He watched her pour tea with slightly trembling fingers. “Black is fine, Miss Botha.” He gave her a gentle smile, accepting the cup.
She sat on the edge of her chair like someone used to disappearing—hands tightly folded, gaze steady, too still for one so young. There was a truth about her. The kind of truth men with titles buried in privilege, brandy, and excuses.
Her complexion bore the rich hue of umber, deepened by subtle golden warmth beneath, giving credence to her youth. The woolen gown she wore stretched taut over her belly. He detected no bitterness in her face.
Just endurance. Resilience.
The quiet, terrifying kind—the kind that didn’t ask for anything, because it never expected to be heard.
Emerson had seen silk turned to rope in his East India shipments. That was what she reminded him of. Fragile-looking. Impossible to break.
“So,” Lady Huntley said, settling in like a cat on a sunny sill. “Tell me, how does one such as yourself come to traffic in silk fine enough to make a baroness blush?”
He sipped the tea. Weak, but hot. “We import through my holdings in Ratcliff. Ships from Bengal. The East India Company and I have…an understanding.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I suppose it depends on the conversation.”
Lady Huntley laughed, full and sharp. “You’re not at all what I expected. But then, neither is Rose these days.”
He said nothing.
Her gaze narrowed, just enough to betray she’d noticed. “I was surprised to find there was no silk included for Rose in the delivery.”
Rose hadn’t mentioned the bronze?He was certain she’d received it. Almost. He’d issued orders to have it sent to her home. Faulk hadn’t liked her, and he silently vowed to check on that delivery. His manager had been appalled that Emerson had brought Rose to the warehouse. Of course, Falke hadn’t been the only one, if Emerson were being completely honest with himself.
“Ah.” Lady Huntley’s amusement startled him back to his surroundings. “You did have something selected for my more-than-proper sister,” she murmured.
“Where is Lady Stanford now?” he inquired mildly.
Lady Huntley frowned. “Why, I’m not quite sure. Ladies? Have you any notion where Lady Stanford was off to this afternoon?”
Emerson took in the surrounding group.
They sat together, a half-moon of contradictions and calm, each one distinct enough to draw the eye. One woman who sat taller than the others, all stillness and precision, looked as though she could slice a man down with a single sentence, and do it politely.
Another—red-haired and sharp-chinned—had restless fingers and a mouth made for muttering inconvenient truths. Next to her, a quiet beauty with dusk-colored curls carried herself like applause might follow her into every room, though there was nothing showy in the way she held her teacup.
The most confident among them appeared with a kind of practiced competence that left no room for pity—serene,capable, and wholly uninterested in what anyone expected of her.
And then there was Miss Macy. Clean now, but still wary, like a creature just learning her cage is open. What bruises he could see had faded to almost nonexistence. Her hands were bare, as were everyone’s, and he wondered if she still had the gloves Rose had generously stripped from her own hands and gifted her.
One thing that thrilled him was the way Miss Macy held her chin—looking almost as if she was beginning to believe she belonged. And that, more than anything, made him want to burn down the world that had convinced her otherwise, reminding him of another promise to himself: to handle Billy.
None responded to Lady Huntley’s question of where Rose may have gone for the afternoon, spiking his fear.
“How remiss of me to have not introduced our wards,” Lady Huntley said, her smile calm but sure, the kind that commanded attention without effort. A duke’s daughter. Breeding told. Just as it did in Rose.
“Ladies, I believe we failed in proper introductions the last time Mr. Whitmore visited,” she said, addressing the young women. “It’s my greatest pleasure to introduce you to him now. It’s due to his generosity that you will have new frocks.” She turned to Emerson. “These young women are here not because Society welcomed them, but because it failed them. Hope House is a place for women such as these and many others we expect in the coming years.”
A pause settled, and Lady Huntley let it land, just long enough to matter before turning to the youngest of the group—Miss Botha, the girl who’d poured his tea. Her gaze softened. Her eyes met Gabriella’s, wary but proud. One hand rested on the curve of her belly, protective, not ashamed.
There was nothing fragile in her, though, again, she looked barely old enough to be carrying the weight she did. No defiance—just a steadiness that unnerved him more than anger would have. She wasn’t waiting to be saved. She’d already decided she would survive, and simply hadn’t asked anyone’s permission. “Miss Botha has a talent for the pianoforte that is quite pleasing to the ear. She is grace under pressure and courage made quiet. She reminds me—daily—that kindness is not a weakness, and that dignity can be reclaimed, no matter what the world has tried to take.”
Emerson stood and bowed. “Miss Botha. I am deeply honored to meet you. I should dearly love to hear you play one day.”
Her cheeks darkened with a flush, and he found it utterly charming. “Th-thank you, sir.”
