that would publicly seal her fate as the Marquess's betrothed. As Emma adjusted her gown, Antoinetta came close, her expression serious yet gentle. "Remember, my dear, you still have a choice in this," she whispered, pulling Emma into a comforting hug.

Emma shook her head slightly, unable to see the choices Antoinetta believed still lay before her. Nonetheless, she nodded, managing a weak smile. "Thank you, my friend," she murmured, gratitude warming her voice for the support, even as her heart remained heavy.

"The carriage is ready," her mother announced abruptly as she entered the room, her tone brooking no delay. She took Emma's arm firmly, as if fearing Emma might flee if given a sliver of chance.

As they descended the grand staircase, Emma's thoughts raced wildly. Could I run away? The idea flickered through her mind like a forbidden whisper. She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to except to embrace a life possibly of servitude. Yet, in a fleeting moment, she wondered if such a fate would truly be worse than a loveless marriage to the Marquess of Neads.

Emma felt as though she was walking to the gallows rather than another glamorous event in society. Every step felt heavier, every breath a bit shallower.

"Hurry up, women. We cannot be late on this special night," her father called from below, his voice a mix of excitement and impatience that grated on her nerves.

There was no going back now. Not that she had been given a choice to begin with, Emma reflected bitterly as their carriage pulled away from the house.

It was the first ball of the season, an event glittering with the promise of joyful reunions and spirited dances. George, ever hopeful, scanned the crowded ballroom for Emma. He anticipated seeing her laughter-filled eyes and the lively tilt of her head as she engaged in the evening's frivolities. But as seconds stretched into minutes, his initial anticipation slowly ebbed, replaced by a sinking feeling of disappointment.

He tried to steady his roiling emotions, to cage the feelings he was scarcely willing to admit even to himself. Yet, all attempts at composure abruptly ended when his blood ran cold at a sight by the ballroom entrance.

Emma had just arrived.

But the woman he saw now was hardly recognizable as the Emma he knew and had, admittedly, looked forward to seeing tonight. Not only was she on the arm of another man, but there was also a haunting emptiness in her gaze that George had never before witnessed.

This was not the defiant, impossibly proper, yet undeniably fiery lady he knew from their spirited encounters. Nor was she the scheming social climber he had once bitterly accused her of being. No, the Emma before him now was but a shadow of herself, a husk of the vibrant woman she used to be.

And what compounded his shock further—she was on the arm of the Marquess of Neads. George's brow furrowed in confusion and a hint of anger. What in the world was she doing with such a man? He knew of the Marquess, of course, and none of what he knew was flattering. The man had a despicable reputation, known around the ton for his decrepit morals and vile personality.

As George watched Emma move through the crowd, a mere ghost of her usual self, tethered to a man unworthy of her, his heart clenched with an unexpected surge of protectiveness. What had transpired to lead her to this moment? And how could he— should he—intervene?

As he watched the Marquess draw Emma slightly closer to him—as if to proclaim his possession of her to the entire assembly—George's head began to pound with a mix of anger and helplessness. Neads had no right to parade her around like some trophy. The urge to challenge the man bubbled fiercely within him. He wanted to do something, anything, to extricate Emma from the Marquess's loathsome grip.

George longed to rush forward, to seize her hand and whisk her away from Neads, to shake her back into the spirited and defiant woman he knew her to be. He yearned to witness her fiery spirit directed at him once more, even if it was laced with annoyance or scorn.

Alas, trapped in the confines of a crowded ballroom, all George could manage was to watch from afar and seethe silently. That was until a sliver of opportunity presented itself.

He noticed Emma murmur something to Neads and then excuse herself, her movements graceful yet tinged with a certain urgency as she slipped into the hallway. Seizing the moment, George discreetly followed her, his footsteps quiet against the plush carpets.

Emma navigated the labyrinthine hallways of the grand house with a familiarity that spoke of her distress, seeking solace away from the crowded ballroom. Suddenly, she veered off her path and slipped through some French doors into a secluded part of the gardens.

Grateful for the privacy the gardens offered, George quickened his pace, hoping to catch up to her and perhaps find a moment to speak freely. However, fate seemed to conspire against him, for just as he was about to reach her, Baron Dewsbury emerged from a nearby terrace, his presence an unwelcome interruption.

