Page 35 of A Duke to Steal Her
But Emily could hear the whispers starting, spreading through the crowd like ripples on a pond.
“—disappeared a day before her wedding?—”
“—two weeks in the countryside?—”
“—sudden illness, they say?—”
She forced her expression to remain serene, though her heart hammered against her ribs. Each step deeper into the ballroom felt like walking through a gauntlet of judgment.
Lady Weatherby approached with arms outstretched, her round face beaming with practiced hostess warmth. “Lady Emily! How delightful to see you looking so well. You positively glow with health.”
“Thank you, Lady Weatherby. Your ball is splendid as always.”
“You’re too kind, my dear.” Lady Weatherby’s eyes sparkled with curiosity poorly disguised as concern. “I do hope your recent… indisposition has fully resolved itself?”
“Completely, thank you.” Emily’s smile felt carved from marble. “Country air works wonders.”
As Lady Weatherby moved on to greet other guests, Juliana and Vincent appeared by Emily’s left shoulder, her presence radiating protective authority.
“Pay them no mind,” she said quietly. “Half of them have skeletons rattling in their own closets.”
Vincent offered his arm to Lady Ridgewell while scanning the crowd with calculating eyes.
“The usual vultures are circling,” he observed coolly. “But I see several gentlemen already positioning themselves for introductions.”
Emily’s stomach twisted. She’d known this moment would come: the parade of potential suitors, each hoping to secure the Duke of Blackmoor’s sister-in-law despite her recent scandal. Or perhaps because of it, thinking her damaged reputation made her more attainable.
“Lady Emily?”
She turned to find Lord Hartwell approaching, his weathered face kind but curious. Behind him stood a cluster of society matrons, their fans fluttering as they observed the exchange.
“Lord Hartwell, how lovely to see you.”
“And you, my dear. You’re looking wonderfully well. My wife was just saying how pleased she was to hear of your recovery.”His voice carried easily, clearly intended for the listening ears around them.
“Please give Lady Hartwell my regards.”
“I’ll be happy to, my lady,” the man bowed.
As Lord Hartwell moved away, Emily caught a snatch of conversation from two ladies standing near a marble pillar.
“—Dr. Pemberton confirmed the whole thing,” the first was saying, her voice pitched just loud enough to be overheard. “Sudden collapse on the way from the school, high fever, had to be removed immediately to a private facility in the countryside.”
“How dreadful,” her companion replied with theatrical sympathy. “Though she does look remarkably recovered.”
Emily felt a rush of gratitude toward Vincent and his carefully orchestrated campaign. Dr. Pemberton’s strategic gossip was working exactly as intended, providing credible details that satisfied curiosity while deflecting more dangerous speculation.
Right then, her sister Ava approached and squeezed her arm gently.
“See?” Ava whispered. “Even the gossips are convinced. Your reputation is perfectly intact.”
But as Emily nodded and smiled at another approaching acquaintance, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was performing in an elaborate theater production where everyone knew their lines except her.
The emerald gown felt like a costume, her poised expression like a mask she couldn’t remove.
The ballroom swirled around her—a glittering world of privilege and pretense where appearances mattered more than truth, where a carefully constructed lie could restore a reputation as easily as an unfortunate truth could destroy it.
Suppressing a sigh, Emily accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman. She took a sip, using the rim as a cover to scan the ballroom.
