Page 36 of A Highly Unlikely Duchess
She rose to her feet slowly, her muscles stiff as if the ice that had encased her for the last few minutes was only just beginning to melt. For a moment, she simply stood there, her hands smoothing the silk of her skirts in a repetitive, grounding motion, waiting for her breathing to find a rhythm that didn't feel like a waltz.
“Emily,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was no longer the icy, command-driven tone he had used with his godmother. It was quiet, grounded, and resonated with genuine remorse that made her skin prickle. “I am deeply sorry. Lady Birks’ attitude was inexcusable.”
Emily looked up at him, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She found his honesty unsettling. She was always prepared for his mockery, his sharp wit, and silly remarks, but this unfiltered sincerity was a variable she hadn't accounted for. It made it harder to maintain the wall she had built between them.
Nervousness coiled in her stomach. Julia’s outburst was practically a formal withdrawal of her support. To Emily, the subtext was clear. The courtship was over. Julia had been the architect of this arrangement, and with her gone, the foundation had crumbled.
Emily took a mental note of her standing. She hadn't secured a definitive match yet, but her association with Theodore had at least turned heads. There were other suitors now, men who had begun to linger a bit longer at her side during the last few events. She wasn't entirely without options, but the thought of starting the cycle of performance again felt exhausting.
Theodore reached out, his hand steady as he took hers. Her fingers were shaking, a fine, uncontrollable tremor that she hoped he wouldn't notice. He bowed his head and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
The heat of the gesture sent a jolt through her, and she felt hot all of a sudden. She didn't understand why her heart chose that moment to hammer against her ribs, or why the contact felt like a tether she wasn't ready to break. It felt so grounding.
“We shall speak soon,” he murmured against her skin.
He released her hand, and the sudden absence of his touch caused the freezing feeling to return. Emily didn't trust her voice to remain steady, so she simply offered a small, stiff nod. She turned toward her parents, who were waiting by the arched exit with the butler, and began the long walk across the stone floor. She felt Theodore’s gaze on her back the entire way, and it followed her until she stepped out of the glass house and into the biting morning air.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Lady Emily, I fear I have lost you to your thoughts,” Lord Sterling murmured, pulling her back from the precipice of her own thoughts.
Emily blinked, the silver lace of her mask momentarily blurring her vision as she forced her focus toward the man before her. They were standing in the heart of the grand ballroom, which Christopher and Rose, the Duke and Duchess of Thornwall, had transformed into a sprawling, midnight woodland for their masquerade ball. Silk ivy climbed the marble columns, and thousands of candles flickered behind frosted glass, casting an ethereal, shifting glow over the sea of masked guests. It was a world of velvet shadows and hidden identities, yet Emily felt more exposed than she ever had in the light of day.
“Forgive me, Lord Sterling,” she replied, offering a practiced, apologetic smile as the waltz carried them in a graceful circle. “The music is simply... hypnotic tonight.”
Arthur Sterling, the Baron of Highcleft, stepped closer, his hand still and respectful on her waist. The moment his palm had settled against the silk of her gown, a traitorous, unbidden thought had flashed through Emily’s mind. It felt nothing like Theodore. The Baron’s touch was warm and steadying, yet it lacked the heat, the silent, magnetic tension that seemed to crackle whenever Theodore’s hand found the small of her back.
She didn't understand why her skin was suddenly cataloging the difference or why her body seemed to be searching for a ghost in the middle of a crowded ballroom. It was a fleeting realization that she immediately tried to crush.
‘Nonsense,’ she told herself, her jaw tightening behind her mask.
It was a dangerous, foolish comparison to make. She had no business longing for the touch of a man who was likely at this very moment striking her name from his ledger in favor of a more convenient bride.
Arthur Sterling was an honorable man, a widower with a gentle disposition and a sprawling estate in Kent that he often spoke of. As they moved through the figures of the dance, Emily found it remarkably easy to envision a life with him. He was the kind of man who valued peace over prestige. She was certain she could eventually convince him to welcome Frederick into their home.
It would be a safe life. A life without the jagged edges of scandal.
But even as she looked into Sterling’s kind, hazel eyes behind his navy mask, her mind was anchored to a conservatory.
Since that morning at the estate, Theodore's silence had been deafening. She couldn't stop the frantic cycle of her thoughts. What had he decided? With the list of potential brides supposedly burned, and his relationship with Julia seemingly fractured, what would he decide to do?
Would he turn to Euphemia Vane? The daughter of a late Viscount would certainly be a simpler, cleaner choice than a woman trailing a secret.
Or perhaps he had truly abandoned the idea of marriage altogether?
A sharp, cold spike of panic flared in her chest, nearly tripping her feet. Why had he told Julia about Frederick? She couldn't fathom the logic. There was no benefit to either of them in Julia knowing the truth about Frederick. It was a weapon Theodore had handed to his godmother, and Emily felt a sickening dread at the thought of Julia speaking of it to others.
Had she already told the ladies of the Ton about it? Was the truth already a whispered currency in the dark corners of that very ballroom?
Lord Sterling squeezed her hand gently, his brow furrowed. “You are trembling, Lady Emily. Is the draft from the terrace too much for you? Shall we stop and find a seat?”
“I am fine, Lord Sterling, truly,” she lied, the words tasting like copper.
She scanned the room, her eyes searching the crowd of Harlequins and mythological beasts for a familiar height, a specific set of broad shoulders. She told herself she was looking for a threat, but as the music reached a crescendo, the hollow ache in her chest told a different story. She needed to know what Theodore had done with her secret, and why the memory of his lips on her hand felt more real than the man she was currently dancing with.
The waltz drew to a sweeping close, the final vibration of the violins lingering in the rafters of the woodland. Arthur led Emily toward the edge of the floor, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary before he released her.
“I must confess, Lady Emily,” he said as they stepped into the relative quiet of a floral alcove. “I have admired the way you carry yourself for some time now. There is a rare composure in you. You are as poised as you are striking, and I found our conversation tonight far more refreshing than the usual ballroom platters.”
