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Newbury

P. S. The stairwells at Ashton Park have excellent acoustics. I did hear your final words. The sentiment is shared, no matter what future is dictated by our respective circumstances. P.

Later, Emalyn would find it remarkable that she did not squeal or shout. But the glee washing over her held a dark tinge of sadness—their love held no hope. Instead, Emalyn merely stared at the words, her chest tight, as she read them over and over again until they blurred through the stinging wetness in her eyes.

Emalyn was not sure how much time passed before she folded the letter and slipped it between the pages of a novel. The numbness that had consumed her after the first reading had eased into an expanding warmth, desire—and anger. A low rage began to build within her, and Emalyn could not tell exactly what target she had in her sights. Philip? Their social standings? The fact that they were now more than 750 miles apart?

Philip had left her feeling bereft for more than two months—yet even with the surety of his affection for her, nothing else had changed. Could a woman forever love a man she could not be with? According to her novels, that answer was a resounding, “Yes.”

Emalyn was not so sure.

And, of course, the larger question was, “Could a man love a woman forever even as he was married to another, siring and raising children with her?”

Emalyn was quite sure the answer to that was an even more resounding, “No.”

A quick rap on the door drew her attention, and she called out, “Enter.”

Mary poked her head inside the door. “You mother requests you join her for tea.” She scowled as she looked over Emalyn. “Miss? Are you all right?”

Emalyn nodded, stood, and smoothed her skirts. “Of course, I am.” She stepped toward Mary, who held up her hand.

“If you are going to join your mother, may I suggest you wash your face?”

Emalyn bit her lower lip. “Am I a mess?”

“Quite.”

Emalyn went to her washstand to tidy her face, then sat at her vanity while Mary smoothed and repined her hair.

“Miss, are you quite sure you are well enough to have tea with your mother? I could tell her—”

Emalyn stood again and straightened her shoulders. “I believe I am. Whether my mother thinks so is yet to be seen. And we have to do a great many things in life we would prefer not to do.”

“Indeed, miss. There is no doubt about that.”

*

Saturday, 27 February 1792

London

Four in the afternoon

“Where are wegoing?” Philip leaned closer to the window of the ducal carriage, peering out at an unfamiliar area of London. The well-known streets of Mayfair had given way to a less posh section of town, mansions evolving to townhomes, then to weathered lodging houses.

Solomon did not bother to look. “I mentioned that I had a special evening planned for us, which is why I asked for you to return home this weekend.”

Philip settled back against the squabs. “But what?”

His father, sitting straight and pristine in a wool and silk black-and-white evening kit, top hat, great coat, and cane, sniffed. “Let us call it a lesson of sorts.”

The carriage halted, and a footman opened the door. Philip followed Solomon through a plain wooden door into a sparsely furnished anteroom, where his father reached for a bell pull. After a few moments a man in a burgundy and gold livery opened the only other door in the room.

“We have an appointment,” Solomon said.

The man nodded, then ushered them in, and Philip found himself in a luxurious parlor. The man took their hats, gloves, and great coats, then exited. The room was as comfortable as a bedchamber, with two leather sofas flanking a low fire crackling behind a screened hearth. Round, soft-looking pillows ranged along the sofas, and cashmere throws were draped over their backs. As escritoire sat in one corner, scattered with pages and quills, which had been set aside by the woman who sat there, watching them.

Solomon nodded to her. “Good evening, madam.”

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