Page 15 of The Mister I Married

She must go where her mother went, or she must marry. It was simple enough, really.

Simple—and grossly unfair.

Lady Keswick cleared her throat into the fraught silence. “I will leave you now to finish your letter,” she said as she rose from the sofa. “We must leave soon, though, so do not tarry too long.”

“Yes, Mother,” Emmy murmured, her thoughts swimming.

Her mother gave her shoulder a squeeze and then she turned and quit the room, leaving Emmy alone with nothing but stunned silence. What in blue blazes had just happened? One moment her life was just as it should be and the next it was…not.

Oh, how she hated change. Especially change that was thrust upon her. So much had already happened this last year with her friends and her brother marrying and skipping this Season to stay at home in the country, leaving her behind without even a hint of regret, and now this.

It sounded naive, perhaps, but it had never occurred to her that her mother would grow weary of the bustle of the London Season. Or maybe she’d simply not allowed it to occur to her.

Maybe she’d wanted to believe there would be no more changes coming, which was, of course, ridiculous. Nothing stayed the same forever. Everyone knew that.

The grandfather clock chimed the hour, breaking into her reverie, and Emmy rose and walked to her brother’s desk, intending to finish her letter. She settled back into her brother’s chair and picked up her quill pen before dipping the tip into the inkwell. She poised the pen over the letter and paused, her mother’s words still swarming through her mind.

As an unmarried young lady, you will not be able to stay in London on your own.

She was right, of course. No single young woman could navigate London alone, not if she wished to keep her good reputation. She must remain under the watchful gaze of an acceptable chaperone, a family member or guardian, for as long as she remained unwed. Once she married, that responsibility shifted to her husband who, by law, owned her. Owned her. Like one owned a pair of boots or a Chippendale tea table.

Men—wealthy men—held all the power in the world, while women were practically powerless. Widowhood was the nearest a woman would ever get to total freedom.

Emmy set the pen down then leaned back in her chair and let her head fall back, squeezing her eyes shut. What was she going to do? What should she do?

Should she give up the life she wanted to live here in London and stay at her mother’s side, safe but tethered? Or should she give herself to one man, and hope he proved to be a good and honorable husband?

And if she should choose the latter option—the uncertain option—whom should she marry?

She had never once met a man who tempted her in that way, and she certainly did not know of one now. Of course, all the single gentlemen of her acquaintance were either boring, boorish, or boneheaded.

Except for Alex Whitcomb.

The thought whispered through her mind and her eyes popped open. She sat up in her chair, her heart kicking up a rapid rhythm. Alex?

She’d only met him a week ago, but she did like him better than any other single young man in Town. And she thought he liked her well enough, too. At least, he seemed to like her. And her mother had said so, too, although Emmy wasn’t convinced her mother’s opinion was entirely reliable. She was trying to marry her off, after all.

Still, her own instincts told her he enjoyed her company, and he seemed to value her opinion as well as any man could. She did not know if he found her attractive, but she did not think he was repulsed by her, either.

Nor was she repulsed by him. She was more than aware of his physical appeal, but even more importantly, he seemed to be a decent man. His sister adored him, and he clearly cared for her and wanted her to be happy. Surely he would want the same for his wife?

Emmy leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her mind racing with possibility. Should she do it? Should she ask Alex to be her husband? Or was this the most crackbrained idea she’d ever had?

Heaving a sigh, she returned to her letter, dashing off a few words of farewell before sealing and addressing it for Winters to post. She’d let the time run away from her and now she must hurry and dress for their tea date. She rose and headed for the door, her steps slower than they ought to be, but she couldn’t seem to muster enough enthusiasm to care.

She was in something of a fog, it seemed, still grappling with her feelings, and, truth be told, she was more than a little peeved with her mother. She knew she had no right to be, not after all the leeway her mother had given her over the years, but she couldn’t help feeling this way. Her reprieve had come to an end, and now she must marry or give up her life here in London.

She wasn’t ready for either, but it seemed she had no choice. She would have to find a man to marry her, a man who sought a wife to beget his heirs and in exchange would allow her to come and go as she pleased.

Could Alex be that man?

She thought so. She hoped so. All she had to do now was ask him.