La Petite Four (16 page)

As if she cared about gowns. She’d prefer to spend the money on paints. Perhaps she could muddle along without the Royal Society’s acceptance. She might hire a tutor, someone with more experience. Perhaps she could find the time to study between managing a household and producing an heir . . .

Her stomach shoved the weight up against her chest.
An heir.
Oh, Lord. She could not imagine being intimate with Lord Robert. She had a hard time thinking about being intimate with anyone. The rock squeezed against her lungs, making it almost impossible to gasp in a breath.

The solicitor dipped the feather pen in the crystal ink bottle and lifted the quill. Emily watched as the black drops fell from the sharp white point. The man held it out to her. Her fingers felt too heavy to take it.

“And now you, Lady Emily,” he prompted as if she could not guess why he’d offered her a pen. “Your signature indicates your willingness to give the estate you inherited from your mother to Lord Robert. As your husband, he will control all your worldly goods while he lives.”

He would control everything she was and everything she did. How could she agree to that?! Emily didn’t want the pen, didn’t want to sign, and certainly didn’t want to give Lord Robert her mother’s estate or her heart. She wanted to shout at all of them to go away and leave her alone. She reached for her locket and realized she’d left it at home.

She managed to squeeze an ounce of air into her lungs. They had logic and family alignments on their side. All she had were feelings-frail, unreliable feelings-to offer in protest. Feelings would do her no good this day.

She reached out, gripped the quill pen, bent, and signed her name. It was probably for the last time. Very soon she’d be Lady Emily Townsend. She had lost her future and herself.

Lord Robert took the pen from her with a smile that seemed far too big and bright for the dark room and finished his signature with a flourish.

“Well done,” his brother said. “This was Father’s dream, to unite our families. Let us share the good news with our guests.”

His Grace moved with Lord Wakenoak toward the door, leaving the solicitor to sand the documents and pack them away. Lord Robert took Emily’s arm.

“Feeling better now?” he asked as he led her toward the door.

Emily took a deep breath at last. “No, not really. I wasn’t ready for this, Robert.”

“Oh, you seem ready enough,” he said cheerfully as they started down the corridor once more. “You’ve been quite busy, following me around, listening to lies, spreading your own.”

The corridor seemed to tilt around her. She could not have heard him right. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your apology is a start. I expect better behavior from you from here on out. You will keep your mouth shut, around my friends and yours. You will not cavort with trash like James Cropper. That includes a tart like Priscilla Tate and nonentities like the Courdebas sisters.”

The pressure was crawling up her throat, threatening to choke her. “Is this your idea of a joke?” she tried.

“Not in the slightest,” he said, pausing in the doorway to the withdrawing room, where the guests stood with champagne in their hands. “As your husband, I expect you to do exactly as I say. It will go poorly for you if you don’t. And I will hear no more nonsense about you painting either. I thought you would take the hint when I brought Lady St. Gregory to visit. Having a wife who fancies herself an artist is entirely too embarrassing, particularly when she’s of no real talent.”

He strolled into the room, and Emily stumbled after him, the cheers of congratulations ringing in her ears.

“Wish us happy, everyone!” Lord Robert called. “Lady Emily will be my bride by this Thursday.”

Lady Emily would be dead by Wednesday. She could not live with this pain, this bleak future. The room was darkening. Her senses coalesced into a burning pain in her throat. She’d just signed her life over to a monster.

“To the happy couple,” Mr. Cunningham called, raising his glass. “May their union be long and prosperous.”

Silk and satin rustled as everyone’s arms were raised in toast.

Everyone’s but Jamie’s.

Emily’s gaze met Jamie’s, and the sounds around her faded, the people vanished, until Jamie was everything. He stood there so stiffly, as if he were in pain. Gone was his wicked smile. His remarkably fine gray eyes were dark, accusatory.

He didn’t understand how she could agree to marry a scoundrel like Lord Robert. She didn’t understand either, especially when she realized she could never love Lord Robert.

She loved Jamie.

