The third course arrived: a roast saddle of lamb, its aroma a dense, rich cloud that threatened to suffocate her. Emma’s hand was slick with sweat; she wondered, with a wild flash of embarrassment, if Amélie would find it repulsive. But Amélie only squeezed her hand tighter, as if the dampness was proof of Emma’s surrender.
The talk at the table shifted to seating arrangements. Prudence, who had taken charge of the operation like a general planning a siege, produced a chart from her reticule and began pointing out potential hazards—warring relatives, known gossips, and one unpredictable bishop.
“Emma, darling,” Prudence called across the table, “do you think the French contingent would take offense at being placed opposite the musicians?”
Emma opened her mouth, but at that precise moment, Amélie’s fingers began a new, more intimate exploration. Her index finger traced the inside of Emma’s wrist, then the delicate web between her ring finger and pinkie. A shiver ran up Emma’s spine; she felt herself flush from collarbone to scalp.
“I—” Emma managed, her voice an octave too high, “I think the French are unflappable. They would survive even the brass section.”
A ripple of laughter met this, and Prudence nodded, making a note in her chart. But as Emma tried to breathe normally, Amélie’s hand went still. Then, with a slow deliberation that made Emma’s mouth dry, Amélie withdrew her hand from Emma’s and, after a few moments’ pause, let it rest again—this time, higher on Emma’s thigh.
Emma’s fork slipped from her grasp and clattered to her plate.
There was a brief lull in conversation. All eyes turned to her. Emma willed herself not to combust. “Butterfingers,” she said, with a smile that must have looked deranged. “My arm is not what it was.”
Lord Bainbridge, from down the table, caught her gaze and raised his brow in gentle sympathy. He had, at least, the decency to look amused rather than scandalized.
The meal continued. Emma tried to sit as still as possible, but Amélie’s hand was a living thing, stroking her leg through the thin cotton of her day dress. Each motion was subtle, deniable, but to Emma it felt as if she was being laid bare before the entire room. Her skin prickled; her breath came shallow and quick.
She could not meet Amélie’s eyes. She dared not.
As the final course was cleared and the guests began to drift toward the drawing room for tea and sherry, Amélie leaned in, her voice a low murmur meant for Emma’s ear alone. “Your composure is extraordinary, Miss Goode. But I wonder—will you keep it when we are alone?”
Emma could only nod, mute and trembling.
Amélie’s hand, at last, withdrew. But as she rose from her chair, she let her fingers trail up the inside of Emma’s wrist, a fleeting touch that left a trail of fire in its wake.
Emma sat frozen, her body humming, her mind emptied of all thought but one: when could she see Amélie again, and what would happen when there were no more tables, no more damask, no more need for pretense or restraint?
She watched the duchesse move toward the doors, her figure lithe and regal, her step unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world.
Emma pressed her palms to her cheeks. They were burning. She hoped no one noticed.
But, from across the room, Mercy caught her eye and grinned—a knowing, wicked little smile that said:
I saw, and I approve.
Emma wanted to die. Or perhaps, to live forever in this suspended state of anticipation.
Either way, she was lost.
Chapter 10
The next morning, a commotion rose from the grand hall below—a sharp, masculine voice speaking French, the hurried footsteps of a butler—shattering the quiet of the house. Emma froze, her hand on her own doorknob. It was not Lord Bainbridge’s easy baritone or her brother’s softer tones. This voice was clipped, aristocratic, and carried a note of impatient command that set her teeth on edge.
Drawn by a sense of foreboding, she crept to the top of the grand staircase, peering through the balusters. A man stood in the entrance hall, tall and impeccably dressed, handing his hat and a silver-headed walking stick to a footman. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, his features sharp and handsome in a way that felt predatory, like a hawk’s. He cast a long, sharp shadow across the marble floor.
Then Amélie appeared from the drawing room.
The transformation was instantaneous and horrifying. The woman who had commanded Emma’s body with such confident grace seemed to physically collapse into herself. Her shoulders, usually held with a dancer’s poise, hunched forward. The vibrant color drained from her face, leaving her skin a waxy, sallow shade. She took a single, involuntary step backward, her hand flying to her throat as if to ward off a blow. Emma watched, her heart turning to a stone in her chest, as Amélie shrank before her eyes.
“Armand,” her voice a reedy whisper, stripped of all its melodic warmth.
The man smiled, a thin, bloodless motion of the lips that did not touch his pale gray eyes. “Ma chère belle-mère,” he said, his French accent a silken sheath over a blade. “You look surprised to see me. Did you think you could hide from your family obligations in this dreary corner of England?”
Dinner was an exercise in exquisite torture. They were all gathered in the formal dining room, a parade of stiff silks and starched linen under the tyranny of a dozen glittering chandeliers. Armand had been placed directly opposite Amélie, a strategic move by Nora that now felt like a general positioning his cannons. He watched her, his gaze an unblinking, reptilian assessment. He did not eat so much as preside over his plate, his every movement economical and precise.
Amélie, by contrast, was a study in disintegration. Her hands trembled so violently she could not lift her wine glass without rattling it against her teeth. She held her soup spoon in a white-knuckled grip, pushing the contents of her bowl from one side to the other, never once bringing it to her lips.
