Page 6 of A Highly Unlikely Duchess
Theodore Merrick was, by every available measure, exactly that.
She had spent the better part of two years resolving to limit their acquaintance. She had, just yesterday, told herself she would be quite content never to sit across a dinner table from him again.
Yet here she was.
“He is playful about everything,” Emily said at last. “But I need a husband, Peggy. You know why. There’s a lot riding on this. I have to make haste. The sooner I marry, the better.”
“It’s just...” Peggy paused and sighed. “You have spoken about a love marriage so much that sometimes, I dream of it for you. I think it is still possible.”
“It is not.”
“Yes, it is, My Lady.”
“Peggy, there is no time —”
“You were the Diamond of the First Water during your debut two years ago,” Peggy said, with the conviction of someone presenting irrefutable evidence. “The Diamond, My Lady. You are beautiful, elegant, kind, accomplished, well-read, and you play the pianoforte better than anyone I have ever heard in my life.”
“Peggy. Stop.” Emily swallowed. “My situation is dire. I need a husband as soon as possible. All of that is in the past. I do not think like that anymore. You know why I am doing this. You of all people…” Emily swallowed again. “You of all people…”
“I’m sorry, My Lady.” Peggy mellowed. “I know. I’m sorry. It is a good plan. It’ll work. You’ll get on Lady Birks’ list. There’s no way she would turn you away.”
Emily looked out of the window. The gates of the Faithcourt estate were closer now, the stone pillars just visible through the line of elm trees. She took in a ragged breath and shut her eyes, trying to calm herself.
In two and twenty years of life, this was undoubtedly the most dangerous gamble she was about to take. She had never done anything so reckless.
But then again, she had never been so desperate.
“My dear, are you quite all right? Come in, come in out of the cold.”
“You are too kind, Lady Birks, truly.” Emily stepped through the doorway with a smile that was warm, slightly flustered, and entirely rehearsed. “I hope I am not imposing. I would not have called at all except that it felt terribly rude to be practically on your doorstep and not come in to say hello.”
“Nonsense.” Julia waved a hand and guided her into the entrance hall. “What on earth happened?”
“One of the carriage wheels.” Emily shook her head with a small, rueful laugh. “The most dreadful timing. I was on my way to Mrs. Alcott's watercolor society, we meet every fortnight, and somewhere along the road I felt the most terrible wobble and my driver pulled over to have a look.” She pressed a gloved handbriefly to her chest. “He says it will need to be seen to before we can safely continue. I thought perhaps I would simply wait and then head back home once it was fixed, but then I looked up and realized where we had stopped, and I thought —”
“That you would come in,” Julia finished, already steering her toward the drawing room.
“Only to say hello,” Emily said. “I really cannot stay long.”
“You will stay for tea,” Julia said, shaking her head. “I absolutely insist. Sit, sit.”
Emily sat. She folded her hands in her lap and looked around the drawing room, feeling somewhat satisfied that her ridiculous excuse to call had been received without so much as a raised eyebrow. She had not lied, precisely. The wheel truly had needed attention. She had simply ensured that the attention it needed would take considerably longer than necessary, and that the road on which it happened to give out was the one that ran directly past Faithcourt's gates. It was, she told herself, resourcefulness. Nothing more than that.
It wasn't that she enjoyed the deception; in truth, the pressure of the secret she carried made her stomach churn, but a small, pragmatic part of her felt a surge of relief.
For a woman with her back against the wall, a successful entrance was the first victory she had seen in weeks. She wasn't there to cause a scandal or to hurt a soul; she was simply awoman trying to keep her world from crumbling, reaching for the only hand that was in sight.
It was a beautiful room. Warm and well-appointed, the sort of room that spoke of old money and genuine taste rather than anything that needed to be shown off. A fire burned low in the grate. Fresh flowers on the side table.
“The watercolor society,” Julia said, settling herself across from Emily and reaching for the bell to call for tea. “Mrs. Alcott's. I did not know you painted.”
“I have done since I was a girl,” Emily said. That much was true. “Though I confess I am better at appreciating the work of others than producing anything worth hanging.” She smiled. “Mrs. Alcott is terribly patient with me.”
“She is patient with everyone,” Julia said warmly. “I know Bridget Alcott quite well.” She rang the bell and sat back, folding her hands in her lap. Her eyes moved over Emily, mirroring the same warm attention she had offered at the door, and Emily had the distinct, slightly uncomfortable feeling of being read like a letter.
“Pierce,” Julia said at last. “Lady Emily Pierce. Your father is the Earl of Hatcher. Lord Charles Pierce.”
“He is, yes, Lady Birks.”
