She lay perfectly still, a prisoner in her own body, which ached in two distinct and warring ways. There was the dull, insistent throb of her dislocated shoulder, a constant, grinding reminder of her physical frailty. And then there was the other ache. A low, humming tremor deep in her bones, a memory of pleasure so profound it felt like its own sort of wound.
The garden.
It replayed itself behind her closed eyes, a series of searing, indelible images. The silvered glow of moon-drenched flowers. The shocking, thrilling weight of Amélie’s body pressing her against the cool, rough stone of the garden wall. Her mind recoiled, and yet, it circled back, again and again, to the exquisite skill of the duchesse’s hands, the hungry pressure of her mouth. A hot flush bloomed across Emma’s chest, a phantom heat that had nothing to do with the morning sun. Her body remembered everything. The memory was so vivid she could feel the ghost of Amélie’s thumb tracing her jaw, the slide of silk against her thigh. A shudder of pure, unadulterated pleasure coursed through her, so potent it made her good hand clench the bed linens into a tight knot.
Then came the shame, a cold, sickening tide that extinguished the warmth. Sin. The word was a brand. She was ruined. Not in the way society meant—no man had touched her—but in a way that felt deeper, more fundamental. She had not been taken or coerced; she had participated. She had wanted. God, how she had wanted. The raw, desperate creature in the garden, panting and clinging and crying out—was that truly her? The knowledge that it was, that such a person existed beneath the plain, practical shell of Emmaline Goode, was a terror that left her breathless.
What would her family think? The thought of their judgment, their disgust, was a physical pain, sharper than her injured shoulder.
She had to move. To lie here was to drown.
With a groan, she forced herself to sit up, the movement sending a fresh bolt of fire through her shoulder. The room swam for a moment, then settled. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold floorboards with a small shock that helped to clear her head.
Dressing was a slow, agonizing process, a one-handed battle with the tyranny of buttons and hooks. Each small failure, each fumbled attempt, felt like a judgment on her current state—broken, clumsy, not fit for public view.
Maybe she should give having a lady’s maid a second thought.
As she struggled with the sleeve of her plain bronze day dress, she rehearsed the morning ahead.
Say nothing.
Meet no one’s eye.
Become a piece of the furniture.
If she was quiet enough, perhaps no one would see the brand on her skin, the wildness in her eyes. Her yearning for what she could not have.
The morning room was a blast of cheerful, agonizing normalcy. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, glinting off the silver coffeepot and the jam spoons. Her siblings were already there, their chatter a familiar, meaningless hum. Emma slid into her seat beside Emmett, who stared into his teacup as if seeking a prophecy in the leaves. She pulled a piece of toast onto her plate and focused on it with ferocious intensity, as if she could will herself to be as inanimate, as simple, as a triangle of bread. Her hand trembled as she lifted her teacup, the porcelain rattling a frantic tattoo against the saucer.
Then the door opened, and the air in the room changed.
Amélie entered, and Emma’s entire body went rigid. The duchesse was a vision of effortless composure in a gown the color of pale morning mist. Her hair was swept up in an elegant knot, the diamond pins—her diamond pins, Emma thought with a jolt of panicked possession—glittering innocently. She greeted Nora with a warm smile, offered a charming pleasantry to Mercy, and then moved around the table without acknowledging her.
Emma kept her eyes fixed on her toast, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She could feel Amélie’s approach, a shift in the air, a subtle change in the light.
How could she be so calm? So unchanged? Was last night a trifle, a pleasant diversion that left no mark upon the new day? The thought was a shard of ice in Emma’s chest. This woman was so worldly…it was entirely possible she didn’t assign last night any particular importance. Just a diversion? An experiment? A momentary conquest to be forgotten over coffee and croissants?
The idea was so sharp, so unexpected, it nearly made her gasp.
Amélie paused behind her chair. “Good morning, Miss Goode. I trust your shoulder is feeling better today?” The words were polite, conventional, for the benefit of the room.
A hand came to hover like a butterfly over her injured shoulder. It was a brief, light touch, seemingly a gesture of sympathy. But it was not. The warmth of Amélie’s palm seeped through the fabric of her dress, a direct, deliberate pressure over the very heart of her pain. Her fingers lingered for a fraction of a second, a secret caress, a possessive claim made in plain sight.
It was a message, an affirmation.
Emma’s breath caught in her throat. The teacup clattered from her nerveless fingers, splashing hot liquid across the white linen.
Across from her, Lord Bainbridge’s head came up. His gaze met hers, and in that instant, he saw everything—the panic, the warring shame and thrill, the sheer, overwhelming terror of being seen.
His expression, for a flicker of a second, was one of profound understanding.
As a maid hurried forward with a cloth to mop up the spilled tea, Bainbridge made his move. He reached for the morning papers on a nearby credenza, his movement a little too broad, a little too sudden. His elbow connected with a tall, precarious stack of correspondence. Letters and envelopes cascaded to the floor in a papery waterfall.
“Oh, damnation,” he swore, with convincing vexation. “How clumsy of me.”
The room’s attention shifted. Nora began issuing gentle commands to the servants. Emmett bent to help retrieve the scattered post. In the small, perfect chaos, Bainbridge’s eyes met Emma’s again. He gave a tiny, almost invisible nod toward the door.
It was all the permission she needed. Before anyone could notice, before Amélie could say another word, Emma pushed her chair back. She fled, a silent refugee from a battlefield no one else could see, her heart pounding with a gratitude so immense it felt like another form of panic.
