Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

" W hat right have you to interfere with family business, Seymore?" Dewsbury snapped, his voice thick with contempt as he glared up at George.

George towered over the man, his jaw clenched as he fought to maintain control over his rising anger. "I refuse to stand by and watch such despicable abuse and disrespect. Even between family," he responded. His words were measured and firm, betraying none of the fury that simmered within him.

"Playing the good Samaritan now, are we?" The Baron's voice dripped with sarcasm, his sneer intended to belittle.

"Don't you have any skirts to slip into as usual and mind your own business, Your Grace?" he derided, his words meant to provoke.

"Father, that is enough," Emma interjected sharply. Her presence, though physically smaller, seemed to fill the space with a defiant strength.

When the Baron turned to her, his face contorted in anger, George's protective instinct took over. He stepped forward, placing himself between Emma and her father, effectively shielding her. "You shut up and let the men handle this one, girl," Dewsbury barked at his daughter, his tone dismissive and harsh.

"You will respect your daughter, Baron Dewsbury," George countered sternly, his voice low and threatening. He stood to his full height, an imposing figure of righteous indignation, and took a decisive step closer to the Baron.

Faced with George's unwavering stance, the Baron involuntarily took a step back, his earlier bravado faltering under the intense scrutiny and firm opposition.

Good, George thought to himself, a grim satisfaction settling in as he saw the fear flicker in Dewsbury's eyes.

"Or what?" Dewsbury retorted, his voice carrying a trace of uncertainty that hadn't been there moments before.

"Or I will ensure you never breathe another air of dignity in society. I will make your life a living hell and break those ambitions of yours so you are seen as no better than those you disdain," George warned, his voice cold and unyielding. The threat was not just a collection of words; it was a promise, a declaration of his resolve to protect Emma at any cost.

Baron Dewsbury sputtered, taken aback by the intensity and firmness of George's threat. He glared at his daughter once more, the malice clear in his eyes, but he found himself unable to articulate a response.

With a frustrated huff, he turned to leave, barking over his shoulder, "Come along, girl."

Emma did not move. Dewsbury began to walk away, but he paused when he realized that Emma was not following him. The absence of her footsteps echoed louder than any words.

"Did you not hear me?" The Baron turned sharply, retracing his steps with a scowl. "We return to the ballroom this instant," he commanded, his voice a harsh bark in the quiet of the garden.

"I am not going," Emma declared, standing taller beside George. Her voice, firm and resolute, carried through the night air.

George could feel the shift in her confidence. His presence had fortified her, given her the courage to stand up against the tyranny she had faced for so long. He was gratified by her bravery, proud that his support could make such a difference, however small.

"You dare defy me?" Dewsbury's voice was incredulous, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. He took a threatening step toward Emma, presumably to physically coerce her into compliance.

George moved without hesitation, stepping forward, positioning himself even more squarely between Emma and her father. The action was enough. Dewsbury halted, the resolve in George's stance evidently giving him pause. In that moment, the Baron seemed to shrink, his earlier dominance withering.

"You will pay for this," Dewsbury spat venomously before turning on his heels to storm off into the night. His words hung in the air like a dark cloud, and George wasn't entirely sure whom the future retribution was promised to—himself, or the defiant daughter beside him? Most likely both, he concluded as he watched the Baron's retreating figure.

When George finally turned his attention back to Emma, meeting her beleaguered gaze, something profound within him shifted. The expression in her eyes was weary yet resolute, and it spoke volumes, dissolving the facade of misunderstandings that had previously clouded his judgment.

The answers to all his questions, not to mention his suspicions, were clear in the depths of her eyes. George realized with a sinking feeling in his chest that he had been mistaken about her all along. The realization weighed heavily on his heart, and as he stood there, the evening's chill seemed to seep deeper into his bones.

"T–thank you," Emma managed to whisper, her voice barely audible over the emotions roiling inside her after her father's vehement departure. She shuddered to think what might have happened had George not been there to intervene.

"Emma," he said softly, his hand gently grazing her arm. His touch was tentative at first, as if he feared she might crumble under even the slightest pressure. Then, with a decisiveness that seemed to gather both their resolves, he reached for her properly, pulling her into his arms at last.

Emma found herself collapsing into his embrace, the conflicts within her momentarily quieted by his comforting presence. Despite the chaos of the evening, being held by him felt right. She needed the warmth of his embrace; she needed him .

His hand moved up and down her back, soothing. He was different tonight—unlike the man she left in Wiltshire. This George was the one she dreamed of… The one her heart was telling her to hold on to for the rest of her existence.

He pulled back and looked down at her, and when he cupped her face and brushed her cheeks with his thumbs, Emma realized she was crying. Very slowly, he leaned forward and kissed both her cheeks, then lips. A light inside her flickered—the one that had dimmed since her return to Town.

"Come," George whispered as he released her from their embrace, guiding her to a nearby bench. Once seated, the cool night air seemed less chilling with his presence beside her.

When he settled next to her, Emma began tentatively, her gaze fixed on the ground, "I am sorry you had to witness that…"

"Do not apologize. Your father's actions are not yours. You were only a victim." He shook his head firmly, dismissing her apologies with a kind severity. Reaching for her hand, he turned her palm upwards and tenderly dropped a kiss into it, an act that felt like a seal over what she felt for him.

"Why are you marrying the Marquess of Neads, Emma?" George's voice was gentle, yet the weight of the question was grave. She found it difficult to focus, her mind muddled by the warmth of his touch and the sincerity in his eyes. "The Marquess is not the best choice for a husband," he added before Emma could muster her thoughts into words.

"Does it appear as though I have much of a choice in the matter, George?" Emma returned miserably, her voice a soft echo of defeat. She had resigned herself to her fate, too weary to entertain thoughts of resistance. The battle, it seemed, had been drained from her.

"There is always a choice, Emma," George insisted vehemently, his tone sharpening. A fire ignited in the depths of his gaze—a fierce, determined flame that Emma had never seen before. His eyes locked onto hers, searching, almost imploring as he added, " You have a choice, Emma."

His words stirred a flicker of curiosity beneath her resignation. Emma found herself wondering, perhaps for the first time with a glint of hope, what he meant by suggesting she still had a choice. His assertion beckoned her to unravel his intent, to find the kernel of possibility he seemed to see.

George wrapped his arms around her again, and she buried her face in his chest, inhaling his scent. If she could remain here forever, she would. "George."

"Yes, Emma?"

"What do you mean by?—"

Her words were abruptly cut off by a sudden shriek and a collective gasp that ripped through the calm of the night.

"He has done it again. He has ruined another lady," a woman's voice exclaimed somewhere behind them. Emma's head snapped up, her eyes wide as they met the sight of several matrons staring at them, their expressions a blend of scandalized and disapproving. The small crowd around them swelled rapidly, whispers buzzing and swirling through the night air like a gathering storm, each syllable heavy with judgment and censure.

George pulled away from her and rose, while she was unable to even move from the bench. Cold dread settled over her as the guests' whispers encroached like specters poised to devour her remaining dignity.

At the fore of their spectators stood none other than Emma's father, his presence marked by a wickedly triumphant grin that spread across his face like a stain. The sight of him sent a cold shiver down Emma's spine.

He summoned the crowd to find us. To trap me.