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On the pretenseof resting, Emalyn lay on her bed, staring at the frosted window behind her curtains and thinking about Philip. And her mother.
Teatime had been... odd.
Afternoon tea with Medina Benjumeda always meant guests and had since their arrival in Prague. Not that much different from their lives in London, once Emalyn thought about it. It was, however, why she despised taking tea with her mother.
Today, Emalyn had entered her mother’s receiving room to find Medina waiting alone. No visitors. Only two cups. Emalyn had paused in the door, her suspicions on high alert. Medina, on the other hand, acted as if nothing were amiss, the perfect, unflappable social maven. And, at first, that seemed to be the case, with the expected questions about Emalyn’s studies and tours around Prague with Miss Zamora. Then Medina turned to questions about missing London, and whether Emalyn preferred England to Spain. How would she feel about living there permanently? Even more startling, her mother’s last questions had to do with Mary’s contentment in her position.
Mary? HermaidMary?
Yes, Medina Benjumeda, who usually considered the servants little more than sentient furniture, who barely spoke to herownmaid, had asked about her daughter’s. On the very day Mary had delivered a letter from Philip to Emalyn.
Something odd was definitely in the air, and Emalyn suspected she knew exactly what it was.
Her decision made, Emalyn got up, brushed herself off, and sat down at her escritoire. She pulled out a piece of foolscap—this one she would post herself. She would not place Mary at risk any longer. No more deception, at least on her part.
27 February 1792
My dear Newbury—
I would be a fool not to see your actions for what they were—agony caused by my own foolish words, born of my fear of loss and the pain of not being with you. The fact that our circumstances preclude a future together does not make my affection for you less eternal, only painful.
I will write whenever possible, but as you can see from the delivery of this note, I will no longer do so under any sort of subterfuge. Our clandestine efforts have resulted in Mary being at risk for losing her position, and I cannot and will not tolerate that. I have also grown increasingly uncomfortable with that method of communication. It reminds me too much of the machinations of the elite, which my brothers have spoken often about, and which I have seen in my parents’ dealings with clients and vendors alike. I despise it.
I suppose it would come as no surprise to you that I prefer the outspoken, the honest, and the open discussions that you and I have shared so often. Mother has made valiant attempts to conform me into the perfect (that is, subtle and refined) lady for the elite business and social atmosphere in which we travel, but I fear I am a tremendous disappointment to her. It would certainly not be the first time I have seen that despair in her eyes. Perhaps it is just as well that a future as a marchioness is not my path. I would hate to see that disappointment in your eyes as well.
For now, I will continue to indulge in the pleasures that Prague has to offer such as me. Perhaps we can discuss them in more depth at some upcoming holiday. If not, let us hope Christmas once against brings a preponderance of rosemary trees.
Ever faithful and forgiving,
E
Emalyn read through the lines twice. Satisfied, she sealed the letter and set it aside for her next excursion. She would hide no more. Philip, raised among the elite and schooled to become a duke, had lived among the kind of shrewd maneuverings that make such a life possible. Perhaps it was as well that they could not have a future together. After all, Emalyn Benjumeda would make a horrible duchess. It was simply not in her nature.
So be it.
*
Saturday, 27 February 1792
London, England
Half-past six in the evening
“Who is she?”
Since returning to the carriage for the ride home, Philip had stared out the window, his mind lost in a fog of Cassandra’s instructions. She had been true to her word—he had not touched her—although she had disrobed and provided more information on the way a woman’s body functioned than Philip ever dreamed there was to know. His own body, of course, had responded as nature intended, and Cassandra—without the expected mirth, given the situation—had given him tips on self-pleasure that had never occurred to him either.
He had been astonished how little he actually knew about how people came together.
He looked around at his father, whose face was puckered with annoyance. “Who?”
Solomon growled. “Your lover.”
Philip idly wondered if he would always feel this stupid following a sexual encounter. Considering how little he had physically done, he suspected that actual intimacy would leave him near to brainless. “Cassandra?”
Solomon’s impatience boiled over. “No! Not Cassandra! Your paramour.”
Philip swallowed. “I have never been with a woman.”
