Page 3 of A Duke to Steal Her
A perfect performance was required to hide the turmoil beneath.
Obedient.The word clung to her like a shroud.
Obedient daughters do not dream of Italian piazzas. Obedient wives do not yearn for adventure.
Yet here she stood, the perfect model of acquiescence, even as rebellion burned within her heart.
Emily returned to her chamber, passing clusters of whispering classmates whose conversations abruptly halted at her approach.
“Did you hear? She’s leaving today.”
“Lord Peirce must be quite eager.”
“Or perhaps eager to secure her before he finds out something that will change his mind.”
Once alone in her room, Emily closed the door and leaned against it, allowing herself three deep breaths. The only moment of weakness she would permit.
She knelt before her trunk, lifting the false bottom to reveal her most precious possessions. Her fingers brushed the cover ofArchitectural Wonders of Florence,a forbidden text smuggled to her by a sympathetic cook whose brother had traveled abroad.
Emily began to pack with methodical precision.
Nightgowns were folded into precise squares. The stockings must be rolled tightly. Books could be arranged by size. Every item had its place and purpose. This order was the one aspect of her life she could control.
Her mind drifted to her sister Juliana’s last letter, filled with joyful descriptions of life with the Duke of Blackmoor.“He values my mind as much as my companionship,”Juliana had written.“I never thought marriage could bring such freedom. Oh, dearest Emily. I can’t wait for you to experience this joy also.”
A knock at her door announced that Emily’s time for reflection had run out. Mrs. Winters, the Academy’s housekeeper, stood waiting to escort her to the carriage.
“All packed then, Lady Emily?” the woman asked, her eyes sweeping the room for any forgotten items.
“Yes, Mrs. Winters. I am ready.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
She took the single case from Emily, and they walked in silence through the corridors, past classrooms where other girls lived in blissful ignorance of how quickly their lives, too, might change at the whim of a parent’s letter. Or a marriage arrangement.
Rather than exiting through the main entrance, Mrs. Winters led her to the servants’ courtyard at the rear of the building.
A single black carriage waited, its lack of family crest or embellishment striking Emily as peculiar.
“Mrs. Winters, where is my lady’s maid? Surely someone must accompany me to London?” Emily asked, hesitating at the courtyard’s edge.
The driver, his face obscured by a hood pulled low, stepped forward with a folded note.
As Emily accepted it, she noticed his hands. They were uncalloused and well-formed, with clean, trimmed nails.No ordinary coachman possessed hands unmarked by the roughness of daily labor.
She tilted her head slightly, attempting to glimpse the face beneath the hood, but he angled himself away, keeping his features in shadow.
The note with its hurried tone and excessive underlining was entirely in keeping with her mother’s character. Still, a curious prickle of awareness traveled down Emily’s spine.
“You must hurry. Your family’s carriage and maid will be waiting in Millfield, Lady Emily,” Mrs. Winters interjected, urging Emily.
Emily’s unease remained, but what choice did she have? To refuse would only delay the inevitable journey to London and her waiting fiancé.
With one last glance at the mysterious driver, Emily allowed him to assist her into the carriage.
The surprising firmness of his grip registered briefly before she settled onto the leather seat before the door closed with a decisive click.
The carriage pulled away from Wicklow Academy, the building’s gray stone facade receding until it disappeared behind a bend in the road.
After an hour’s travel, the carriage veered onto a narrow, tree-lined lane that bore no resemblance to the main road to Millfield.
