“You do not like me,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “I am aware of it.”
“You don’t belong here. You could never dream of being a part of us.”
“Hide the silver, is that it?” Emily turned to face him and offered the marquess a serene smile. “Let me reassure you. I am not after Stephen’s wealth or his title.”
“You’ve blinded him. Like a common lightskirt, aren’t you? He isn’t thinking clearly.”
“I am not a lightskirt, my lord. Nor will I be a target for your ill-aimed insults. I am the Countess of Whitmore. You had best get used to it.”
It would have been a rather grand exit, had her hands not been shaking so badly she had to set down her glass of lemonade. No matter what, she promised herself she would not cry.
Especially when she caught the triumphant smile of Lady Thistlewaite.
Chapter Ten
Emilyheldaplateof lemon cream molded in the shape of a fish. She gripped the plate hard enough to stop her shaking hands. Tonight had been beyond her worst nightmares. Not only had she endured the stares and gossip, but her own husband had abandoned her. Would this evening never end? She cast a longing look toward the door, hoping to escape.
Perhaps if she kept her back to the wall, slowly moving toward it, she could slip away without Stephen noticing. She started moving, but when she passed by one of the corridors, she heard the sound of weeping.
She really shouldn’t interfere. It wasn’t her business, after all. But someone else was having an even worse evening than her own, by the sound of it.
The noise led her to a young woman, who was crying just beyond the ballroom. She wore an ice-blue satin gown trimmed with matching ribbons and her hair was a lovely auburn color. Glittering diamonds sparkled about her neck.
“Are you all right?” Emily asked.
The young woman tried to dry her tears, nodding and waving her hand. “I am fine.” When she looked up and saw Emily’s face, her expression transformed into hatred. “Oh. It’s you.”
Emily didn’t know what to say, but the woman continued. “Lady Thistlewaite warned me that you were here.”
“Have we met?” Emily asked, uncertain of why the girl would hate her so much.
“I am Harriet Hereford.”
Ah. The spurned maiden. “I am Emily.” She deliberately did not give her surname, because really, what was the point in upsetting the woman further? Already the young woman knew that she had married Stephen.
“You stole Lord Whitmore from me,” Miss Hereford said in a tight voice. “We intended to marry.”
Whether or not it was true, the woman certainly believed it. Emily held her dessert spoon like a weapon, even as Miss Hereford advanced upon her. “This is not a battle between us,” she said. “If you have a quarrel, you should discuss it with Lord Whitmore.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Miss Hereford reproached. “How can you call yourself a lady, believing he would want someone like you? What did you do? Place yourself in his bed?”
Emily bristled and she bit back a nasty retort. Oh, she could easily argue with Miss Hereford, but this was a battle of words not worth fighting.
“I believe there is nothing left for us to say to one another.” With a curt nod of farewell, she returned to the ballroom.
She found an empty spot against a wall and took deep breaths to calm herself. Miss Hereford’s spiteful words were meant to wound her, to make her doubt herself. And they raised questions she’d tried to avoid.
WhyhadStephen married her when there were so many other women to choose from? Miss Hereford embodied everything a lady should be: graceful, poised, and completely at ease in society.
Emily, on the other hand, couldn’t imagine feeling comfortable amongst theton. Like vultures, the society matrons would peck at her confidence until there was nothing left.
Stephen crossed the ballroom, heading straight toward her. Although he made brief eye contact, he did not speak to her, as if she weren’t there. His deliberate evasion made her anger rise another notch.
He kept walking past her, until she heard his voice saying, “I believe the next dance is mine, Miss Hereford?”
No. He was not going to dance with that woman, was he?
As they passed, Miss Hereford shot her a triumphant gaze. Emily was sorely tempted to throw something. The dessert spoon, perhaps, or better, the remains of the lemon cream.
