Page 31 of A Duke to Steal Her
Emily’s breath caught. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Juliana smiled sadly. “You have the look of a woman who’s lost something precious. And it wasn’t your freedom from an unwanted marriage, because that should have made you happy.”
The observation cut too close to the truth.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “some losses are necessary.”
“Are they?” Ava’s voice was gentle. “Or do we simply tell ourselves that because the truth is too difficult to face?”
Emily turned back to the mirror, meeting her own reflection with forced composure.
In a few hours, she would walk through London society with her head held high, playing the role of the perfectly recovered invalid. She would smile and make conversation and pretend that her heart wasn’t still at Nightfell Hall.
Withhim. The last man she should want.
But first, she had to survive her sisters’ continued questioning—and her own traitorous hope that somewhere, he might be thinking of her too.
Chapter Eleven
“Lady Emily, how lovely to see you looking so well!” Lady Worthington grasped Emily’s shoulders gently.
“Thank you, Lady Worthington. Your hospitality is most gracious.”
The older lady studied her face with maternal concern before guiding her toward the refreshment table.
Emily’s smile felt painted on, but she maintained it as several ladies approached with polite inquiries about her health. Most were genuinely concerned, asking after her recovery with the sort of gentle probing that passed for acceptable curiosity in their circles.
“Such a frightening thing, to fall ill so suddenly,” murmured Lady Fortwell, settling beside her on the blue silk sofa. “Though you do look wonderfully restored.”
“Country air has remarkable healing properties,” Emily replied, the practiced response rolling off her tongue.
From across the room, she caught Juliana’s encouraging nod while Lady Ridgewell fluttered nearby, clearly torn between pride at Emily’s composure and anxiety about potential social missteps.
“Indeed, it does,” agreed Miss Thornfield, a young woman of Emily’s own age. “I spent last summer in the Lake District and felt positively renewed.”
The conversation continued in this safe vein until Lady Bramwell approached their circle. The elderly matron had a reputation for sharp observations and an even sharper tongue.
“Well, well,” Lady Bramwell said, settling herself into a nearby chair with obvious effort. “So good to see you among us again, Lady Emily. Though I must say, it does seem a bit of a coincidence that you disappear right before your wedding, don’t you think? How curious that you return when your betrothed calls off the wedding and leaves the country.”
The pointed comment hit its mark with surgical precision. Several ladies shifted uncomfortably, while others suddenly found their teacups fascinating.
Emily felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she kept her expression serene.
Maledicta vacca, she thought with grim satisfaction—cursed cow.
“Indeed,” Emily said aloud, her voice perfectly controlled.
Clearly, Lady Bramwell was not done with all she wanted to say. Her eyes glittered with malice, and just as she was about to speak, Ava appeared at her elbow. She turned to see that she was with a young woman Emily didn’t recognize.
“Emily, I’d like you to meet the Duchess of Ironstone,” Ava said smoothly, her timing impeccable. “Christine, this is my sister Emily.”
Emily recalled the Duchess’s title from Ava’s letters. Her sister and the Duchess had struck a friendship six years ago, during Ava’s debut, and been friends ever since.
The Duchess of Ironstone was perhaps five years older than Emily, with intelligent brown eyes and an air of quiet confidence. She offered her hand with a warm smile.
“Lady Emily, what a pleasure. I’ve heard such wonderful things about your keen intellect.”
“Have you?” Emily felt some of her tension ease at the genuine warmth in the Duchess’s voice.
