Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

" O h, I think you will look quite splendid in pale green lace," Lady Amberton suggested as they perused catalogues and color swatches at the modiste's, her voice brimming with enthusiasm.

As promised, Lady Amberton had called on Emma the next day, and her mother had suggested they go shopping together, an invitation the Countess was all too glad to accept.

"Do you not agree, Lady Dewsbury?" Jane turned to Caroline, her eyes alight with excitement.

"Oh, do call me Caroline, dear," her mother encouraged warmly. "And I most certainly agree. She will look exquisite in pale green lace," she affirmed, deftly thumbing through the catalogue. "I admire how you select such unique and refined palettes, Lady Amberton. You have quite the eye," she commended.

"And call me Jane," she responded with a pleased smile, clearly delighted by the compliment.

"Pardon our manners, Emma," Jane suddenly turned to her with a look of contrition. "We are making choices as though it were our own wedding. What do you think of the pale green lace?" she asked, her eyes searching Emma's face for approval.

Emma, who had been quietly taking in the scene, felt a warmth spread through her at their attentiveness. "I was actually considering it even before you spoke," she confessed.

The color had a lightness to it that Emma very much appreciated. Something about the pale green was calming, soothing her frayed nerves with its serenity.

Caroline smiled at her daughter, her eyes reflecting a mother's pride. "It suits you perfectly, my dear," she said softly.

Jane nodded in agreement, her expression one of satisfaction. "Then it is settled. Pale green lace it shall be," she declared, her tone final yet joyful.

As the modiste brought out the fabric, Emma's fingers traced the delicate lace. "Imagine how stunning you will look walking down the aisle in this," Caroline murmured, her voice almost reverent.

Emma smiled, the image of her wedding day slowly forming in her mind, yet her heart remained heavy with the uncertainties that lay ahead. Her thoughts kept returning to the unsettling exchange with her father the previous day, casting a shadow over her mood. She frowned.

"Are you certain you want this, Emma? Do not allow us to force it on you, dear. That is not what we mean to do." Her mother's gentle voice broke through her reverie, and Emma quickly smoothed her features, offering a reassuring smile.

"I am fond of the color and fabric, Mother," she said with more conviction.

"Oh, Olivia will never forgive us for coming shopping without her," Jane laughed.

"She can join us on the next excursion," Caroline suggested. "God knows we will need more than one trip to complete the trousseau."

"I am sure Frances and Agnes would love to come along as well," Emma added, her spirits lifting at the thought of her friends' company.

"Perfect," her mother agreed.

"Oh, that would be merrier," Jane clapped her hands in delight. "We have an entire party already," she added, eliciting a chorus of laughter from the group.

As they returned home later, the butler met them at the door. "This was delivered for you just moments ago, Miss," he said, handing Emma a folded missive.

Emma accepted the letter, her heart skipping. When she saw the return address from Dorset, she released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Finally, George had remembered her.

Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded the letter, her eyes eagerly scanning the words. But as she read, the color drained from her limbs. Shock and pain coursed through her, each word a cruel blow.

Dear Emma,

I write to you with a heart burdened by sorrow. After much contemplation, I find myself unable to proceed with our marriage. I fear I am not capable of committing to anyone, and it would be a grave injustice to bind you to a man whose heart cannot fully embrace the vows we are to take. I hope you can understand my position and find it in your heart to forgive me for this grievous disappointment. You deserve far more than I can offer.

With my deepest regrets,

George

These words swam in Emma's mind, each syllable a dagger straight through her heart. She stood frozen, the letter slipping from her grasp, her breath catching in her throat.

"Emma?" Her mother's voice was filled with concern as she crouched to retrieve the letter from the floor. Caroline looked up at her daughter, her eyes wide with worry. "Emma, what is it? What has happened?"

Emma could not speak, her throat constricted by a wave of emotion. She could only stare at her mother, her vision blurring. The future she had envisioned, the dreams she had cherished, shattered into pieces with George's words.

Her mother read the letter quickly. "Lord in heavens!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with shock. The next thing Emma felt was her mother's arms gently wrapping around her, guiding her toward the drawing room.

"What is going on?" Her father's voice rang out as her mother sat her limply on the sofa.

Caroline handed him the missive, and after what looked like a mere glance at it, he declared, "I knew it!" There was palpable excitement in his tone. "I warned you that something like this would happen. But you and your run-away Duke had to put on a show like some love birds," he added.

