But then, a true lady would never cause such a scene in public, even if it did wound her feelings, watching them.
That was it. She wasn’t going to stay a second longer. Stephen swept Miss Hereford into a dance, but even as he moved her across the ballroom, his gaze remained upon Emily. She recognized the look of possession, but she took no comfort from it.
Instead, she saw Miss Hereford at ease among the gentry, gliding across the floor in Stephen’s arms. She saw the marquess’s nod of approval.
Would anyone notice if Emily drowned herself in the lemonade bowl?
She handed a servant the remains of her dessert and strode toward the terrace. Never again. Though she’d mistakenly believed she could fit in, it was useless. She was not, nor would ever be, a woman who could belong at such a gathering.
Her imagination conjured up a vision of what it would be like to have gentlemen vying to dance with her. What must it be like to receive pretty compliments instead of warnings that she needed a better dressmaker?
She wanted to dance in the earl’s arms, to wear an ice-blue satin gown with jewels, knowing that she belonged. And if he dared court another woman, his toes would suffer for it.
Her own feet had begun to ache, so she located a quiet area leading to the terrace. She stuffed the tight dancing slippers behind a large fern, grateful that her long skirts hid the evidence of her stocking feet.
She planned to walk through the gardens and along the side of the house to make her exit. But Stephen caught up to her a few moments later. Concern lined his face. “What did Miss Hereford say to you before I arrived?”
“She was angry about our marriage.”
He grimaced. “I feared as much. You looked ready to scoop out her eyes with that spoon.”
She ignored him and continued her walk through the grass. The hem of her gown grew damp from the grass and her stockinged feet itched. Discarding her slippers had not been an intelligent idea, even if she’d saved her pinched feet.
Stephen continued to follow her, and she didn’t bother to ask why. This time, he could say nothing that would convince her to stay. She would throw herself in front of a carriage before setting foot back in that ballroom.
Starlight illuminated the darkened skies, and she inhaled the lush fragrance of Lady Rothburne’s rose garden. From the ballroom, the faint strains of music calmed her mood.
“I want to dance with you now,” Stephen said, his hand reaching toward hers.
“I am a terrible dancer.” She kept walking toward the tall boxwoods, wincing as she stepped on a rock. “I might cripple you.”
His answer was to hold out his hand. “I’ll take the risk.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The music changed into a lively polka. Stephen took her hand, but Emily could not manage the steps. Her feet tangled up in her skirts, and she tripped over the hemline. Stephen almost caught her, but Emily crashed them both into the boxwood hedge.
A laugh escaped her, breaking her terrible mood. What would Lady Thistlewaite say if she saw her now?
My dear Lady Whitmore, it is truly bad form to toss your husband into the shrubbery.
Even when he deserved it.
Stephen lifted her up, plucking a twig from his waistcoat. “Well, that was interesting.”
“I am worse than I thought I was.” A snort escaped her, and she reached up to remove a leaf from his hair.
“I’ll see to it that you receive lessons.”
From the ballroom, a slow, melodic waltz began. Stephen clasped her about the waist, drawing her closer. “Shall we try it again?”
“We’d best move away from the bushes,” she said.
He led her deeper into the garden but well away from the hazardous vegetation. With his hands around her waist, he waltzed with her. Emily’s heart beat faster, and she swallowed hard. She could smell his shaving soap, and his palm rested upon her spine. His eyes were dark silver in the mist. Were it not for the moonlight, they would have stood in complete darkness.
She accidentally stepped on him, and his eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”
“They didn’t fit. I could not tolerate the pain any longer, so I hid them behind a plant.”