Jamie challenged her, but only when she was being less than her best. He protected her, even when she would have preferred to do so herself. He cherished her, consistently putting her needs before his own. He made it clear he valued her thoughts and opinions. He saw Emily for herself, good and bad.

And he liked her for who she was, even if she was the daughter of a duke.

She wanted to call out to him, fly to his side, take his hand, and pull him from the room. As if he could read her mind, Jamie set down his glass without taking a sip and started toward her.

Emily raised her head, begging him with her eyes to understand, to say something, to do something. Lord Robert stood smiling triumphantly, accepting the praises being thrown their way. He didn’t seem to notice as Jamie drew to Emily’s side.

“Is this what you wanted, then?” Jamie asked, jaw tight. “I thought you invited me here to learn enough to stop him. I thought we had the same goal. Apparently I was mistaken. Good-bye, Lady Emily.”

He brushed past her, leaving the room, leaving the house, leaving her life.

The darkness inside Emily spilled into her mouth, burning, suffocating. She couldn’t bear the sight of all these smiling people, couldn’t bear to hear another word in congratulations, couldn’t breathe.

She only found her breath again after she was sick, all over Lord Robert’s shiny black evening shoes.

20

Shattered Dream
s

His Grace was solicitous as he tucked the ermine lap robe around Emily in the coach after they’d abruptly left the Townsends. “There, now. I’m sure it was simply too much excitement this evening. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Emily sincerely doubted that. She would never have an opportunity to prove herself to Society. Her art would soon be a thing of the past. She was set to marry a vile villain. And, worst of all, the man she loved thought her faithless. She thought she might never feel well again.

Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne had been just as concerned, clustering around her for only a moment before His Grace had whisked her away. Ariadne’s face was long and mournful, and her lips trembled as if she struggled with what to say. Priscilla looked worse, her color gone, one arm wrapped around the lavender gauze as she hugged herself. Daphne took Emily in her arms and held her close, as if trying to be strong for them both. For a moment, all Emily could do was stand and soak up the warmth.

“This is a terrible injustice,” Ariadne murmured, laying a hand on Emily’s shoulder. “But we will prevail.”

How, Emily could not see.

“I hate to question you when you’re feeling poorly,” her father continued now, leaning back against the blue cushions as the carriage started for home. “But you mentioned that you were acquainted with Mr. Cropper. How did you meet him?”

Where to start? She’d been seeing him around London for the last week and at Barnsley before that. Of course, had she realized it, she’d been dreaming of him her whole life—a man who would appreciate her art, appreciate her. A man she could trust with her heart.

“He came to the house to see you a few days ago,” she said. “Warburton said he had a letter of introduction.”

Her father frowned. “He did not approach me.”

Because he’d known her father already favored Lord Robert. She frowned. But why would that make a difference? What had Lord Robert to do with her father and Jamie?

“I believe,” Emily said carefully, “that he is following Lord Robert.”

“Unlikely,” her father replied. “I can think of no reason for Bow Street to be interested in the Townsends.”

Bow Street? Of course! Jamie must be a Runner, part of London’s elite investigative force. He had to be one of the youngest, but by no means the least talented, she was sure. That’s what he’d meant when he said his mother would have preferred him to have another vocation. That’s why he hadn’t been able to tell her why he was following Lord Robert! And why he’d never truly been following her.

It also explained why he was so angry when he thought Emily had prevented him from learning the truth. She would never forget the look on his face, a heartbreaking mix of pain and pride. She shivered just remembering it. He’d been investigating Lord Robert for something serious. But what?

“How do you know Mr. Cropper?” she asked her father. “You said you knew his mother.”

Her father sighed. “It is not a topic I would choose to discuss with you, but as you are acquainted with the young man and about to marry Lord Robert, I suppose you had better know the truth. James Cropper is the son of the previous Lord Wakenoak, Lord Robert’s father.”

Emily threw off the lap robe to lean closer. That’s what Ariadne had been trying to say! James Cropper is a bastard. He was Lord Robert’s brother! She’d seen the resemblance from the first in that magnificent mane of hair, but she found she could not believe Lord Robert and Jamie to be related. “You knew Lord Wakenoak had an illegitimate child and you never told me?”