Emma slowly raised her gaze to meet his, and she had never seen such a concentration of smugness in one person.

"Tristan, this is not what she needs to be hearing from you at a moment like this," Caroline ground out.

"You be quiet!" he spat back, his attention snapping back to Emma, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. He regarded her like a vulture eyeing its newly discovered carrion. "I suppose we go back to the beginning now. I am sure the Marquess of Neads will be more than happy to accept your shameful return to him," he added happily.

Emma's heart clenched at his words. Caroline stepped closer to her daughter, her eyes blazing with protective fury. "Tristan, this is not the time for your vindictive satisfaction. Can you not see what this has done to her?"

He sneered. "It is a lesson learned. She ought to have known better than to trust in such frivolous notions as love."

Emma felt oddly detached from her surroundings, her mind reeling with disbelief. But the mention of the Marquess brought a sudden clarity, a sharp jolt that pierced through her shock.

"There has to be a mistake somewhere," she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "This letter cannot be real. George wouldn't do this." She shook her head vehemently, clinging to a desperate hope.

"You're foolish enough to be in denial now?" Her father quirked a brow, regarding her as though she had lost her senses.

"I know George. He wouldn't do this," Emma insisted, though her voice wavered, betraying her uncertainty.

"Do you, now?" Tristan's derisive brow arched even higher. "If you wish, you can compare this letter he wrote to the marriage contract he signed and see for yourself," he suggested with a confidence that chilled her to her very bones.

Emma followed him to his study, her heart pounding in her chest. Her father retrieved the marriage contract George had signed and laid it before her. With trembling hands, she compared the penmanship.

It was identical. Her heart shattered, the truth sinking in like a lead weight. George had indeed written the letter.

"It is all right," her father said with a chuckle, his tone dripping with mockery. "At least you have the Marquess who is willing to accept a compromised bride."

"I am not marrying Neads," Emma snapped, her voice sharp with defiance.

"Oh, but you have nowhere else to turn," Tristan laughed, the sound echoing with cruel satisfaction. "You see, having a choice is a luxury you lost a long time ago," he added, his words cutting through Emma like a knife.

The next twenty-four hours were the worst of Emma's life. The heavens poured with such vengeance it was practically a reflection of her agony. Each clap of thunder seemed to echo her despair, each flash of lightning a reminder of her shattered dreams.

Emma stood by the window, watching the relentless downpour. Perhaps the storm was her ally in this dark time. If only it held the answers she sought so desperately.

Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to escape the suffocating confines of her father's control. But she felt paralyzed, trapped by her own fears and the overwhelming weight of uncertainty.

The butler's voice broke through her thoughts, announcing visitors. "In this storm?" her mother exclaimed.

Emma turned as Olivia and Lady Amberton walked into the drawing room, their faces etched with concern. They were closely followed by Alexander, his expression rigid and solemn.

"Oh, Emma," Olivia said softly, her eyes brimming with tears. "We heard what happened."

Emma tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She felt the overwhelming urge to break down, to let the flood of emotions pour out, but she held herself together by sheer will.

"I cannot believe George would do this." Olivia shook her head as she took a seat next to Emma on the sofa. Jane settled on the other side, each woman grasping one of Emma's hands, their comforting squeezes offering silent support.

"This is unlike George," Alexander said, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "He wouldn't do something like this. Not the brother I know," he added.

"I cannot understand his actions either," Jane declared.

Alexander's expression hardened then. "I shall go down to Dorset as soon as the weather allows. I am going to drag George back by his hair if I have to."

"No." Emma finally found her voice, a broken whisper that silenced the room. "You do not have to. I understand his reasons." She did not want anyone forcing George to marry her. It would only sink her deeper into sorrow and misery.

"But Emma, we must try. Even for the slightest chance that he's making a mistake in his decision," Olivia insisted, her grip tightening on Emma's hand.

"I agree with Alex and Olivia. George needs to return and fulfill his responsibility," Jane said vehemently.

The mention of responsibility only pained Emma more. That was all she'd ever been to George. All she ever would be. A mere responsibility, one he'd now discarded without a second thought.

"I am grateful to all of you for your concerns," Emma forced herself to meet their somber gazes, "but it is enough. Do not force him into anything. I am fine with his decision," she lied, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

The sympathetic looks on their faces only deepened her sorrow. She couldn't bear to see the pity in their eyes. With a deep breath, she rose from the sofa, her movements slow and deliberate, as though every step required immense effort.

