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“There is no need to escort me, you may continue as you will.”
“I am taking you to Bellview manor.” His hard tone brooked no arguments. She nodded in acquiescence, knowing the need roiling inside of him demanded that he saw her safely home.
The carriage pulled away, and with a sigh, she relaxed her shoulders. A few minutes passed in silence before profound irritation snapped through her. “You are staring, Anthony!”
His gaze narrowed. “You don’t understand how it unsettles me to think of you alone with the duke for even an hour.”
Fire licked her body at his blunt statement. She had been with Elliot for hours, and she shifted her eyes from his, lest he read the knowledge there. She didn’t think she’d been fast enough.
“The Goddamned bastard.”
“Please refrain from being crude,” she snapped.
“Emma, I know the duke’s exploits and conquests, if he had not known it was you he would have had no reason to be protective of your delicacy. I doubt you can speak to me right now about being crude. And we will stop talking about this before I break my promise and challenge him for taking your honor.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she nodded in quick agreement, fighting the mortification and fear that tried to engulf her. She prayed she had not caused a rift in their friendship. “Please do not speak so lightly of dueling, Anthony. Elliot has been your friend for years.”
“Then you shouldn’t have acted with such recklessness,” her brother snarled.
Unable to speak anymore, so intense were the emotions tearing through her, Emma closed her eyes, hating that the tears spilled over.
Her brother sighed and said her name with soft regret, but she ignored him, closed her eyes, and remarkably a smile tipped her lips.
She had been brave and free and improper. And for now, that was all that mattered.
Chapter 8
Emma turned her iron key into the lock and slipped quietly into the manor, thankful the household still slept. She’d convinced Anthony he needn’t escort her inside. He’d still shimmered with fury, but it had lessened on the drive over. The control he’d exerted over his emotions had been visible, and commendable. She had long accepted that even when she was sixty, Anthony would see her as his to protect. But she would have no further discussion on her one night of passion.
She’d encouraged him to return to the house party, after securing his promise he would not betray her confidence. Hurrying up the stairs, she made her way to her chamber and opened the door. Calm stole over her the minute she stepped into her bedchamber. Warm and inviting, designed in shades of light green, her room reflected what she liked, and not what was fashionable amongst the elites. The most wonderful thing about her room was that one side was lined with long, rectangular windows which were edged with brightly colored stained-glass. There she would sit for days and overlook the beauty of the land, whether it be bedecked with flowers in bloom or the haunting snowy white of winter. If she looked away from the windows, she could imagine it was spring or a glorious summer day, and she was in a lush garden surrounded by dense verdure. She could picture herself in foreign lands with jungles closing in on her. The sounds of exotic birds and the chatter of agile monkey had filled her daydreams. There would be no jungles in America, no mischievous monkeys, but there would be an adventure. She would experience new things and meet new people. From that window, she watched the garden parties her mother hosted, the picnics with neighbors, and there she sat and painted, and dreamed, and often remember all the glorious times with Elliot. There would be no Elliot in America, she thought before her reverie was broken.
“Where have you been?”
She faltered at the sharp question. Her gaze swung to the figure seated in the dark on the blue chaise against the left wall near her windows “Upon my word, Aunt Beatrice, what are you doing here?”
Aunt Beatrice, really Lady Covington after having her own whirling and scandalous courtship with a viscount, surged to her feet and glared at her. “Why are you dressed in such a positively scandalous manner?”
The outraged question started a pounding inside of Emma’s head. The irony was that her red satin dress was less revealing and provocative that many dresses her sister and mother had worn to balls. But Emma’s life had been so conservative, so dull, a barely-there décolletage was enough to induce shock. “I was at a ball,” she said softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
Emma inhaled deep and drew from her well of patience, the one she had always used to deal with her family since her accident. “Is there a reason you are in my chamber, aunt?”
“Why are you in masquerade?”
Impatience bit her. “Aunt Beatrice, why are you here?”
“Why will you not answer my question? Which ball did you attend and why was I not informed of this?”
She steeled her spine, ignoring the shaft of pain that arrowed through her legs. “It isn’t important why I’m dressed how I am, or where I’ve been. That is my concern only.” She tried to sound firm but feared the defensive posture of her hands clasping her middle gave her away.
Her Aunt blanched. “I must summon your parents from Bath at once.”
The pounding behind her temple worsened, and she stepped past her Aunt and lowered herself onto the edge of her bed. A soft groan of relief escaped her. She would need a hot bath immediately to sooth the tension insidiously working through her muscles, and then she would need to rest for the remainder of the day.
“Were you in town? Which ball are you coming from?”
Her aunt would harangue Emma until she got an answer that confirmed her worst suspicions. “I was at Lady Waverly’s masquerade ball.” There. She admitted it.
