“It’s because she can’t bloody wellsee,” Lord Dunmeath snapped. “She can’t see any of you or any of the patterns. For someone who is practically blind, I think she’s doing better than any of you ever could.”
Oh God. Her stomach twisted with humiliation. Why had he said that in front of everyone? Her face burned crimson, and Emma pushed her way past them, counting steps until she thought she was near the doorway. But the blur of a white doorway against a white wall made it so the threshold wasn’t where she’d imagined. In her haste, she crashed right into the wall.
Damn him for spilling her secret. She found the doorway and went into the hallway. After counting steps, she reached around until she found the stair banister and hurried down the steps. Emma had no idea where she was going, but anywhere far from here was good enough for her. If the guests talked, then soon everyone in London would know. It was bad enough being unable to see, but she’d managed to keep it hidden for years. Everyone believed that she didn’twantto dance—not that she couldn’t see.
Lord Dunmeath’s betrayal sliced through her. Why had she been so stupid as to confess the truth to him? She should have known better than to trust him.
“Seeking an escape, are you?”
She heard the voice of Mr. Gregor, and she stopped on one of the stair treads.
“Please. I just need a few moments to myself.” And when she was alone, then she could have a good cry and decide what to do next.
“Garden or library?” he asked.
“The garden.” Though it was growing late in the summer, there might still be some blooms left. Privacy meant the most to her now.
Mr. Gregor took her hand and rested it on his arm, leading her down the end of the hall. Twenty-four steps later, he opened the door, and she felt the sunlight on her face.
He guided her down four stone steps, and then remarked, “If you walk about... let’s say twenty paces, there’s a stone bench on the left side.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking her hand from his arm. She walked across the grass, counting the steps, until the scent of roses deepened. She turned toward the left and saw a grayish form that contrasted against green shrubbery.
She made her way toward the bench and sat down. The weight of discovery infuriated her, but what could she do about it now? She could only hope that the others wouldn’t share the secret.
But part of her knew they would. It was delicious gossip, was it not? Poor, blind Emma.
No, she wasn’t fully blind. But she didn’t want to be pitied or treated differently.
The sound of footsteps approaching caught her attention. When the footsteps stopped, she guessed that it might be Lord Dunmeath. He paused a moment and seemed to think about what he wanted to say. Only, she didn’t want useless apologies. Instead, she wanted him to understand the magnitude of what he’d done.
“Miss Bartholomew, I truly am—”
“You had no right,” she cut him off. She turned to face his shadowy figure and crossed her arms. “I’ve kept this from thetonfor years. It wasmysecret to keep, not yours to tell.”
“I am realizing that now,” he said woodenly. “And you cannot know how very sorry I am.”
“Your apology means absolutely nothing. The four of them will go and tell everyone they know.” In an exaggerated tone, she whispered loudly. “Remember that pathetic wallflower Miss Bartholomew? Well, it turns out she doesn’t dance or talk to anyone because she’s blind. Imagine!
“Oh, the poor dear,” Emma mocked herself. “She’ll never get a husband now.
“Have you heard the best part?” she continued. “Her stepmother is hosting an auction. Are you in need of a bride? Well now, you can buy one. If you win the auction, you’ll win her hand in marriage.”
He seemed stunned at her words but didn’t respond. She didn’t need his pity anyhow. Furious tears streamed against her cheeks. “You ruined my chances of finding someone real, Lord Dunmeath. You took that from me.”
That was what hurt most of all—the loss of hope. She’d always doubted her ability to find a husband. But now it was truly over. Once everyone knew, they would shun her even more.
The earl’s silence gave her no indication of what he was thinking. Finally, he said grimly, “You could marry me.”
The words were an invisible blow. It was the first marital proposal she’d ever received, and it was from a man who didn’t really want to wed her—it was intended as a weak apology, nothing more. He didn’t mean it.
“I don’t want to marry you,” she shot back. “Why would I want to marry a man who humiliated me?”
“I am truly sorry.” His words had a soft finality to them, shadowed with regret. “I meant only to defend you.”
“Just go,” she said wearily. “Find yourself a bride and go back to Ireland.”
“What can I do to make it right?” he asked. “Is there anything?”
