“Hmmm?” Distracted, Cecile turned to look at her and then, spying the gown she held in her hand, exclaimed in dismay, “Oh, Emma!” She scrunched her nose. “Not that one, please!”
“Yes, this one,” Emma said stubbornly, and smiled.
“Oh, my dear, puce does not suit you at all!”
“Precisely,” Emma said. “And I’ve never cared much for the gown, besides. It’s ugly. The buttons are too big and the bosom much too snug. But that’s entirely the point, isn’t it?”
Cecile’s face screwed, clearly not understanding. She looked at Emma as though Emma had gone completely off her head, and then heaved a sigh, telling Emma, without so much as a word how thoroughly she disapproved of her choice and went straight out the door, closing it, shaking her head and leaving Emma to brood all alone.
Plum, puce; it was all the same, really—she’d like to see the duke wear plum, in fact—plum pie right in the face! The thought of it, childish as it was, made her smile a little.
It took Emma at least another full half hour, and a dozen glimpses into the looking glass, before she felt confident enough to leave her room. But once she did, she felt more than prepared to face the duke of Willyngham at long last.
As expected, she found the fiend ensconced in the library with Andrew, the door slightly ajar as they spoke in low tones behind it. She stood for an instant, bracing herself for the worst, and overheard him saying, “I assure you, Peters, I have not changed my mind.”
“Willyngham… have you given the least thought as to how this may appear to others?”
“It’s for the best,” the duke insisted.
Even as she told herself it didn’t matter, Emma’s heart twisted a little at his words.
“I had hoped with time—”
Emma didn’t wait to hear any more.
The last thing she wished was for Andrew to change the scoundrel’s mind. With as much dignity as she could muster, she threw the door open wide and entered the library, lifting her chin as she met her brother’s surprised gaze.
“Good morning,” she said cheerily. “Pardon, I couldn’t help but overhear. But the duke is correct, Andrew. It is the best recourse for all. I only wonder why it took so long for His Grace to finally make up his mind.” At last, she glanced at the duke, and at the sight of him, her heart tumbled a little in response.
As though he were master of this domain, he was seated in her brother’s deep blue damask chair before the window, while Andrew paced before him like an uninvited guest. Demon, that he was, his dark brows arched at her bald declaration, but he did nothing more to acknowledge her. No greeting, nothing. He simply sat, observing her, his dark blue eyes appearing slightly amused.
He wore blue, but a blue so dark as to appear black—like his eyes, she reasoned. And his boots, indeed, were black as well—black and coated with sand. Her brows rose. Had he gone down to the cliffside? she wondered. To relive the moment of her greatest humiliation, no doubt—but really, it didn’t matter. She narrowed her eyes, daring to lift her gaze to his face again. This time she resisted the urge to wrench her gaze away. Though Lord-a-mercy, that face—it was the same face she recalled, the one that had deceived her, the one that she had fallen in love with at first glance. His cheeks were still shadowed, his eyes still jaded. Indeed, it was that same face that had once led her to believe she could make a difference in his life.
He tilted her a look, one that might have once made her heart go aflutter, but she refused to let it affect her any longer.
Her brother sounded appalled. “But Emma, you cannot mean to say you are in agreement with this madness?”
Emma tore her gaze away from the duke. “Of course, I am.” She was through being mesmerized by the man. If her heart skipped a beat whenever he looked at her, well then, it was on account of her fragmented nerves and not a trifle more. Arching her own brow with equal disdain, she turned to face her brother. “It has been sheer folly drawing this out so long. Really, Andrew, we must thank His Grace”—she gave the duke a pointed glance, one with little benevolence—“for taking Father’s passing into consideration, but now it is past time to be done with this business—long past time to make this very mutual decision public. In fact, we should post it in the Times today.”
“Mutual?” Andrew and Lucien both echoed at once.
Devil take him if he’d meant to challenge her, but the question came of his mouth of its own accord.
Lucien straightened within his chair as Emma turned to face him, her smile decidedly frosty.
“Of course,” she said without flinching. “Do you not agree, Your Grace?”
Her barbed use of his title was beginning to grate upon his nerves, but for the first time in his thirty-one years, Lucien found himself at a complete loss for words. She stood before him, proclaiming his decision a mutual one, challenging him with her dauntless posture and with those deep brown eyes—eyes that were far more knowing then he recalled. She had seemed such a fragile little miss then, with unwavering doe eyes that had managed to make him feel profane in comparison. He frowned at his thoughts, and her chin lifted another notch. He nearly choked over the challenge. “Yes,” he relented, clearing his throat. “I do… I do, indeed agree.”
“Gad, Emma! Post it in the Times?” her brother asked incredulously.
“Of course,” she answered flippantly. “Why not?”
“You may rest assured it shall be posted,” Andrew said irascibly, “though the account will be anything but lauding, I assure you. The truth is that those hounds will write what they choose and not what you please!”
“Not necessarily,” Lucien countered. “I have connections.”
“Oh?” she challenged. “The same connections who once affiliated you with Lady Victoria perchance?”
Lucien opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. Bloody shrew. The question completely gobsmacked him. He had not, in fact, impregnated Lady Victoria, but until she had been found to be a virgin and the growth in her belly to be a medical mystery, everyone assumed it. In fact, all Lucien had attempted to do was to solicit the help of an expert physician for the poor woman—a chap he had met while in the Navy—the same man, in fact, who had treated their father. It was through him that Lucien had kept abreast of the Admiral’s illness.
“Emma,” Andrew pleaded, ignoring him.
“Andrew,” she countered, returning her brother’s plea.
Lucien forced himself to settle back into the chair to watch the two spar, respectfully abstaining from their quarrel. He stole a sip of the port Andrew had offered him, and then Emma managed to astound him yet again and it was all he could do not to choke as he swallowed.
She smiled and asked pertly of her brother, “Andrew, dearest, might you excuse us a moment, please? I have something I wish to say to His Grace. Alone.”
Clearing his throat in surprise, Lucien downed the half-full glass and set it down upon Peters’s desk.
“Please, Emma,” her brother entreated.
Her voice was calm but firm. “I shan’t be but a moment, Andrew.”
Her brother heaved a weary sigh. “Very well, though I shall be waiting in the corridor.” He came forward and grasped her shoulders, placing a tender kiss upon her forehead, and then he eyed Lucien pointedly, looking in the moment exactly like his father. “Willyngham,” he said as he withdrew, and Lucien recognized it for the warning it was meant to be. He had to give the man his due. He seemed to care not a whit for the difference in their station when it came to his sister. Lucien nodded his acknowledgment, and then waited until Andrew had closed the door behind him before looking at the little shrew.