Willbridge ignored his surly tone. “You will find out the same for yourself one day, when you let a woman in again.”
“Please,” Malcolm scoffed, turning back for the window even as his stomach twisted. “We both know that is not likely to happen. Love is not for me.”
“I believed the same thing of myself, Morley,” his friend said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Malcolm tensed but did not shrug off his touch. “Enough of sentiment,” he said instead. “We will have plenty of that in the week to come. Why don’t you spend your valuable time before you return to Willowhaven letting me know why you think I will prove a proper companion to your sister?”
Willbridge removed his hand. “Emily is incredibly sensitive to her looks. Any female I ask to shadow her would only make her feel her...difference all the more.”
“Meaning?”
“You ask me to spell it out?” Willbridge let out a frustrated breath. “She is scarred in a very visible way. It has affected every aspect of her life. But she is a lovely young woman who should have every chance in life that any other woman has. Having you by her side would not only detract from this great obstacle in her life, but may give her the confidence she needs to set out and carve a life of her own. And it is quite possible that your attentions, however innocent, might facilitate the interest of a candidate for her hand. She goes to London next Season for our sister Daphne’s debut. I would help prepare her in any way I can for that.”
It took several moments for the meaning of that to sink in. When it finally did, Malcolm blanched. “You would have me pretend to court your sister?”
Willbridge paled at that. “Gad, no! Although,” he amended, his expression turning apologetic as he slid a glance Malcolm’s way, “it certainly couldn’t hurt that she might think she could garner a man’s regard on her own, even if as a friend. Which means that under no circumstances can she know I have asked this favor of you. Learning of our collusion in the matter might very well send her even further back into herself.”
Malcolm glowered at his friend. “This is a delicate thing you ask of me, Willbridge. I am to stay close to your sister, feign an interest—however innocuous it may be—and yet keep her in the dark as to my intentions. I also assume I am to ensure no talk erupts over my attentions, but hope they are just enough to make other men see her as a possible life’s mate.” At Willbridge’s nod, Malcolm let loose a frustrated breath. “I do believe your guilt for not having been there to help guide her in the past decade has blinded you to all that can go wrong with this blasted scheme.”
Willbridge’s shoulders slumped. “I know it sounds foolish, Morley. But I can think of no other way. I truly am doing my best to rectify matters. I’m hoping that in the next weeks she can find a confidence to carry with her into the future. She has had scant practice with men. I would have her see that she is every bit as worthy of attention as any other young woman.”
And to do that, you would use one of your closest friends, Malcolm thought acidly. But really, could he blame the man? In the space of a few weeks, Willbridge had gone from a troubled but unencumbered rake to a content family man. It was a state incomprehensible to Malcolm, for what did emotional entanglements provide but the possibility of being betrayed by those you cared for?
“Why not ask Tristan? He’s a jovial enough fellow.” Sir Tristan Crosby was their mutual friend, the third corner to their fraternal triangle, and the only person in this world who Malcolm cared for besides Willbridge.
“Next to you, he is my dearest friend,” Willbridge replied. “However, I have given it much thought, and I do believe his high spirits would prove detrimental to Emily. She is a quiet soul, and he is...not.”
Which was putting it mildly, Malcolm thought grudgingly. If Lady Emily was as painfully shy as Willbridge implied, Tristan’s bounding love for life might do her more harm than good. Even so, it was every man for himself. “You never know, he might be what she needs.”
“I had considered that,” Willbridge said slowly, and for a moment hope and relief flared in Malcolm’s breast. “But I have come to know my sister since our reconciliation, and such a personality would overwhelm her. She needs someone more levelheaded and restrained. Someone like you.”
Malcolm opened his mouth to once more denounce the idea. It was then Willbridge went in for the kill.
“Please, Morley. I trust you with my life. I would not ask you to promise something of this magnitude otherwise.”
Nothing he could have said would have swayed Malcolm more. Knowing he was effectively backed into the proverbial corner, he went to his desk, slamming his empty glass down on the polished surface. Taking up the bottle of brandy he had left there, he filled his rummer to the brim and downed the whole lot—a bit of liquid courage, he supposed—before swinging about to face his friend. “Fine,” he spat, “I will do it. I swear it.”
He could not help feeling, however, as a relieved smile spread over Willbridge’s face, that he had signed a deal with the devil himself.
• • •
Lady Emily Masters bent her head determinedly over her embroidery in an attempt to distance herself from the surrounding chaos. With her brother’s wedding less than a week away, his future in-laws had already descended upon Willowhavenen masse. And Emily was quickly learning how swiftly and completely the peace of her home could be decimated.
It turned out to take no more than two, three minutes at the most.
It’s only for a few weeks, she told herself stoutly. Just then a shout went up across the room as two of the youngest visitors got into a bit of friendly banter. Emily tensed, her fingers tightening around her needle. Who knew that the prospect of three weeks’ time could be so daunting?
The cushion beside her dipped, and a gentle hand landed on her arm. Emily looked into the kind, worried face of her brother’s intended, Miss Imogen Duncan.
“Are you positive you don’t mind the wedding being held here?” Imogen asked for what must have been the hundredth time that evening, casting a doubtful eye toward her mother, Lady Tarryton. That lady was waxing poetic to Emily’s mother about the grandeur of the house. Imogen pressed her lips together before turning back to Emily. “We did consider having a quick ceremony in London, but thought this would be easiest on everyone involved.”
Meaning, Emily thought,they worried how I would fare in the capital. She would not deny that when the engagement between her brother Caleb and Imogen was announced, the idea of having to go to London had torn through her with a terror that had left her nearly incoherent. Only when the plan to have the ceremony at Willowhaven had been broached had she relaxed. Even that, however, had its drawbacks, as she was learning now. Weddings meant guests, and guests meant strangers infiltrating her home, polluting all of the places she felt most comfortable and safe. But without doubt this option, as abhorrent as it was proving to be, was the lesser of two evils. She would have to content herself with that. A daunting task, she was coming to learn, now that Imogen’s family had arrived.
“Of course I’m certain,” she replied, hoping beyond hope that she sounded sincere. And truly, what else could she say? That she wished that Caleb and Imogen had eloped so she would not be forced into social situations with people she did not know; so she would not have to show her face to those who would stare in horror or, even worse, look on her with pity? No matter the truth of that, she was not so uncaring as to voice it. This marriage was nothing but wonderful, and she wished to celebrate it in the best way possible. That her mode of celebration was much more private than everyone else’s did not matter, not when it came to the happiness of two people she loved so very much.
Imogen must have read her thoughts, for she looked at her dubiously. “I know my family can be...trying.”
“Not all of them,” Emily blurted, before gasping in horror at her gaffe. “Oh, I am so sorry, Imogen.”
