Page 43 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

Another sob trembled out, quiet but impossible to entirely swallow back.

“Emily?”

Emily’s head jerked up at the sound of her name—without the ill-fitting title of lady—spoken in a voice of true concern. She blinked against the blur of tears as the curtain shifted, lamplight spilling into her refuge.

Juniper stood there, the rich colors of her gown a blur of jewel tones above Emily’s hunched form. Her expression was all kindness and worry, those dark eyes warm rather than critical.

Emily’s cheeks burned. She dashed at them with the back of her gloved hand, trying in vain to wipe away the evidence of her shame. “I—I am sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I did not mean… I did not intend for anyone to see me like this.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Juniper said, her tone soft as she lowered herself into a crouch beside Emily. The rustle of her skirts, the faint scent of rosewater and something bright and citrus, wrapped around them both. Juniper took Emily’s trembling hands in her own and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “But you must tell me—what has happened? I saw you not ten minutes ago, and you seemed perfectly well.”

Emily shook her head, fresh tears stinging her eyes. She did not wish to repeat the words. Saying them aloud would make them feel truer somehow, giving them weight enough to crush her completely. “It is nothing,” she managed to say, though her voice wavered. “Someone said something. Something…unkind.”

Juniper’s mouth tightened, though her touch remained gentle. “What did they say?” she asked quietly. “Who was it?”

Emily couldn’t meet her gaze. Shame curled in her stomach, sharp and twisting. “I have no wish to talk about it.” Her words came out small, a little broken. If she spoke it, Juniper will know how foolish Emily was. How unfit for all of this. “I only… I want to leave. I cannot face them all again, not after—” The rest dissolved into another sob, her throat closing around it.

Juniper’s hand moved to Emily’s back, stroking in slow, comforting circles. The kindness of the gesture made Emily’s eyes sting all the more. “You need not explain if you do not wish to,” Juniper said. “But you are not alone, Emily. I will not let you face this without someone by your side.”

Whatever she was supposed to be, she did not feel equal to any of it. Tears spilled over again despite her effort to hold them back, but she nodded all the same. It was a strange mixture of humiliation and relief—that someone had found her, that someone cared. That Juniper cared.

“I will find one of the ladies in your family,” Juniper said at last, rising gracefully to her feet. “They will know what to do, and they can take you home if that is what you wish.”

Home. That word did not mean to Emily what it did to Juniper. Her friend meant the townhouse where the Sterling family resided at present. But that was not home to Emily. It hadn’t felt like home even once. She missed the country home, humble in size with barely enough room for all of them, and simply furnished but filled with the memories of easier times.

Away from the music, the bright lights, the watchful eyes weighing every word she spoke, every step she took. Emily nodded, unable to form a proper reply. The tightness in her chest eased just a fraction. Juniper believed her distress mattered—not because of her father’s title, not because she ought to be useful or accomplished, but simply because she was hurt.

“Thank you,” Emily whispered, a little hoarse, wiping again at her cheeks. “I… I am very grateful.”

Juniper offered her a small, encouraging smile and gave her shoulder a gentle pat before letting the curtain fall back into place. Emily listened to the soft retreat of her footsteps, the distant rise and fall of the music beyond the withdrawing room door.

Alone again behind the curtain, she drew in a careful breath. Her eyes still burned, her heart still ached, but a fragile thread of steadiness wound through the pain.

Perhaps she was not quite as alone in this glittering, unforgiving world as she had feared.

Chapter Fifteen

August 21st, 1822

Pacing in agitation while wearing a ballgown was not something Emily would recommend to anyone, though she practiced it herself the evening of the ball. Her thoughts raced and tripped and grew muddled. All because of one man. She couldn’t believe how completely her thoughts had tangled themselves around Mr. Lyness Eastwood.

How had he become such a presence in her life in so short a time? When had he begun to occupy so many of her thoughts, so much quiet territory in her heart?

With him, she did not have to watch herself.

All she could think of was the panorama the day before: how he had stood so near her that she could feel the soft tickle of his breath at the back of her neck, the subtle heat of him close enough to steady her without a word. And when he had taken her hand… she doubted she would ever forget the sensation. His fingers had wrapped around hers with such gentle certainty, offering both comfort and strength.

It was silly to have startled at the lights and noise. Nothing truly frightening had occurred. But she had leapt all the same—her heart thundering in her ears—and he had been there at once to soothe her. And she had let him.

She had not hesitated to offer him her hand again, and again. Until he held it for nearly the entire performance.

What was she to do?

It was his brother who acted as though he meant to court her. His brother who invited her on outings. His brother who held the title. His brother whom her family would expect her to favor. That was the match already forming around her.

Emily paused at the window. The sky remained bright, though the hour crept steadily toward the start of the ball. Why must assemblies begin so late? Ten o’clock felt far better suited to settling into a comfortable chair with a book and a cup of tea.

Yet she would not miss this ball for the world—not for any book or any tea.