As Emilia accepted the biscuit, Fredrick said, “I must agree with Anette. You did sing superbly.”
“Thank you,” Emilia responded. For some reason, she was especially pleased that he had enjoyed her performance.
“Where did you learn to sing like that?” Fredrick asked.
“My mother,” Emilia shared. “She taught me from a young age, and we used to sing to each other when we were working on embroidery.”
Fredrick’s eyes held approval. “Frankly, I don’t think I’ve heard a lovelier voice at these soirees.”
“You flatter me, my lord,” Emilia said.
“It is merely the truth,” Fredrick remarked. “Had I known you were so talented, I wouldn’t have worried about you standing up there.”
Emilia watched as a young woman approached the pianoforte and took her place on the bench. The pianist’s hands danced across the keys with a captivating ferocity that held Emilia’s attention. It was a delightful diversion to be entertained by such a skillful performance.
Fredrick looked down at her biscuit. “You do realize that there is a refreshment table just on the other side of the room.”
Anette interjected, “Let her eat her biscuit in peace.”
Emilia smiled at her friend before asking Fredrick, “Would you care for half?”
“If you are offering,” Fredrick replied.
She broke the biscuit in half and extended it towards him. “I hope you enjoy it, my lord.”
After she took a bite from her biscuit, Emilia realized that she was genuinely enjoying herself. She hadn’t embarrassed herself when she had performed her song, and she was enjoying time with her friends. At least she considered them her friends.
Emilia snuck a glance at Fredrick and briefly admired his handsome face. He was so different from what she thought a lord would be. His warmth and kindness put her at ease while in his presence. But she didn’t dare become too familiar. He was helping her enter Society, and nothing more.
So why did her heart seem to race in her chest every time he directed his gaze towards her? This would not do. Falling for a lord would do her no good.
With the morning sun streaming into his bedchamber, Fredrick rested his shoulder against the window frame, gazing out at the vast gardens. He had every reason to be happy, but he wasn’t. He was miserable. And every day, it grew worse.
The weight of guilt hung heavily on him for not being with his comrades on the Continent, where they fought for their lives, while he attended soirees with theton. How could he turn a blind eye to their plight? They had seen each other at their worst, yet their mutual respect and appreciation remained unwavering.
He understood the reasons behind Wellington’s decision to send him home, but he couldn’t help wishing for a different outcome. Now, he found himself trapped in a relentless cycle with no apparent escape. He didn’t want to return to the life he’d had before the war because he was different now.
The door opened and his valet stepped into the room, holding a pair of polished boots. “Carson informed me that breakfast has been set out, my lord,” Rickard said.
Fredrick pushed off the wall and went to retrieve the boots. “I suppose I should eat before my ride.”
“I saw Lord Roswell escorting his wife down to the dining room so you won’t be alone,” Rickard shared.
After he sat on the bed, Fredrick put his boots on and let out a groan.
“Is your wound hurting you?”
Fredrick shook his head. “No, I was expressing my discontent with these boots. They haven’t been properly broken in yet.”
Rickard studied him for a moment before asking, “You still miss the war, don’t you?” It was phrased as a question, but it was delivered more like a statement.
“Don’t you?”
With a shake of his head, Rickard replied, “Do I miss fighting every day to just stay alive? No. I do not miss the war.”
Fredrick rose. “I just feel like a failure.”
“A failure?” Rickard asked. “No, my lord, you are a hero. You saved many lives through your strength and determination.”
