Irene clapped her hand over Cecelia’s mouth.
The damage was done. Emerson’s brows rose high while Rose was still trying to determine if the girl truly was only eight based on her vocabulary.
Lady Brockway exhaled with a sympathetic wince. “Yes, Mr. Whitmore. Their father takes pride in teaching our daughters all manner of safeguarding techniques.” He was not the only one proud, Rose realized, noting the defiance in the lady’s lifted chin.
Emerson blinked. “Does he? I’ve never witnessed such a thing,” he murmured.
“Apparently, I was none the wiser,” Rose said dryly. She turned to Lady Brockway. “Do you think Lord Brockway would object to teaching the young women at Hope House?”
“Of course not, my dear. You may put it down to our contribution to the good that you, Lady Huntley, and the Duchess are effecting. I would not have mentioned it the night of Ryleigh’s dinner otherwise.”
Cecelia bounced. “I can teach them! I know six escapes.”
Rose nearly choked. “Absolutely not.”
A small cough emitted from Emerson.
“Actually—” Irene said gently. “She knows eight. We both do.”
A sound suspiciously like a stifled laugh escaped Emerson. “I am convinced,” he said, and made his way back to his chair with an exaggerated limp. At least, Rose hoped it was exaggerated.
Rose met his gaze and found his eyes warm with reluctant but true admiration. And perhaps something else that sent a tiny crackle beneath her breastbone.
Cecelia clasped her hands behind her back, beaming. “I shall warn you next time, Mr. Whitmore.”
He inclined his head gravely. “Next time, Lady Cecelia, I shall wear armor.”
But Cecelia only grinned wider.
~~~
Lady Brockway and her daughters soon made their departure, leaving the parlor ringing with silence. Awkward silence that Emerson had no notion how to navigate. He shoved a hand through his hair, reminding him of how disheveled he mustappear. A quick glance to Rose showed she didn’t appear any more comfortable than he.
She held a cup of tea. “Um, how is your foot?”
“I believe I may suffer permanent damage. Particularly to my pride,” he said with a smile that tugged at his lips. He stood. “I should probably take my leave as well.”
Rose frowned. “You never answered my question.”
“Regarding?”
“If you learned any more on the culprit blackmailing you.”
The look in his eye sharpened, fixating on her with a hard focus. “Ah. No, I’ve had no luck learning who dared to blackmail me. It so happens, I did receive another letter,” he said, his voice tight. “It mentioned you.”
She stilled. “Me?What on earth for?”
“It said you moved about too…freely.”
“Too freely. Toofreely?” The awkward silence shifted to shock then outright fury. “How dare they attempt to threaten you withmyfreedom.Youhave no say over my actions, or whereabouts, or…or—” She stopped and met his eyes. “And you weren’t going to tell me, were you?” she asked finally.
His lips quirked into a smirk but he took her hands in a gentle hold. “I had to climb through a window to see you, my dear.”
She took a shaky breath. After a long tense moment, she attempted to pull her hands from his. It was futile. She released that breath. “It’s just…” Her gaze shifted from him. “Stanford treated me abominably.” Her hand clenched into a fist. “I, of course, allowed it to happen. Something I will never stand for again.” She tried pulling her hand from his again, but he held fast. He hated the hurt and self-doubt he saw in her face, her body. “I don’t trust you, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Even after all we’ve shared?” he teased lightly.
Her face flamed.
