Page 33 of A Highly Unlikely Duchess
Theodore looked at her. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair that the evening had loosened back from her face, a gesture so natural that she felt something move in her stomach.
“I have,” he agreed, looking at her. His voice had dropped slightly. “How could I possibly not?”
Her heart did something it had absolutely no business doing in that moment, and she was certain he had seen it... seen her chest rise sharply in that moment.
She attributed it to the performance. They were performing. That was what this was, and that was all it was, and her heart was simply caught up in the authenticity of the thing, which was, if anything, a testament to how well they were both doing.
She smiled at him. He smiled back.
Yvette made a small, involuntary sound beside her that might have been a sigh. “I mean, everyone can see the attraction between you, too,” she said. “I’m sure Alistair is just surprised. We were all surprised when we heard. But it is a good thing. Love is always a good thing.”
“I need a drink,” Alistair announced, walking away. “Possibly several.”
Yvette shook her head and took Emily’s hand again. “Pay him no mind. He is protective of those he cares about. He knows His Grace rather well, which is precisely why he is watching you both so carefully.”
“Thank you, Yvette.”
Yvette squeezed her hand once and released it, and a moment later she and Alistair had slipped back into the warm current of the evening.
The space they left behind felt suddenly quiet, despite the swell of the orchestra and the voices competing for air. Theodore didn't move. His hand remained anchored to the small of her back, the heat of his palm seeping through the layers of her gown as if he had forgotten it was there. Or, more likely, as if he simply had no intention of letting go.
They stood in silence for a few seconds, a strange, breathless pocket of time where the performance was no longer for the benefit of an audience.
Theodore turned his head slightly, his gaze dropping to hers with an intensity that made the room feel as though it were tilting.
“One more dance,” he said. “Before the carriage is called. We should give them one final image to dismantle over their breakfast tomorrow.”
Emily looked up at him, her heart doing that inconvenient, stuttering skip again. “One more,” she agreed, her voice barely a whisper. “I suppose we must maintain the momentum.”
He offered a short, sharp nod, his fingers tightening briefly against her waist before he finally withdrew his hand. The sudden absence of his warmth felt like a draft.
“I have a few associates I must acknowledge before the night is through,” he said, stepping back. “I shall find you when the final set begins. Do try not to look so much like a woman plotting a murder in the meantime.”
“I shall do my best, Your Grace,” she retorted, though the bite was missing from her tone.
She watched him walk away, his shoulders broad as he navigated the crowd. Left alone, Emily felt the full pressure of the evening settle onto her shoulders. She stood there, her fingers tracing the spot on her ribs where his hand had been, her mind racing.
She wasn't quite certain she was capable of sustaining this. The acting, the calculated smiles, the way she had to lean into a man who was both her greatest irritant and her only hope. It was exhausting.
Yet, she had pulled it off. She had seen the look in Alistair’s eyes and the genuine warmth in Yvette’s smile. They believed it. If she could fool the people who knew him best, perhaps she could fool all of London.
But as she looked out at the sea of silks, a tremor of nerves settled in her stomach. This was the first time she had ever gambled with a lie this large, and as the music began to swell for the next set, she realized the performance had only just begun.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Ihave always found it fascinating how some women possess such a natural talent for theatre,” Julia Birks said, her voice cutting through the quiet chime of tea service. She didn't look up from her cup, but the stillness of her posture drew every eye at the table. “To carry oneself with such pristine virtue while harboring... well, let us call them unspoken histories. It is a rare gift to be so entirely different from who one claims to be.”
Emily felt a cold, visceral shock settle in the pit of her stomach. The teacup in her hand trembled, the porcelain rattling against the saucer with a sound that felt deafening in the sudden silence.
She looked at Julia, searching for the warmth that had once defined their relationship, but found only a sharp, knowing flint in the older woman’s gaze. The air in the drawing room seemed to thin, making it difficult for Emily to draw a full breath.
She could not understand what was happening.
They were gathered in the conservatory of Theodore’s estate, a soaring glass cathedral filled with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. Outside, the sprawling grounds were blurred by a persistent gray mist, but inside, the light was bright and unforgiving. Her parents sat across the table, her mother looking remarkably pleased with the fine bone china, while her father seemed to be mentally calculating the value of the rare orchids surrounding them. It should have been a triumph, both their families uniting in a display of blooming domesticity… but the atmosphere was as fragile as the glass overhead.
The day had been going well.
Or rather, it had been going well until Julia opened her mouth.