They drove near a lamp post then, and she could see His Grace looking intently at her, his brown eyes dark and grim. “There are a great many things I do not tell you, Emily Rose,” he said. “Be glad for that fact.”

She felt herself blushing. “Yes, well, it seems I needed to know this one.”

“Indeed. It is not a happy tale. Wakenoak had his wilder moments, which I could not like. Jasmine Cropper was a delightful young woman, one of Lady Wakenoak’s goddaughters come to join them for the Season.” He sighed again. “It is a sad fact, Emily, that some gentlemen must have their own way, even when it hurts others.”

Lord Robert came to mind. She’d always thought he was his father’s favorite. It seemed they had a great deal in common, even bullying women.

“There would have been a great scandal, of course,” her father said, “but Miss Cropper chose to sequester herself in a quiet corner of London and add a ‘Mrs.’ to her name. When I learned James had been born, I advised Wakenoak to give him every advantage. I thought he’d at least paid for tutoring, but it appears the boy had to pull himself up by his bootstraps. I’ll speak to my steward. Perhaps we can find a place for him on one of the estates.”

An estate manager would have been no better consort for the daughter of a duke, but she supposed it hardly mattered now. Nothing mattered now. Unless Jamie accused Lord Robert of some crime in the next two days, she was as good as married.

And even if the impossible were to happen, she had no hope of regaining Jamie’s good regard. He was right. She had used him, brought him to the dinner in a desperate attempt to show up Lord Robert. He would see Emily as no better than his own father, using others for personal gain. He’d never forgive her.

She was so despondent that she had only a vague memory of entering the town house and bidding her father good night. She allowed Mary to help her change, answering questions about the big night so tersely that Mary soon gave up. But after Mary left Emily couldn’t bear the quiet of her silk-paneled room.

She went to her easel and stared at the soldiers, the roses of their badges stark red and white in the candlelight. Who cared about battles from long ago when people’s hearts were breaking and dreams were shattering right here, right now? Surely there was something more important she could paint.

She hefted the larger canvas down and replaced it with the second, smaller one Miss Alexander had sent with her. She gazed at the blank canvas for the longest time, until she began to see shades of gray and blue and yellow in the expanse of cream. But nothing grand enough or beautiful enough came to mind. She simply could not paint a bowl of fruit. She’d give up painting first!

She was nearly ready to give up now. How was it Lady St. Gregory thought Emily incapable of putting herself into her battle scenes? Even Jamie had said Emily had missed the emotion. They were both wrong.

She put herself into her paintings. The bold colors made her feel stronger. The solidity of the oils gave her a sense of control, as if the world could be just as she ordered it, given time and patience. And the battle scenes, well, they were big, powerful. In them, men were heroes, and heroes triumphed. And, in a small way, so did she. Painting anything else felt limited, insignificant.

Vulnerable.

Emily turned to her paints. Her hands shook as she mixed the oils, prepared her palette. She didn’t sketch the piece in charcoal first as was her usual process. She attacked the canvas, stroking on the paint surely. If no one knew what she was made of, she’d simply have to show them.

The painting blossomed under her brush. Indeed, the ease of it surprised her. Color and form blended, became real. Then love and hope and dreams mixed, slowing her hand. It was as if she painted with her own tears, her own blood.

Memory fueled each stroke—the thought of Priscilla’s delighted smile, the sound of Ariadne’s infectious giggle, Daphne’s quiet strength. She thought of His Grace tucking the lap robe around her with care, Jamie facing down a beggar twice his size to protect her. There was warmth and bittersweet pain in remembering how many people loved her, how many people she loved.

Even if they were no longer at her side.

She stepped back finally and eyed the piece. It might never win Miss Alexander’s praise or the Barnsley Prize in Art. Very likely it would never earn her Lady St. Gregory’s approval or a place in the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. But she needed no one to tell her it was very, very good.