Page 43 of A Highly Unlikely Duchess
She looked up at Emily, her eyes brimming. “At the Faithcourt ball the day we met, Lady Birks told me she had a plan for my future. I thought... I thought she meant a genuine match. But it was at the masquerade ball that she told me the truth. She wanted me to trap the Duke. She told me to follow him, to find a way to get him alone in a quiet place, possibly the library or a study, and that she would handle the rest. All I had to do was be seen with him in the dark.”
Euphemia’s voice broke as she reached across the small table, her expression one of genuine distress. “I didn't want to do it, Lady Emily. I just need someone to know that. I am not a person who seeks to ruin lives. But she made it sound as though it was my only chance to survive.”
The morning light moved through the window and settled across the carpet between them.
“I thought His Grace was alone in the library when I followed him at midnight. But I did not go in,” Euphemia said. “I stood at the door, and I could not make myself do it. Then Julia appeared, and I hid. I reckon she thought that I was inside.”
Emily was quiet for a long moment.
“I apologize for everything,” she said with a quivering smile. “I may have underestimated the London season. It is difficult to navigate.” She giggled lightly.
Emily sat back, her gaze softening as she looked at the young woman across from her. She felt no lingering bitterness toward Euphemia; if anything, she felt a profound sense of kinship. She had noticed from their very first conversation that Euphemia’s polished exterior was a fragile mask, much like her own.
“Do not apologize for surviving,” Emily said. “I, of all people, understand what it means to do desperate things when the world leaves you no other choice. We are not so different, you and I.”
Euphemia studied her. “You are not angry with me?”
“I am not.” Emily considered it for a moment, honestly. “I have done desperate things this Season for reasons that were entirely my own. I am not in any position to fault you for doing the same.” She set her cup down. “Besides. You chose not to gothrough with it in the end. That says considerably more about your character than the fact that you considered it.”
Euphemia let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders finally losing their hunch. “To answer the question you asked at Faithcourt ball…” Emily began. “…about why my sisters and I are called the Byron sisters. We were raised by Lady Byron, and while we each come from different parents and different lives, we chose that collective name so we would never lose our connection to the woman who shaped us. Our aunt was not easy. She was reclusive and rigid, and she had very particular ideas about what young women ought to read, learn, and think about. Nothing frivolous. Nothing sentimental. Piano, languages, history, philosophy. Love and romance were not subjects she entertained.”
“How was that like?”
“I cannot describe it,” she answered. “She hid us for a long time. Too long, perhaps, and the circumstances that led to us coming to London for the Season are complicated.” She shook her head. “I had thought I was ready. I told my sisters we were ready. I told them that love was possible, that marriage did not have to be a struggle, that all three of us could come to London and find something real and good, and I would prove it to them.” She looked out of the window. “I have not proven anything. I am the eldest, and I have spent this entire Season doing precisely the wrong things for precisely the wrong reasons, and now I just want to go home.”
“Home?” Emily asked.
“Back to the countryside.” Euphemia's voice had gone quiet. “Perhaps my aunt was right to keep us away as long as she did. Perhaps we were not ready. People smile at us, and then they talk, and I know they talk because of who our fathers were, what they did, and how they died. It is overwhelming. The whole of it is overwhelming. I think perhaps we should simply go back and try again when we are better prepared.”
Emily looked at her for a long moment.
“No,” she said.
Euphemia blinked. “No?”
“Running back to the countryside will not prepare you for anything,” Emily said. “It will simply delay everything and give the people who are already talking more to say.” She leaned forward slightly. “You will not solve anything by leaving, Euphemia.”
“I do not know what else to do.”
“You do not need to know yet,” Emily said. “That is not something you have to figure out today or tomorrow... or next month.” She held Euphemia's gaze steadily. “What I do know is that I would very much like to be your friend. If you will let me.”
Euphemia stared at her.
“I do not know everything about you,” Emily continued. “I do not need to yet. I want you to talk to me. About the Season, about your sisters, about whatever is frightening you, about any of it. I mean that. I am not very good at making friends. But I think this would be good. For both of us.”
Euphemia looked at her for a long moment. The wide blue eyes had gone very bright. “You barely know me,” she said.
“I know enough,” Emily said. “The rest we can find out as we go.”
A slow, radiant smile broke across Euphemia’s face. “I would like that very much,” she admitted, her voice light. “To be honest, other than my sisters, I have no friends here. It would feel wonderful to truly know someone.”
Emily leaned forward, her own expression mirroring that newfound lightness. “I think so too.”
“Then you must call me Effie,” Euphemia said, her eyes sparking. “Both my sisters do, and I should like it very much if you did the same.”
Emily felt a genuine giggle bubble up, a sound that felt foreign yet welcome. “Then you must call me Emily. Just Emily. No titles, and certainly no more talk of lists or Lady Birks. I will be visiting the modiste today to try on dresses for the wedding. Would you like to come?”
Euphemia beamed. “I would love to come.”
