Page 6 of The Mister I Married

Chapter Three

“Oh, now this is an interesting piece of news,” Emmy said to her mother the following morning in their elegant Mayfair drawing room. “Apparently, Philippa Simpson has accepted an offer of marriage from Lord Vale, a man she once described as possessing ‘all the looks of a horny toad with none of the charm’.” She leaned back in her seat on the sage green camelback sofa and smirked at Lady Keswick over the top of the scandal sheet clasped in her hands. “It would seem the lady’s options have thinned.”

Emmy did not relish being so petty—or judgmental, for that matter—but then, she had known beautiful, conceited Philippa for years, ever since they made their come-out together, and never once had she heard the girl utter a kind word. Of course, she would never go so far as to delight in another person’s misfortune, but neither could she muster sympathy for her. She’d made her bed and now she must lie in it.

“I do wish you wouldn’t read that trash, darling,” Lady Keswick murmured from her seat at the other end of the sofa, her gaze trained on her needlepoint. “It cannot be good for an innocent young lady to fill her head with such things.”

Emmy smiled. “Come, Mother, I am not so very young, and certainly not innocent.”

Lady Keswick’s gaze shot to hers, her blue eyes wide with alarm. “I beg your pardon?”

Emmy choked on a startled laugh, even as heat flooded her cheeks. “That is not what I meant,” she assured her mother hastily. Needlessly. For heaven’s sake, she’d never even been kissed by a man before. “I only meant that I am aware of the way things work, the…required actions for procreation. And I’m glad I know. Indeed, I think all young ladies should be educated on the ways of the world.” And certainly on those which directly involved them, such as procreation and childbirth.

“I do not disagree with you, my dear,” Lady Keswick replied. “I only wish you would further your…education with less disreputable sources.”

Emmy smiled at that, her gaze dipping to the paper in her lap. “The Tattletale is a vulgar rag, I grant you, but they know everything about everyone, and they always seem to know it first, which is precisely why I continue to read it. I like to know everything about everyone, too.”

Her mother sighed. “Yes, darling, I know you do.”

Silence settled between them as Lady Keswick returned to her needlepoint, and Emmy stared at her newspaper, unseeing, a sharp knot twisting her chest. She’d disappointed her mother again. Honestly, the feeling ought to be rote by now, yet it wasn’t, and probably never would be. A part of her still wished she could be the daughter her mother wanted, a sweet and amiable girl, the sort who married well and sprinted into motherhood with unabashed joy. The sort befitting a feminine, fanciful name like Emmaline Violet Ruelle. The name her mother had given her.

She’d realized long ago, however, that she would never be that girl, and she was satisfied with that. Mostly. She only wished her mother felt the same.

Stealing a glance at the slender, elegant woman seated beside her, she felt…what? What did she feel? Irritation? Affection? Both?

She loved her mother fiercely, and yet, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from wishing for more from the woman who’d raised her. She longed for the acceptance, the understanding, of kindred spirits, and she often wondered if she would have found in her father the kinship she’d craved from her mother for so long.

It was an exercise in futility, of course, wondering about her father. She was only three years old when he died, far too young to remember the man, or what he was like as a father, and not a single memory of him remained—not his hugs or the sound of his voice or the scent of his soap. Nothing. And she felt robbed. Robbed of his memory, of his friendship, of all that could have been.

Not that she would choose her father over her mother, of course. She would never go so far as that. She knew her mother loved her, and only wanted her to be happy, and she’d certainly indulged her more than most mothers would. Most mothers would have insisted that their daughter take a husband long before she reached the age of four-and-twenty, but Lady Keswick hadn’t. She wanted Emmy to marry, of course, but not at the expense of her happiness, and Emmy was well aware not every mother was as wonderful as hers.

Tess Whitcomb’s tear-streaked face flashed through her mind, and she frowned as once again she remembered the awful things those two odious girls had said to her. Calling her mother a whore to her face. Anger rushed through her, heating her cheeks.

Honestly, how anyone could punish, or even admonish, a person for her parents’ misdeeds was beyond her understanding. She was glad she’d been there to speak up for Miss Whitcomb. She did not like to be discourteous or unkind, but discourteous and unkind seemed to be the only way to communicate with girls like Lady Anne and Miss Peyton.

And someone as sweet as Miss Whitcomb would have difficulty behaving that way, even in her own defense, which made her easy prey for the predatory bullies of the ton.

At least she had a protective older brother to look after her, she thought, as Mr. Whitcomb’s dark, flashing eyes shot through her mind once again. A thrill whispered up her spine as she remembered the fierce set of his angular jaw, the low growl of his voice as he demanded to know what she’d done to his sister. The way it had gentled when he’d asked Miss Whitcomb if she was all right.

Even scowling, he was an exceptionally handsome man, and she’d thought of him more than once since meeting him, which was positively absurd. For heaven’s sake, she’d spent all of two minutes in his company and knew next to nothing about him. But then, perhaps that was part of his appeal. She did love a mystery.

What does he look like when he smiles?

A sigh escaped her lips before she could catch it, and she frowned her displeasure with herself. She was being ridiculous.

With a determined snap of the paper in her hands, she forced her attention on the printed words, her gaze snagging on a familiar name. “Oh, I wish Sophie and Olivia were here to read this,” she said, her brows rising. “Viscount Whiteside is rumored to be betrothed to Maria Gibbons. The two were seen together at Gunter’s late last week.”

Lord Whiteside was one of Olivia’s many, many rejected suitors, and Maria Gibbons had once pursued Sophie’s husband, James.

“How lovely for them,” Lady Keswick said with an approving smile. “I think they will make a good match.”

“So do I,” Emmy said. “They are both very sweet, and equally, very feather-brained.”

Her mother shot her a reproving glance. “That is not very nice, Emmaline.”

“But neither is it untrue,” she quipped, extending a forefinger in the air.

“Perhaps,” Lady Keswick returned. “But just because it might be true does not mean it must be said.” She sighed. “I do wish you wouldn’t voice every single thought that enters your mind, darling.”