Page 4 of Emma & Edmund

Watching his retreating back, his glittering sister on his arm, Emma could have fainted as the tension fell from her shoulders. The breath she held released with a huff, joining the chorus of apprehensive girls around her.

For a moment, Emma allowed herself to indulge the thought of what it would be like if it were her hanging off his arm; if it washerhe looked at with such devotion.

"You did very well, Emma!" Margaret clasped her wrist. "Even with that dreadful Victoria's ways, you held your own."

"I hardly said anything though, I should have -"

"There is plenty of time to talk later," Margaret waved off the thought.

"He is such a handsome man," Grace breathed, flapping her lace-lined fan rapidly over her cheeks. "I'll leave him to you - of course, Emma - but if you ever give him up, do us the favor of letting us know."

"I'm not so certain.” Jonathan tapped the freshly emptied flask, tucking it away. "Don't they seem a bitclose?"

"As they should be," Margaret countered, "a husband close with his family will be close to the one he creates."

Emma didn't miss the way Jonathan guffawed under his breath. Margaret didn't either, sending a harsh glare his way.

"I'm bored of sitting in the corner," Emma stepped between her friend and brother before they could get in a row - one they acted out the entire five-day trip. "Shall we grab some punch? I saw the bowl in the dining room."

"Ah, I think I'll stay behind." Even if Grace spoke to them, her predatory eyes were trained on Tobin Crosgrove, who had just arrived with his older brother and father.

Emma was twice surprised to see them. She was not close to the family by any means but was the first she knew of without a woman in the party. If Lord Lockhart's goal was to hand select a bride from his invitees, inviting men only invited competition.

The second reason was the sheer size the event was becoming.

As crowded as the ballroom was, the extent of the attendance became clear when one slipped into the hallway. Margaret and Emma, with Jonathan in tow, nearly lost each other in the sea of incomers that flooded through the front door.

"More people are arriving? The place is about to burst at the seams!"

"They might be too late," Margaret slipped an arm through hers, "I fear there may not be any rooms left. Oh, look! Sophia Hawthorn is here!"

"I doubt you'll have to worry about that," Jonathan trotted alongside the pair, "this place must have a hundred beds or so."

"Twenty-four, sir. There were thirty before part of the left wing was converted to the aviary."

A stout, plump but pin-straight figure directed the traffic, ordering maids and footmen alike among the Londoners milling about just beyond the entrance.

"Welcome to Belmont Manor. Please, let me see your invitations."

"And who are you?" Jonathan's nose turned skyward, the clunk of luggage hitting the ground behind them.

"Mr. Anthony Stevens, Butler Majordomo to this magnificent home."

"Then where were you when we arrived? We've been here for hours now."

"Jonathan," Emma hissed, "don't be rude. There's a lot of people to keep track of."

"Where is our host? We were hoping to see him tonight," Margaret asked.

"Unfortunately, Lord Lockhart will be unable to join us this evening. The lady's invitations if you please?"

"Have us travel five days and we need to prove we were invited?" Jonathan grumbled under his breath.

"Hush, Jonathan." Emma resisted the urge to elbow her brother in the gut, hoping her tone would do well enough to stop him, retrieving the crinkled note from her reticule. She sent a thankful prayer to Heaven that she thought to bring the small beaded bag for the evening, and that she left the invitation inside out of pure laziness.

"This would not happen in the city."

"He doesn't know us," Emma countered, "it’s natural he'll want to make sure we're invited. It is not like he can recognize our faces."

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