“But how?” she asked, her voice small, tentative. “How does one…navigate? The danger…the possibility of ruin or arrest.”
“Carefully,” he said simply. “And with trusted allies. You find your own people. You learn who is safe. You build a world within the world, a place where you are not required to be less than what you are.” He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “Your sister, Mercy, for instance. She sees more than she lets on. She is a safe harbor, I would wager.”
He was giving her a map, charting the reefs and the safe passages of a life she had thought impossible. The oppressive heat of the solarium no longer felt like it was suffocating her. It felt cleansing, a hothouse where something new and fragile might actually grow. The color returned to her cheeks. Her breathing, which had been shallow and tight, deepened.
She looked at this man, this practical stranger who had rescued her from a fall and was now rescuing her from a far more profound isolation. “Thank you,” she said, the words inadequate but deeply meant.
He just smiled, that quiet, knowing smile again. “We must look out for one another. It is the first rule of our particular game.”
He reached out and began to slowly, deliberately, reset the chess pieces. The white king in one square, the black queen in another. The sound of the ivory touching the board was the only sound in the room, save for the steady ticking of the clock. Each piece returned to its starting position, ready for a new contest.
Emma watched his hands, her mind racing. The world had not stopped tilting, but her place in it felt less precarious. She was still on a cliff edge, but for the first time, she was not alone. The duchesse’s kiss was no longer a mark of shame, a terrifying aberration. It was…a move. A bold opening in a game she was only just beginning to understand.
Bainbridge finished setting the last pawn in its place. He did not ask if she wished to play again. He simply left the board reset between them, a silent invitation. The game was the same, but the player had been irrevocably changed.
Chapter 7
The next day Emma felt an ease in her shoulder, but not enough to relieve her of the sling.
She had allowed one of the maids to dress her like a doll for slaughter, her mind miles away from the task of lacing corsets and pinning hair. The gown was a pale green silk that Nora had insisted upon, a color meant to signify springtime and innocence, two states of being that felt like a lifetime ago. Her injured shoulder, tightly bound, sent a dull, protesting throb with every movement, a physical echo of the turmoil churning within her.
Entering the grand ballroom felt like stepping onto a stage, the heat and noise a physical blow. A thousand candles blazed in chandeliers overhead, their light glittering off polished floors, shimmering jewels, and the forced smiles of the county’s finest. The orchestra sawed away at a waltz, a relentlessly cheerful sound that grated on Emma’s raw nerves. It was a beautiful, suffocating performance of happiness, and she felt the familiar, bitter taste of being the sole discordant note.
But tonight, something was different.
As her gaze swept the room, she saw Lord Bainbridge near the French doors, a glass of champagne in hand. He met her eyes and gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. It was a small gesture, but it landed like an anchor in a storm. We are not so different, you and I.
She was not entirely alone in this glittering cage.
Her injury excused her from dancing, which was a small mercy, so she sat and attempted painful small talk with other wallflowers. After that quickly became an exercise in futility, she lurked around the slightly more interesting conversation of slightly more interesting men. A young viscount with more chin than sense detailed the pedigree of his new hunter. A baronet, his face florid with wine, complained about the quality of the port. She smiled, she nodded, she murmured polite responses, all while her eyes scoured the crowd for a hint of…
There.
Amélie was holding court near the far side of the room, surrounded by a small circle of captivated men. The duchesse stood out from the sea of pastels and creams like a blood red sky. Her gown was a deep, fathomless scarlet that seemed to drink the candlelight, leaving only the creamy luminescence of her skin in its wake. Diamonds and rubies glittered like trapped stars in the dark coils of her hair. She laughed at something one of the men said, a low, melodic sound that carried across the room and found Emma with pinpoint accuracy. As if feeling the weight of Emma’s stare, Amélie’s gaze lifted, sweeping over the heads of the crowd until it locked with hers.
The world narrowed to the space between them. The orchestra faded. The chatter of the room became a dull buzz. Amélie’s expression was unreadable, her gaze holding Emma’s for a long, charged moment before a slow, deliberate smile curved her lips. It was not the devastating smile she gave her admirers; it was the small, private one from the pre-dawn kitchen. A smile of shared secrets.
Emma’s heart gave a painful lurch, and she reached out to steady herself against the wall.
It was a relief when Lord Bainbridge appeared at her side, bowing with practiced elegance. “May I have the honor, Miss Goode?”
“You may have the rescue, my lord,” she murmured, placing her hand in his.
He led her onto the floor, his hold firm but careful of her injury. They moved in comfortable silence for a moment, two allies behind enemy lines. He did not plague her with questions about horses or the weather.
“Your brother,” he said, his voice low enough to be lost in the music, “looks as though he’s attending his own funeral rather than celebrating his engagement.”
Emma’s gaze followed his to where Emmett stood beside Lucy Pembroke. Bainbridge was right. Her brother was a statue of misery in a perfectly tailored coat, his smile a tight, painful slash across his face. Lucy, a vision in white lace, stared blankly into the middle distance, her hand resting on Emmett’s arm with no more warmth than a porcelain doll’s. They were a perfect, tragic tableau of duty. The sight sent a fresh pang through Emma, a mixture of pity and a terrifying premonition of what her own future could be if she were not careful.
If she were not brave.
“He is doing what is required,” Emma said, the words tasting like ash. “As are we all.”
“Are we?” Bainbridge’s hazel eyes met hers, a silent challenge in their depths. “The game has many pieces, Miss Goode. One is not required to play only as a pawn.”
As they turned, Emma’s eyes met Amélie’s once more. The duchesse was no longer smiling. She was watching them, her gaze intense, following Emma’s every movement across the floor. There was a possessiveness in that look, a focused heat that made the skin at the back of Emma’s neck prickle.
It was unnerving and thrilling in equal measure.
