“How so?”
“Well, you’ve invited Simon and some of the others to this party, yes?”
James nodded. “Yes. Simon, Sheffield, Brighthollow and Roseford are attending. The others are busy and we haven’t seen Willowby in years.”
“Well, then we’ll all be there to hear about your progress with Miss Liston. And place bets,” Graham said with a chuckle as he returned his attention to their all-but-forgotten game.
“Place bets on what?” James asked as he lined up for his own shot.
“I don’t know. If you’ll fall in love with her and how quickly,” Graham suggested as James took his shot.
The statement made James’s hand slip and his ball actually hopped over the edge of the table and rolled across the floor. He scowled as he moved to catch it.
“If I decide to do this, no one is falling in love with anyone,” he said with a laugh. “I can assure you of that fact.”
Emma sat in the front parlor in the window seat, one leg tucked beneath her as the other dangled from the edge. She was watching the carriages drive by on the street. It was something she’d done since she was very young. She’d always wondered who was inside, where they were going, what they felt tucked into their little cocoons.
Today she wasn’t thinking of those things. Her mind kept taking her to Abernathe. To those moments in the garden when he had been so unexpectedly kind. And she had been so stupidly candid.
The man didn’t want to know her troubles. And he certainly didn’t want to hear her ask him to court her, even in jest. He must think her an utter fool.
She certainly thought herself a fool.
“There you are.” She looked toward the parlor door to find her mother hustling in, a missive in her hand. “You have a message!”
Emma turned and slowly rose. Her mother must have pounced on the poor messenger the moment he came up the drive, for she hadn’t heard the bell.
Of course, she hadn’t exactly been attending, either.
She turned it over and recognized the seal. It was the same one that had been on her invitation to Meg’s garden party a short few days before. It felt like a lifetime now.
Her hands shook as she broke it, and inside found a short letter from her new friend.
“Read it aloud!” her mother insisted, eyes bright with possibility and almost manic hope.
“Very well,” Emma said softly. “‘Dear Emma, I wanted to thank you again for your kind company after my party a few days ago. I truly treasure our talks. My brother and I are hosting a country gathering at our estate, Falcon’s Landing. We would love to have your mother and you join us for the fortnight we spend there. I hope to receive your yes soon. With friendship, Meg.’”
As Emma read the words, Mrs. Liston had begun to clap her hands together and she was almost bouncing with delight as Emma lowered the letter. For her part, Emma was less excited. A fortnight at Falcon’s Landing in the shire of Abernathe meant a fortnight with the duke, himself. A man who, she had already decided, thought her an idiot.
A man who made her nervous, and yet she found herself blabbering like a fool the moment he looked her way.
“Oh, Emma, you have made a good match in a friend,” Mrs. Liston said, grabbing her arm and almost physically yanking her from her thoughts. “Lady Margaret! She is so very connected. You must use those connections.”
“Mama,” Emma said, pulling herself away and pacing across the room back to look out the window. “That is a mercenary way to look at a friendship.”
“Well, we must be mercenary, mustn’t we?” Mrs. Liston said, her tone sharp enough that Emma turned to look at her. Her mother’s hands were clasped before her, shaking. “You want to pretend that there isn’t a rider pounding up behind us, bringing only destruction.”
“That is a bit dramatic,” Emma said softly. “We aren’t trying to escape imminent death.”
“No, itisn’tdramatic. We’re talking about the potential of societal death and you are old enough not to act like a child.” Mrs. Liston folded her arms. “Tell me, Emma, how many times has your father swept back into our lives, dragging scandal behind him? How many times has he limited your options and humiliated me with his philandering and gambling and dueling? How many times?”
Emma tapped her foot. “You throw your anger and fear about Father up in my face any time I do not do as you ask, but we both know what will happen if he were to walk in that door tomorrow. You would open your arms to him, all would be forgiven and for a few weeks or months you would refuse to hear any negative opinion about him, no matter what he does.”
Her mother’s face crumpled at Emma’s direct statement and her shoulders sagged. “You think me weak.”
Emma held her breath, for there was not a good way to lie and deny her mother’s charge. When it came to Harold Liston, Mrs. Liston was always torn between abject terror and blind devotion.
“It is complicated,” Emma admitted at last.
