Turning to look below, Emma stifled a cry at how close she’d come to the edge, yet contrary to his hateful words, he drew her into an embrace, and she’d never felt more confused than she did in that instant. Try as she might, she couldn’t find her voice to speak, and then he broke away, placing one last chaste kiss upon her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, moving her safely away from the cliff edge. “I shall speak with your father at once.”
And before Emma could clear the catch from her throat, he was walking away. Only then did her tears begin to flow. She couldn’t imagine how things had gone so terribly wrong—couldn’t begin to perceive what had happened—couldn’t imagine what she might have done—what she might have said.
And then he was gone.
No explanation. Nothing. Pride forbade her to go after him.
Chapter 1
Newgale, Christmas 1841
The calotype print was tucked into the frame of the dresser mirror. Taken only a month before his death, it was the only true image they had of their father. He sat on his favorite bench, dressed in his admiral’s uniform though it no longer fit his gaunt form. Apparently, it was a new type of portrait that captured the exact image of a person—a gift from the Duke of Willyngham.
The day it was taken was the day Emma discovered her fiancé had once been an officer in her father’s company.
Have you ever been on a ship—gah! The memory plagued her. What a paper scull she had been.
She hadn’t even realized the duke had had an older brother, or that his time in the Royal Navy—a promising venture, brief though it had been—had ended abruptly after his brother’s death, cut short by his duty to his family name. Apparently, he was not the cherished son, and he had taken every opportunity to earn his father’s umbrage. He had come into his title reluctantly and with much rancor, and the only father figure he had ever esteemed happened to be her own, but that was the only commendation she would allow him—that he had somehow earned her father’s respect—and that he had had enough regard for her father to wait until he was cold in the ground before coming forth with his final decision.
Scoundrel that he was, the Duke of Willyngham was apparently not the sort of man who cared for anyone but himself. He had merely wished for a breeding vessel was all. Emma understood that now, despite that her father’s portrait somehow belied the fact. She eyed the calotype. Whatever his reason for commissioning that portrait, she was certain it was entirely selfish.
“It’s cold,” she said plaintively, and shivered.
“Get dressed,” Cecile returned easily.
Emma crossed her arms, refusing to acknowledge it might be his presence here that affected her so profoundly. Certainly it wasn’t for his sake she found herself so persnickety this morning.
She was happy that Jane, her maid, had gone home for the holidays, but only Jane would have truly understood. Nor would she have endeavored to correct her as Cecile seemed so determined to do.
“Emma, dear. You mustn’t do this to yourself.”
“I am not afraid to face him,” Emma reassured her brother’s wife. “If only I can find something to wear, I shall be merry as a cricket, I assure you!”
Cecile eyed the mountain of dresses that had already been discarded upon the bed and with a groan of distress, Emma shoved the gowns aside and sat glaring at the calotype. Having tried nearly every dress she owned, she was now at a loss. And truth to tell, she’d never felt more like weeping than she did at the instant—although precisely why she felt like weeping she could not fathom. In effect, this decision had been made long, long ago. Clearly he had not changed his mind, so why should she care what he thought of her dress?
Cecile lifted up for Emma’s scrutiny a lovely bottle-green gown, trimmed with blond lace. “How about this one?”
Emma sighed and shook her head, feeling like a wayward child. “No.”
“Perhaps he’s changed his mind?” Cecile suggested, as she searched diligently through the wardrobe for another suitable gown. “I could let you borrow the velvet plum…”
Emma glanced up and frowned. “I don’t want him to change his mind.” And the velvet plum was far too lovely… it wouldn’t do.
Really, it was better to have discovered sooner, rather than later, just how inconstant her betrothed could be. That he had spared her the scandal as long as he had in light of her father’s illness and death she was grateful for, but all else about the man rankled—everything, down to the fact that he’d chosen the holidays to invade her life once more.
Emma was certain he couldn’t care one whit how she fared for not once in nearly three years had he enquired after her well being. He had never even bothered to give her a choice in the matter of her future—or the courtesy of an explanation. He’d simply left her wondering all this time, waiting for a public announcement that was certain to ruin her life—well, she was tired of waiting. She wanted it to be over.
Now.
Lord! She had been such a silly little girl full of silly dreams, but no more. She had mistakenly believed that because her father and mother had found love, and her dear brother Andrew had found it with his lovely wife, Cecile, that she, too, could—and would—find love as well. Even more foolish yet… she had truly believed she might find love with him—that blackguard who had already left a trail of broken hearts!
As for that article in the Times… Emma learned only after bedeviling her brother that The Times had printed a scandalous account of his involvement with one of Queen Victoria’s Ladies in Waiting. Apparently, there was a suspected out-of-wedlock pregnancy that most people assumed had been conceived by the duke of Willyngham. As it turned out, the poor woman simply suffered from an illness, but it said quite enough that the entire lot of them—except apparently, Queen Victoria—were willing to blame it upon the duke so readily. No doubt he had manipulated the Queen with that rogue smile of his! Well, thankfully, the Queen was newly married now and hopefully immune to the charms of the Duke of Willyngham! Emma, for one, was determined to guard her heart at all cost. “That man is as cold as Newgale in winter!” she swore.
“He must have had something to recommend him for your father to hold him in such high esteem?”
Emma glanced at the calotype, glowering at it. “Whatever that might be,” she said. “How dare he simply appear now of all times!” With merely four days remaining until Christmas, his presence was bound to cast a pall over the entire occasion.
“It’s possible he’s changed his mind,” Cecile offered once more.
Emma gave her sister in law a censuring glance. “Really, Cecile, I wouldn’t marry that man now if I were dying and he held the only keys to Heaven.”
“Tsk.” Cecile admonished, and shook her head with disgust over the gown she held in her hand. She tossed it upon the bed, not bothering to offer it for Emma’s consideration.
“Oh, yes! That one,” Emma exclaimed, leaping up from the bed.
If he wanted indifference, so be it. She vowed to be as dispassionate as he seemed to be. The very last thing she intended to do was to dress to please the cad. Seizing the gown Cecile had tossed away, she made her mind up at last, nodding with satisfaction as she held it before herself in the looking glass. “Yes, this one will do quite nicely,” she declared, looking past the calotype. “Sorry Papa.”