"What are you doing out here, girl?" the Baron nearly snapped, his voice sharp in the quiet of the night.

"I needed some air, Father," Emma replied, her voice composed yet carrying an undercurrent of weariness.

George halted, concealed by the shadows, his heart pounding with frustration and concern as he watched the scene unfold before him. "Are you trying to run away, girl?" The Baron's tone was filled with suspicion, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized her every expression.

"Where could I possibly run off to?" Emma retorted, her voice carrying a hint of the spirit George knew well, yet it was dulled, as if weighed down by a heavy burden.

"You need to fix this demeanor of yours, girl. One would think you're going to a funeral," the Baron remarked sharply, his words cutting through the quiet of the evening.

Emma remained silent, offering no response to her father's harsh criticism.

"Your future is bright and waiting for you. You should be happy and grateful you finally got a man to look at you. One who is willing to make you his," he continued, his voice implying that she should consider herself fortunate for such an arrangement.

Something cold and unnerving gripped George as he listened. The Baron's words sent a chill down his spine, and a deep, unsettling feeling settled over him. What exactly did the Baron mean by those words?

"No one would wish to acquire a husband the way I did, father," Emma said, her voice small and resigned, a stark contrast to her usual vibrant self.

"What did you say?" The Baron bristled, his face turning red with either anger or embarrassment, perhaps both.

"That I have nothing to celebrate," she responded calmly, yet her words were heavy with unspoken sorrow.

There was no defiance in her tone, no spark of the fiery Emma he remembered. Only pure resignation. It was as though she had accepted a fate she felt powerless to change, and it pained George to hear such hopelessness in her voice.

Confusion swirled within him more fiercely than ever. The pieces of the puzzle were not fitting together. Was Emma truly getting married? And to the Marquess she had just entered with? God help him, he thought, a sense of desperation creeping into his thoughts. It cannot be to anyone. The very idea of her belonging to another man, especially under such dismal circumstances, was more than he could bear.

"Well, I do. I have everything to celebrate," Dewsbury declared with a sneer. "I am finally giving away a useless daughter and getting the compensation I deserve too," he added, his words dripping with disdain.

Fresh ire coursed through George at the man's disrespectful and hurtful words. He felt himself instinctively take a step forward, his hands curling into angry fists at his sides, his restraint teetering on the brink of collapse.

"Hardly useless if she's the reason you are getting that compensation then, don't you agree, Father?" Emma retorted, her voice sharp and clear. She finally met her father's gaze with a bit of that defiance George knew her for—the defiance he had grown to love, though he was only now beginning to acknowledge this love without even fully realizing it.

George halted his advance, struck by Emma's response. Perhaps he had underestimated her resilience. He paused and continued to observe from his concealed vantage point.

"You will watch your tongue, girl," the Baron warned, his voice growing dangerously low as he took an imposing step toward his daughter.

Emma instinctively took a step back, maintaining her composure despite the clear threat in her father's tone.

"Now, I want you to return to that ballroom and stand by your future husband like the Marchioness you are going to be. You will hold yourself with pride, and smile and be happy," the Baron instructed.

"I shall return after getting some air," Emma declared, her voice strained with the effort to maintain composure. Her words were abruptly cut off by a sudden horrified gasp that cut through the quiet of the garden.

George's instincts immediately sharpened, his entire focus narrowing as dread coiled tightly within him. And that was when he saw the reason for her alarm. The Baron, his face contorted in fury, had seized his daughter's arm with a vice-like grip, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You are mine , you insolent child! And I will do with you as I see fit. Do you understand?" he hissed, his eyes bulging with rage.

"You are hurting me, Father," Emma cried out, her voice laced with pain as she struggled to free herself from her father's cruel hold.

That was the final straw for George. With his heart pounding in his chest and a righteous fury burning through his veins, he moved without a second thought. He strode forward, covering the ground between them with determined steps.

"You belong to me !" Dewsbury continued to bellow, oblivious to George's approach until it was too late.

"She is a human being first before she is your daughter," George interjected forcefully as he reached them, his voice booming in the quiet garden. With a swift, decisive motion, he grabbed the Baron's wrist and yanked it away from Emma. "And she is certainly not an object to be possessed and manipulated as you please," he added, his tone just as furious as the Baron's.