Page 7 of A Game of Hearts

“How... interesting.” Lady Anne’s voice cut through Emma’s confusion. “Though perhaps a touch too... passionate for a drawing room performance? What do you think, Lord Radmill?”

Lord Radmill cleared his throat. It was obvious that she expected her father to support her opinion.

“Well, I...”

“I thought it was beautiful,” Lady Beatrice spoke up firmly. “A perfect balance of classical elegance and true feeling.”

“Quite so,” the Duchess of Pelhampton nodded. “Reminded me of some verses my dear Duke wrote to me in our courting days. Though perhaps not quite so well composed,” she added with a fond smile at her husband.

Emma felt Lord Limnwood’s tension beside her as they returned to their seats. She glanced at him, trying to understand the rigid set of his shoulders, the way that his earlier openness had vanished completely.

“My Lord,” she began quietly.

“It seems,” he cut her off, his voice barely above a whisper, “that I was mistaken to allow such... emotional display. Lady Anne is quite right - it was inappropriate for the setting.”

“Inappropriate?” Emma couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice. “To show genuine feeling? To actually mean the words we spoke?”

“There are proper ways to express sentiment.”

“Yes, there are. And we found one. Unless...” She met his eyes directly. “Unless you did not mean a word of it, did not believe in the type of sentiments that it expressed? Was it all merely performance for you, my Lord?”

Something flickered in his grey eyes - pain? regret? - before his expression closed completely.

“What else could it have been, Miss Everton?”

The words struck like a physical blow. Emma lifted her chin, refusing to show how deeply his dismissal hurt.

“How foolish of me to imagine otherwise. I shall know better than to expect genuine feeling from you in future, my Lord.”

She turned away, focusing determinedly on Lady Anne’s performance of some excessively proper verses with her partner. But Emma’s eyes burned with unshed tears, and she could not have repeated a single word of what she heard. Beside her, Lord Limnwood sat in rigid silence, and Emma wondered if she had imagined that moment of connection during their performance. Clearly, she had been a fool to think that anything could pierce his perfect, proper armour.

The remainder of the afternoon’s performances passed in a blur of proper verses and polite applause. Emma maintained her composure through sheer determination, though she felt Lady Beatrice’s concerned glances and saw Lord James watching his brother with obvious exasperation. When at last they were dismissed to dress for dinner, Emma rose quickly, intending to escape to her chamber. Lady Anne’s voice stopped her.

“Such a shame, Miss Everton, to have your... enthusiasm… lead Lord Limnwood into impropriety. But then, not everyone understands the importance of maintaining proper standards.”

Emma turned slowly. Lady Anne stood with several other young ladies, her smile pure poison beneath its veneer of concern. Before Emma could respond, another voice cut in.

“I found their performance most affecting.” Lady Agatha’s tone could have frozen the Thames. “Though perhaps one must have some understanding of classical poetry to truly appreciate it. The Duke certainly seemed to approve - and surely his opinion carries the most weight here?”

Lady Anne’s smile slipped.

“Of course, Lady Agatha. I merely thought...”

“Did you indeed?” Lady Agatha’s eyebrow rose. “How fascinating. Emma, my dear, pray accompany me to the library. I believe that I saw some volumes of poetry there that might interest you.”

Emma gratefully fell into step beside her aunt. They were nearly to the door when Lord James intercepted them.

“Miss Everton, might I have a moment? With Lady Agatha’s permission, of course.”

Lady Agatha considered him, then nodded.

“I shall wait in the library, Emma.”

When she had gone, Lord James spoke quietly.

“I feel that I must apologise for my brother.”

“There is no need, my Lord. Lord Limnwood made his position quite clear.”