Chapter One
Miss Emily Greentrailed her mother through the receiving line, trying not to tug at her ruffle-trimmed, pale-lilac gown. This was her first ball. Her first true foray into society since her come out, delayed a year by her father’s death.
A pang of sorrow swept through her. Though she and her father hadn’t been close, she still felt his absence keenly. She knew her mother, serene as always, secretly did as well. A year seemed hardly enough time to mourn the loss of a parent, even a distant one.
Emily’s come out could be delayed no longer, though. Her father’s absence made it more, not less, urgent she find a husband. With her father gone, she had to rely on the goodwill of her half-brother, much older than she, for her stay in London and the necessities of this season. It seemed unlikely he would finance a second.
She brought a white-gloved hand to her lips. She must ensure an unfaltering smile, no matter where her mind wandered. She’d been expressly ordered to smile for the entire ball. As her mother often repeated,“Remember, dear, smile, smile, smile. No man wants a weeping wife.”
To distract herself from her mournful thoughts, Emily turned her mind to the man she knew waited at the head of the receiving line. Suppressing a shiver that was equal parts excitement, anger and dread, she popped up on her slippered toes in an effort to see him. Devon Fletcher, Viscount Millview. This was his ball. The second soiree he’d thrown in three weeks. Everyone agreed that meant the rakish viscount was now in the market for a bride. Indeed, he’d been absent from the scandal sheets since the start of the season.
Her mother cast her a horrified look and Emily returned her heels to the floor. She knew standing on her toes, gawking, wasn’t acceptable, but she was too short to see anything. Her mother, a good three inches taller, simply didn’t understand.
“People are watching you,” her mother’s murmured words came through a perfect smile that never wavered. If Emily hadn’t recognized the reprimanding tone, she wouldn’t have realized it was her mother who spoke. “And stop touching your face. It’s vulgar.”
Emily repressed a sigh, clasped her hands demurely before her and firmed her smile once more. Mother was right. Emily had been only fifteen when Devon, her one-time best friend, promised to marry her. Tonight, she would meet him as a woman grown, and she wanted to appear perfect, not ill mannered and skittish. More important, she wanted to appear indifferent. It was what he deserved for abandoning her.
At the time, she’d understood. He’d been sixteen when his older brother and father died in a carriage accident. Emily suspected then, and now understood, how terrible it was to lose such an important part of one’s world. She forgave him that first year of absence, when he was whisked away, no longer the carefree second son but a viscount in mourning.
What she couldn’t forgive was the following year, when she waited in the country and scoured days-old scandal sheets only to discover his initials there. Far worse was the horrible year after that, spent in mourning for her own father, with no letter of condolence from the man who claimed to love her, and who must understand her grief. Now, here she stood in his London ballroom while rumor claimed he sought a bride after nearly three years of shocking wickedness.
The line of guests made its slow, meandering way through the ornate foyer. Emily forcibly unclenched her hands. After what seemed like hours, she and her mother reached the head of the receiving line. Devon’s mother, the dowager viscountess, greeted them warmly, and alone. Devon was nowhere to be seen.
Emily couldn’t make herself comprehend what either woman—old friends—said. She murmured replies, but could focus only on Devon’s absence. Since receiving his invitation, her thoughts had dwelt upon seeing him again. It was his receiving line, his ball, thrown to help him choose a bride, and he was nowhere to be seen. Covertly, for her mother never missed a social misstep, Emily darted her gaze about, but to no avail. Her heart settled in her shoes, taking hope along with it.
She entered the glittering ballroom in a daze. Her mind reeled with unrealized expectations as she followed her mother across the marble inlayed floor. Soon, they stood in an area that seemed to be the agreed upon gathering place for unattached misses and their guardians. Emily found herself with several schoolmates, girls she hadn’t seen in a year. All three had made their come-outs the season before, when Emily should have. None had yet made a match. Then, none were under the pressure Emily was. Their fathers would provide them with many seasons.
“Emily, we were so sorry not to see you last season.” Prudence smoothed her blonde hair, a shade darker than Emily’s.
On either side of Prudence, Liza and Fanny nodded in a jubilee of bouncing reddish-brown curls and pastel ruffles.
“Thank you,” Emily murmured.
She craned her neck, seeking some sign of Devon. Might he ignore her, as he had for the past three years? The thought brought a sickening lump to her throat.
“Who are you searching for?” Fanny asked. She followed Emily’s gaze, a line of confusion marring her brow.
Emily bit her lip. To admit her hope, and have Devon ignore her, would add mortification to her pain. “No one.” She began a study of the lilac slippers peeking from the hem of her gown.
“Don’t your family’s lands boarder the viscount’s?” Prudence asked. “Do you know his lordship?”
Emily looked up to find Prudence regarding her through narrowed eyes. “We were acquainted as children,” Emily murmured. Her face heated.
“You’re lucky,” Liza spoke for the first time, letting out a gusty sigh. “They say he’s looking for a wife. Maybe he’ll dance with you.”
“Well, he certainly won’t dance with you.” There was a bite to Prudence’s tone. “You wore that same gown not five days ago.”
“The viscount won’t notice Liza’s dress any more than he’ll notice yours, Prude,” Fanny said, then added in a stage whisper to Emily, “She fancies she’ll be his pick for a wife.”
Prudence cast Fanny a quelling look.
Emily frowned. Prudence was not the kindest person, and Devon deserved kindness. He deserved love, even if he had abandoned her and become one of London’s most celebrated rakes. No matter what he’d done in the three years since they last spoke, she cared too much to wish anything less for him.
A gloved hand touched Emily’s arm. Prudence eyed her, worry furrowing her pale brow. “This is your first ball, isn’t it?” Prudence asked in a low voice, as if sharing some secret.
Emily nodded, unable to keep herself from scanning the room again. It was Devon’s ball. He had to be there. She resisted the urge to rise up on her toes. If only she were taller, she could find him.
“Then you don’t know about the trial.” Prudence’s tone, a mixture of condescension and pity, brought Emily’s attention back to the other girl’s narrow face.
