“You’re becoming a spinster.” Lucy sighed. “The longer you remain on the shelf, the worse it will be.”
Spinster. The word struck her like a bolt of hope. Two of her acquaintances, Lady Ashleigh Pryor and Miss Violet Edwards, had sought help from Mrs. Harding’s School for Young Ladies, also nicknamed the School for Spinsters. Both had spoken highly of the headmistress, and both women had married men whom they loved.
Emma had no such delusions that she would find anyone to love, but Mrs. Harding might be able to help her elude this horrid auction idea. Honestly, she was grasping at any means of an escape.
“Papa, what if I were to take lessons? I’ve heard good things about Mrs. Harding’s School for Young Ladies. She’s a matchmaker, from what I’m told. Would you allow me to try?”
Her father paused a moment. “What do you think, Lucy? I’ve not heard of this school before.”
Her stepmother snorted. “The School for Spinsters? Really, Emma? Why would you believe that would work? We don’t have years to transform you.”
“It’s worth a try,” she offered weakly.
“We don’t have the money,” Lucy insisted. Then she corrected, “That is, we have to save the money for your dowry and the auction.”
“But if I find a husband on my own, then there’s no need for that,” Emma said. She turned back to her father, hoping he would allow it. “Papa, what do you think? Would you let me try?”
“And... what sorts of lessons would you be learning?” her father asked. “You’ve already had a governess.” He cleared his throat. “I thought you hated lessons.”
“This is different,” she insisted, though she truthfully didn’t know what any of the lessons would be about. “Would you allow me to at least meet with her and ask questions?”
“I’ve heard it’s very costly,” Lucy interrupted. “And I see no reason for it. What could Mrs. Harding do for you that we couldn’t?”
“It would be less humiliating than anauction,” Emma pointed out. “Let me have a month or two of lessons. It might work.” Though she didn’t truly believe it, she was grasping at any means of delaying Lucy’s ridiculous auction.
Her father didn’t answer for a long moment. “Well, I suppose there would be no harm in getting information. Lucy could go with you.”
“No,” Emma answered quickly. Her stepmother clearly had her sights set upon this auction, and the last thing she wanted was Lucy’s interference. But she softened her voice for her father’s sake. “I mean, I wouldn’t want her to be inconvenienced.”
Lucy walked toward her husband and gave a soft sigh. “Dear Henry, you have such a kind heart. But I truly don’t believe that lessons are needed in this instance.”
“Papa, please.” She wasn’t above begging—not when it involved her future.
He seemed to consider it. “If it means that much to you, I suppose one month won’t make too much difference.” To Lucy, he added, “And that will give you enough time to plan this... marital auction, as it were. The two of you can find suitable candidates and determine whether any of them might be appropriate.”
Though a month wasn’t nearly enough time to deter Lucy from her plans, Emma saw no point in arguing further. Instead, she made her way toward her father and embraced him. “Thank you, Papa.” She could smell the faint scent of sandalwood from his shaving soap, and the familiar aroma evoked the memories of when she’d sat in his lap as a young girl while he’d read her stories.
He sighed and hugged her back. “Go on, then. I’m certain you’ll have to write a note to this Mrs. Harding and find out when you can pay a call.”
Emma nodded and took a moment to calm her emotions. “Thank you.” She nodded in Lucy’s direction and then walked twelve steps to the doorway. Then she turned to walk the twenty-two steps to the staircase. On her way out, she overheard her stepmother remarking, “This isn’t going to work, Henry.”
“I know,” he said softly. “But what else does she have except hope?”
*
Cormac Ormond, thefourth Earl of Dunmeath, was running out of time. During the past six months, he’d asked twelve different young ladies for their hands in marriage, and all had refused. To be sure, he barely knew any of them. But all had been beautiful, with excellent dowries and good family names. As for himself, he wasn’t very particular about what he wanted in a wife. As long as she didn’t mind living in Ireland and accepting some of his... eccentricities... they would get along well enough. It didn’t matter whether his wife loved him or not, so long as she was willing to bear him a child.
Because he was going to die quite soon.
His father had died seven years ago. Then, only three years later, his older brother had followed suit. Cormac had begun getting sick only last year, which made him worry about how much time he had left. The physicians believed it was an illness passed down through the male line—a theory that seemed to be accurate thus far since his sisters seemed to be well enough.
In her wild grief, his mother had ordered him to leave Ireland. She had inherited a townhouse in London from her mother, and she’d demanded that Cormac depart for England immediately so she wouldn’t have to watch another son die.
He’d obeyed his mother’s wishes, but the burden of familial responsibility weighed upon him. He didn’t have the luxury of time, which was why he didn’t particularly care whom he married. He needed an heir more than all else. His wife wouldn’t have to endure his presence for very long. The physician had told him it was anyone’s guess how long he would live. But Cormac didn’t doubt that the fatal verdict was true.
He couldn’t seem to concentrate, and he was always forgetting things. Headaches and terrible stomach pains plagued him, and there were days when he was so nauseous, he couldn’t bear to eat. It was a sobering thought to realize that he would probably be dead before the year was out.
He tried to ignore it, tried not to let fear strangle the life out of his last few months. And so he’d made a vow that here—in London—he would live each day to its fullest. He would do whatever he wanted, seizing every moment.
