“Perhaps, then, you ought not to be so horrid!” Emmaline said, cringing as she pulled on her gloves.
“They don't call him the scarred duke for nothing, Emmaline! Mama says nobody in their right mind would have him even if he is the most eligible bachelor in London… on paper.”
Emmaline’s stomach twisted. She couldn’t help but feel as if she had lost her sweet sister to the sickness that was society.
“How can anyone speak to that when society has not laid eyes upon the duke in heaven knows how long?” Emmaline demanded. In all the talk of him, she had never heard an eyewitness account, only whispering that never quite seemed to add up.
One thing was certain: though she had no interest in the duke with regard to marriage—as she would not consider anyone for marriage without first having laid eyes upon them and having gotten to know them—she did have an interest in learning the truth. It was a downfall of hers, always and forever to be intrigued by mystery and with a determination to get to the bottom of it.
There were many rumors on the Duke of Westmarch: that he had been in a carriage accident; that he had fallen from his horse and been horribly disfigured; that a candle had been knocked from his nightstand and that his entire house had almost been burned to the ground. But she did not have any true connection to the duke, so she took everything she heard with a pinch of salt. One thing was sure, she would be pleased to lay eyes upon the man if only to dispel the rumors she had overheard over the years.
“Every duke has family, Emmaline, and friends,” Jane countered, furrowing her pale blonde brow. “Besides, since his inheriting the dukedom, he has far less chance to hide as he once did.”
Emmaline thought it an odd image. To imagine a mighty duke hiding from anything was an odd thing indeed. The Duke of Westmarch might well be the most interesting member of thetonand not a one of them would realize it for the simple fact they could not see past his scars.
Though she had no real scars of her own, Emmaline empathized with the man; all they ever saw in her was the daughter of a widower, a poor young girl whose mother had perished during her childhood when a girl so needed a mother. That was her scar to bear, and she bore it as bravely as she was able.
Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath and attempted to change the subject. “Sebastian and Victor shall be there this evening also. We must do our best to keep an eye on them and ensure they don't dance with anyone Mama and Papa might deem unfit.”
Jane scowled at her as if she knew exactly what she was trying to do. “Seb and Vic can take care of themselves. It's us I worry about. They have been to a hundred balls by now and not a wedding bell amongst them. The fate of the family lies with us!”
Emmaline flinched.No, dear little sister, it lies with me.
Though she knew well it did not lie with her in the way Jane assumed.
It mattered not who they intended to marry if their father had no dowry to offer. No duke would even sniff in their direction were she to bring shame upon their household in the form of a fruitless investment.
And with fewer reports coming, and those that did were further apart, Emmaline couldn't help but fear the worst.
She had promised her father to put it from her mind and for the most part that day, she had, but now as she prepared to leave for the ball with only a glove button to do up, she couldn't stop the thoughts from coming.
What good is searching for a husband when tomorrow we might wake up penniless?
The Beaufort Ball, just like any other ball, was just as one would expect. Emmaline was bombarded with people making her acquaintance and young gentlemen asking her to dance.
Ever the good daughter and always aiming to offer herself to society at the highest standard—as her parents expected of her—she accepted the dances willingly. It would not be at all appropriate for her to decline even a single offer without good reason.
And though she loved to dance, as she loved all things movement and fun and freedom, she did not like every dance partner that crossed her path.
As they so often liked to do, each of her brothers took her for a turn about the dancefloor first, she and Jane sharing the two of them in order to get a feel for their surroundings.
And then came the hunt. From the second the younger of her two brothers released her, Emmaline felt like prey. Her dance card was quickly filled with names, and she felt as though she might never be free again.
By the time the third dance had finished, she detested the idea of a fourth thanks to the youngest Beaufort son having stomped on her toes so many times she thought she might not have a single one that wasn't sore.
Then the elder Beaufort son took his turn, parading her about the floor as if he wished to show off his prowess on the dance floor to everyone who might look. He had always been a bit of a dandy and Emmaline found it quite laughable.
Dance number five made her wish she had never come at all. As Mr. Denstone, the second son of Viscount Denstone, began by asking her if she liked needlework and flower arranging, before he moved onto such topics as how many children did she hope to have and was she amenable to living with her husband's family, and did she like the name Robert for a boy or Roberta for a girl?
Mr. Denstone had never been very bright and though he was quite likable, Emmaline disliked him greatly that night.
By the time she managed to find a quiet moment at the edge of the dance floor, half-hidden behind a freestanding marble flowerpot, she was quite exhausted.
She would have been content to remain by herself for the rest of the evening with only shadows for friends if it were not for Jane joining her. And her sister looked almost as disheveled as she felt.
“How was your dance with Mr. Penwick?” Emmaline asked when Jane slipped into the shadows behind her.
“About as well as yours with Mr. Denstone, I suspect,” Jane sighed. “If these are the men on offer to wed this year, I fear we shall still be on the marriage mart next year.”
