“There’s something else,” Emma interrupted. She wiped her tears away and admitted, “My stepmother has planned an auction. She intends to invite unmarried gentlemen to bid on a piece of art, but whoever wins will also win my hand in marriage.” Her voice held a tremor, despite her efforts to control it. “I can’t let them do this. Please help me.”
Mrs. Harding let out a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, I did hear of this from rumors around London. My source tells me that your stepmother has already sent out the invitations.”
“Oh no,” Emma breathed. Humiliation washed over her at the thought. It meant that Lucy had made the decision without consulting her husband. “I thought I could talk her out of it. It’s... part of the reason why I came here.”
“If it is still your wish to be married, I can send several suitors to become your tutors,” the matron suggested. “Then you can get to know them and decide if you like them.” She paused a moment. “Unless there is someone else who has already caught your interest?”
Emma thought again of Lord Dunmeath, but then she was afraid to get her hopes up. Most likely the earl wasn’t truly interested in her—only curious.
And so, she answered, “No one in particular.”
“Then we will choose a few candidates,” Mrs. Harding finished. “In the meantime, go and get some rest. Tomorrow will be very busy indeed.”
Emma supposed it was good that her secret had now been revealed. But even so, what man wanted a wife who couldn’t read, handle the household accounts, or write letters? Her time was running out—and she worried that there wasn’t enough time to escape this auction.
Chapter Three
Cormac’s stomach wrenchedwith a vicious pain. His vision had grown dizzy, and he’d been unable to sleep or eat. He couldn’t remember the last time it had been this bad. His senses were so overwhelmed he simply lay in the darkness, trying to do nothing but breathe.
The attack had come on suddenly, without any warning. He’d tried to distract himself from the pain by rereading his grandfather’s diary. The stories of his family’s past were familiar, and his father Brandan had added his own tales over the years. In many ways, it was a way of remembering his father. There were sometimes notes written in the margins, reminders that Brandan had written about family birthdays or gifts he’d meant to buy for them.
The words caused a fresh ache of pain, even though it had been seven years. As a boy, Cormac had wanted nothing more than to be like his father. But the illness had struck hard and taken his loved ones far too soon.
His mood grew despondent, for he didn’t want to die. He was only six-and-twenty. He’d barely lived a life at all, and he had a household in Ireland who depended on him. His little sisters needed him. His mother needed him.
Yet he could do nothing except lie in the dark in his study. Hawkins had offered to help him upstairs to his bedchamber, but he’d refused. The thought of walking made him nauseous, and the thought of being carried—was humiliating. He had nothing left but his pride. At least if he lay back on the settee with a blanket, he could rest.
“Sir, I’ve brought you a headache powder in water,” Hawkins offered, keeping his voice low. “And some fresh bread. It might help.”
He had no desire to eat, but he knew he had little choice. Bitterness cloaked his mood, even as he choked down the food and the bitter powder in water.
“You also received an invitation to pay a call at Mrs. Harding’s residence in the morning,” Hawkins said. “She said something about matchmaking?”
Cormac steadied himself. He wasn’t certain he would be well enough by then, but he did need help finding a wife. Although, at this rate, he might be dead by Christmas.
“Shall I send your regrets, my lord?” Hawkins suggested. “I doubt if you’ll be well by morning.”
He already knew he would not. And yet, if he was able to stand or walk around, he would force himself to go. Even if his head was pounding, he would try. If he stayed within these four walls, he might go mad.
His thoughts drifted back to Miss B. Or whatever her family name was. He’d lied about knowing who she was, for he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her. But the truth was, he’d noticed the moment she’d withdrawn from the dinner conversation. The other gentlemen had already dismissed her, and he’d sensed the awkwardness she was feeling.
Cormac had experienced the same isolation himself as a boy, and it drew him closer to her. He remembered the night he’d spoken to her at the ball. She’d had a softness in her features, and he’d had a sense that she was seeing beyond what everyone else saw. And now he knew the reason behind that distance in her green eyes, though last night she’d revealed more than she’d intended.
Despite knowing about her vision problems, it didn’t make him pity her. Instead, it provoked his curiosity. He wanted to know more about blindness, to understand how she navigated such a complex world as London. Honestly, he didn’t know if he could manage it. And he was convinced that no one else knew of this, which fascinated him.
“Write a note, if you would, and tell Mrs. Harding I will try to come,” he said. “If I can.”
“There are four other invitations for this week,” Hawkins continued. “Two are balls, one is a musicale, and the last one is the auction. Do you still wish to attend?”
He’d nearly forgotten about the auction. “Write a reply of yes to all.” If he didn’t feel better by then, he would send a note of regrets.
But as he lay back on the settee in the darkness, he knew he would have to take desperate measures if he meant to see his heir before he died.
*
Cormac waited inthe drawing room, feeling as if he’d gone three rounds in a boxing match. He’d barely slept, and he felt weak and exhausted. Even so, he didn’t want to waste any opportunity to find a bride. Miss B was the best option he had, and he would not turn his back on her.
Mrs. Harding arrived at last and greeted him. “Lord Dunmeath, I’m so glad you’ve come. Are you still interested in finding a bride?”