"Emma, please—" Olivia began, her voice choked with emotion, but Emma held up a hand to forestall any further pleas.

"No, Olivia. It is better this way. Thank you for your kindness."

With those words, she turned and exited the drawing room, her heart bleeding. Each step away from them felt like a step deeper into her sorrow. She reached her room and closed the door behind her, the silence pressing down like a suffocating blanket.

Emma sank onto her bed, her body trembling with the force of her suppressed sobs. The tears came then, hot and unchecked. She clutched a pillow to her chest, muffling her cries as she gave in to the overwhelming tide of despair.

The image of George's charming face haunted her. She had dreamed of a life with him, and those doubts she had desperately wished were unfounded had been true. Perhaps she should have listened to the warnings her instincts gave her.

The following morning at dawn, Emma sealed four letters she had written. The first three were addressed individually to her mother, Frances, and Agnes. The last one was to the Wingers collectively. She placed her mother's letter on the fireplace mantle in her bedchamber, propped against a vase, and tucked the remaining three into her reticule.

She donned her cloak and met Antoinetta in the rear vestibule. The weather was still foul, but she did not care. "Are you ready?" Antoinetta asked.

"As ready as I will ever be," Emma replied, her resolve firm.

Together, they slipped out of the quiet house, the cold biting at their faces. Emma handed the letters to her lady's maid, her hands shaking slightly. They made a brief stop along the way, where Antoinetta met with a young boy.

"He will have the letters delivered safely. I trust him," Antoinetta explained after handing the letters to the boy along with some instructions.

Emma gave her a grateful smile and looped their arms. They stopped a hack and gave him instructions to convey them to the outskirts of town. "Are you sure you do not wish to travel by the mail coach?" Antoinetta asked as they settled in their seats.

"I might be found that way," Emma murmured, staring out the window. "I cannot allow anyone to find me." A wistful smile touched her lips. "I might even change my name and become a governess. I have the education for it."

"Oh, do not sound like a woebegone maiden, Emma."

"Surely, I am allowed some humor however dreary it is."

Antoinetta sighed. "We shall be fine."

As they neared the outskirts of London, the carriage stopped suddenly, jolting Emma and Antoinetta in their seats. They stared at each other in horror, Emma's mind racing.

"Why did we stop?"

"I do not know."

The door opened suddenly, and her father's face appeared. "Where do you think you are going?" Tristan's voice was cold and menacing, his eyes blazing with anger.

Emma sat rigidly, her chest heaving with fear. "I am leaving," she said, her voice steady despite the terror that was gripping her.

"You are doing no such thing," he snarled, reaching and dragging her out of the carriage. His strength was beyond her, and she kicked against him.

Her father threw her to the ground, then did the same with Antoinetta. Emma brushed the rain and mud from her face with the wool of her cloak and staggered to her feet. Her father was not the only menace in front of her, for beside him on horseback was…

Damned Neads!

"I will not marry him," Emma declared. "I would rather die a thousand times than to be tied to a man I do not love!"

Her father's face twisted with rage. "You foolish girl! You will do as you are told."

Emma felt Antoinetta's hand on her arm. "No, Father. I will not."

The Marquess dismounted then, his cold eyes assessing her. "You have no choice, Miss Lovell. Your father has given his word, and you will honor it."

Emma clenched her teeth. "I have my own word to honor, and I will not betray myself."

Her father's hand shot out, gripping her arm with bruising force. "You will come with us now!"

Emma kicked against his booted shin. "You would have to carry my dead body back to London!"

Antoinetta joined in kicking him. "Release her!"

"You overstep your bounds!" Tristan pushed Antoinetta, but his hold of Emma's arm remained like a vice. He raised a fist, but before he could let it fly, the sound of a gunshot ripped through the air.

Emma froze, and so did her father. Time itself seemed to stop as her gaze darted around in frantic search. She was unhurt, she realized. No one appeared hurt.

Hoofbeats followed the gunshot. Emma's heart pounded as she turned to see the source of the commotion. Like a mirage—no, a dream—George rode toward her, pointing a pistol up into the air. He had fired the shot, she realized, her breath catching in her throat. Behind him was Alexander, closely galloping on another mount.

What is going on? Why is George here?